Few years Ago....
The sky over the southern reaches of the Velkrath Empire was angry.
RUMBLE...
It wasn't just a passing storm; it felt like the heavens themselves were tearing apart. Thick, bruised clouds of charcoal and pitch black had aggressively rolled in, completely devouring the silver glow of the moon. The night was suffocatingly dark, illuminated only by sudden, jagged flashes of lightning that split the sky like broken glass.
CRACK!
A deafening clap of thunder shook the earth, closely followed by the relentless, heavy assault of the rain. It hammered against the intricate stained-glass windows of the sprawling, lavish mansion that sat proudly upon the highest hill of the southern territory. This was the Draven estate, a monument to high nobility, dripping with wealth, ancient magic, and power.
But tonight, all the gold and influence in the world couldn't buy a moment of peace.
Inside the grand halls, the atmosphere was thick with a suffocating, unbearable tension.
Pat, pat, pat, pat!
The frantic sound of leather-soled shoes slapping against the polished marble floors echoed endlessly. Dozens of servants darted back and forth like panicked ants. Maids with their aprons tied tightly hurried past carrying basins of steaming hot water, while footmen rushed in with arms full of fresh, white linens. Their faces were pale, their lips pressed into thin, tight lines. No one dared to speak above a hurried whisper. They were all hoping. They were all praying.
Because from the upper floor, cutting through the violent howling of the wind outside, came the agonizing sounds of their lady.
"Aaaaaaaahhhhh!"
The scream was raw, guttural, and laced with an unimaginable pain. It tore through the heavy oak doors of the master bedroom, sending shivers down the spines of the guards stationed in the hallway.
Inside that sprawling, opulent bedroom, the air was heavy with the metallic scent of blood, mixed with sweat and the faint trace of burning lavender incense. At the center of the massive, silk-draped bed lay Duchess Sylvia Draven.
She was normally a vision of ethereal, untouchable beauty, but right now, she was entirely consumed by the brutal, unforgiving reality of childbirth. Her long, beautiful white hair—usually as flawless as freshly fallen snow—was plastered to her forehead and neck in damp, sweaty clumps. Her breathtaking blue eyes, bright and striking, were blown wide and clouded with sheer agony. She gripped the twisted bedsheets so hard her knuckles were completely white, her chest heaving as she gasped for air.
"Just a little more, Duchess! Please, force a little more!"
A senior maid, her hands slick and trembling slightly despite her years of experience, leaned in close. Two other maids flanked the bed, gently wiping the cold sweat from Sylvia's pale forehead with warm, damp cloths, murmuring endless streams of encouragement.
"You're doing beautifully, Your Grace," one of the younger maids chanted, though her voice was shaking. "Just one more strong push! The baby is almost here!"
Sylvia let out a sob, shaking her head weakly as exhaustion threatened to pull her under. Her body felt like it was breaking apart, her muscles screaming in protest. But the fierce, burning instinct of a mother forced her eyes open again. She gritted her teeth, drawing in a massive, shuddering breath.
BOOM!
Thunder rocked the mansion once more, and as if matching the sheer force of the storm outside, Sylvia pushed with every last ounce of strength left in her fragile body. She threw her head back, letting out a final, deafening cry that scraped her throat raw.
And then… the pressure broke.
The heavy, frantic energy in the room suddenly shifted. The senior maid gasped, her hands moving expertly, and a collective breath of relief swept through the attending servants.
The good news had finally arrived.
Sylvia collapsed back against the massive pile of pillows, entirely spent. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, erratic gasps. Her face was ashen, drained of all color, and dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. But as she stared at the ornate ceiling, the tight lines of pain on her face began to soften, replaced by a weary, fragile peace. It was over. Her baby was here.
At the foot of the bed, the senior maid carefully lifted the small, fragile newborn. The baby had a tuft of pure white hair, just like his mother. The maids worked quickly, wiping the fluids from his tiny body with a soft, warm towel, wrapping him securely in a luxurious velvet blanket embroidered with the Draven family crest.
But as the seconds ticked by, the relief in the room began to curdle into something cold and terrifying.
There was no sound.
Newborns were supposed to scream. They were supposed to cry out, to announce their arrival to the world, to fill their lungs with air. But the room was dead silent, save for the rain lashing against the windows and Sylvia's heavy breathing.
The senior maid froze, the towel slipping slightly from her grasp. She stared down at the bundle in her arms, her eyes widening in absolute horror. She nudged the baby. She rubbed his chest.
Nothing.
"S-Something is wrong!" the maid choked out, her voice cracking, completely shattering the brief peace that had settled over the room. Panic spiked in her tone. "The baby… the baby is not responding!"
The words hit the room like a physical blow. The younger maids gasped, their hands flying to their mouths. The temperature in the bedroom seemed to drop by ten degrees.
Sylvia, who had looked half-dead a second ago, jolted upright. The exhaustion vanished, instantly replaced by a blinding, primal terror. Her already pale face drained of whatever life was left, turning the color of bone.
"Give him to me," Sylvia ordered, her voice hoarse, completely devoid of its usual aristocratic grace. It was the frantic demand of a mother whose world was collapsing. "Give me my baby. Now!"
The maid didn't hesitate. Hands trembling violently, she rushed to the side of the bed and carefully placed the tiny, motionless bundle into the Duchess's arms.
Sylvia pulled the baby against her chest. He was so small, so unbelievably fragile. His skin was pale, and his little chest was perfectly still.
"No, no, no, no," Sylvia whispered, the sound breaking halfway through. Her hands shook as she cradled his cheek. It was warm, but there was no life in his movements. "Wake up. Please, my sweet boy, wake up."
She rubbed his tiny back, her frantic fingers moving over the velvet blanket.
"Please," she pleaded, her voice rising in pitch, turning into a desperate, wretched beg. "Please, don't do this. Don't leave me. Open your eyes. Open your eyes for your mother!"
The room was suffocating. The maids watched with tears welling in their own eyes, paralyzed by the tragic scene unfolding before them. The heir to the Draven Dukedom… stillborn? The implications were catastrophic, but in that moment, nobody cared about politics. They only saw a mother holding her dead child.
Tears finally spilled over Sylvia's eyelashes. They fell freely, hot and fast, dropping onto the baby's pale cheeks. She clutched the tiny boy to her chest, burying her face into the soft white hair on his head, letting out a shattered, agonizing sob that tore at the hearts of everyone listening. She held him so tightly, as if she could somehow force her own beating heart to jump-start his.
Thump.
Sylvia froze.
Her breath hitched in her throat. She slowly, hesitantly pulled her head back, looking down at the bundle in her arms. 'Did she imagine it? Was it just her own desperate delusion?'
Then, she felt it again. A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch against her palm.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the baby's small hand shifted. His tiny fingers curled inward. And then, his eyelids fluttered.
Sylvia stopped breathing entirely. The maids leaned in, the silence in the room stretching so tight it felt like it would snap.
The baby's eyes opened.
They weren't the cloudy, unfocused eyes of a normal newborn. They were striking, vivid, and impossibly deep. It was the exact, breathtaking shade of blue that she possessed—a color her husband had proudly called the metaphor of the 'deep sea'.
He blinked up at the ceiling, and then his gaze lazily drifted up to meet Sylvia's. He looked adorable. He looked so incredibly cute, sharing her delicate features and also possessing those striking, mesmerizing eyes.
A choked gasp escaped Sylvia's lips. She let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob, frantically wiping the tears from her own cheeks as a radiant, blinding smile bloomed across her tired face.
"Oh, thank the heavens," she whispered fiercely. "Thank the gods."
She brought him to her face, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. She held him tightly, protectively, wrapping her arms around him as if she never, ever wanted to let him go. The sheer, overwhelming relief crashing through her was intoxicating. He was alive. He was looking at her.
The maids, wiping away their own tears of joy, let out a collective sigh of relief. The disaster had been averted. But as the senior maid watched the mother and son, a small frown creased her forehead. She stepped closer, looking a little confused.
"Your Grace… forgive me," the maid said softly, hesitant to ruin the beautiful moment. "But… why is the baby not crying?"
It was true. Even now, completely awake and observing the room, the infant hadn't let out a single wail. He was completely silent, just watching them with those deep sea eyes.
Sylvia paused, looking down at the tiny boy in her arms. She studied his calm, almost analytical expression. The question lingered in the air, but as she looked at him, her smile returned—this time with a hint of melancholic longing.
"He probably takes after his father," Sylvia murmured softly, her thumb gently stroking the baby's soft cheek. "That's why he didn't cry. He's already trying to be strong."
She tore her gaze away from her son and looked up at the senior maid. "Has there been any news from the Duke? Did a messenger arrive?"
The maid bowed her head apologetically. "No reply has come yet, Your Grace. The storm has likely delayed the couriers. But His Majesty will return soon. The war at the borders… it will pass. Right now, you just need to have some rest. You have exhausted yourself. Let me take care of the young master."
Sylvia hesitated. Her arms instinctively tightened around her baby. She didn't want to let him out of her sight, afraid that if she closed her eyes, the nightmare from minutes ago would become a reality again. But the bone-deep exhaustion was finally catching up to her. Her eyelids felt like they were made of lead.
She finally nodded, giving the baby one last, loving kiss on his tiny nose. "Be gentle," she whispered.
The maid carefully lifted the quiet baby from Sylvia's arms, carrying him to the side of the massive bed where a beautifully carved, gilded wooden cradle had been prepared. She laid him down softly on the plush mattress, pulling the velvet blanket up to his chest.
Within moments, the adrenaline fully left Sylvia's system. She closed her eyes, her breathing evening out as she fell into a deep, well-deserved sleep, the sound of the rain outside finally acting as a lullaby rather than a threat.
The maids tiptoed around the room, cleaning up the basin and bloody towels in absolute silence, eventually dimming the magical light crystals scattered across the walls. They left only one faint light glowing near the cradle, before quietly stepping out of the room to let their Duchess rest.
The room was finally peaceful.
But inside the cradle, unaware to the sleeping mother and the departed maids, the baby was merely pretending.
As soon as the heavy wooden doors clicked shut, the baby's eyelids snapped open.
He didn't cry. He didn't squirm. He just lay there, perfectly still, his deep blue eyes staring blankly at the ornate, painted ceiling of the lavish bedroom. His face was round, cute, and entirely innocent—a face that absolutely did not match the chaotic, swirling storm of thoughts currently exploding inside his mind.
He blinked once. Twice.
So… why was he staring at a ceiling? Why were his hands the size of grapes?
He took a tiny, silent breath, feeling the strange, new sensation of air filling untouched lungs.
'How the f*ck did I come here?'