Elizabeth Voss.
Matriarch of the House of Voss. A name that carried as much weight in the Dragon Empire as the Emperor himself.
She was a symbol of devastating beauty and terrifying power. To the world, she was known by many titles: the Queen of Ten Thousand Illusions, the Empress of Deceit, the Mistress of the Mist.
As a 6th-Order Mage specializing in Illusion and Dark Magic, she stood at the pinnacle of human achievement.
In a room full of generals, her whisper was louder than a shout. Her gaze could make hardened warriors question their own sanity.
Her illusions were so potent they could rewrite the memories of entire cities.
But right now, the Empress of Deceit was running down a hallway in her silk slippers, her hair a chaotic mess of silver, looking completely panicked.
'Is he hurt? Is he sick? Did an assassin slip in? Is it a fever? Oh gods, what if he's hungry and the milk is too cold?'
Her long, silver-white hair fluttered behind her like a banner of war, usually perfectly coiffed but now wild with haste.
Her piercing blue eyes, usually cold enough to freeze a man's soul, were wide with frantic, maternal worry.
Just moments ago, she had been in her private study, deciphering an ancient, forbidden tome to prepare for her breakthrough to the 7th Order, a feat that would shake the continent and secure her family's dominance for another century.
She was analyzing complex spell matrices, calculating mana flow, and managing the intricate finances of the Voss estate.
But the moment a young maid burst in, breathless and terrified, to say, "The Young Master is crying," Elizabeth's world stopped.
She had thrown the priceless grimoire onto the floor without a second thought. She didn't even bookmark the page.
She hiked up the hem of her elegant purple silk gown and sprinted out the door, leaving a trail of confused servants in her wake.
For all her power, for all her prestige, in front of the terrifying, overwhelming concept called Motherhood, Elizabeth Voss was completely helpless.
It had been a week since she gave birth. A week of emotional whiplash.
The joy of holding her son was constantly at war with the paralyzing fear of losing him. With her husband, Theron, away on a classified mission that even she didn't know the full details of, the weight of protecting their newborn heir fell entirely on her shoulders. Every cry felt like a siren. Every sneeze felt like a crisis.
"Madam! He's still crying!"
"It sounds like hunger! Or maybe he's cold!"
"Check the temperature! Is the room too cold? Too hot?"
The maids were fretting outside the nursery door, a flock of nervous birds. Elizabeth ignored them, bursting through the entrance with enough force to rattle the hinges.
Following close behind her was a young maid with short, vibrant orange hair and bright green eyes, Isabelle.
Isabelle wasn't just a servant. Eight years ago, Elizabeth had slaughtered a band of slave traders on a whim and found a terrified ten-year-old girl in a cage.
Instead of leaving her to the authorities, Elizabeth took the girl in. She raised her, educated her, and trained her in the ways of the Voss family.
Now, at eighteen, Isabelle was Elizabeth's shadow, her personal assistant, and the only person in the mansion who could keep up with her mistress's frantic pace.
"Calm down, Madam," Isabelle whispered, placing a steadying hand on Elizabeth's arm.
"We are in the safest room in the empire. The wards are active. The guards are posted. He is fine."
Elizabeth took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to compose herself. She smoothed her gown, placed a hand over her racing heart, and stepped into the room.
.............
[Damien's POV]
Beauty.
The moment the door opened, Damien's high-pitched, indignant wailing cut off abruptly.
He stared at the woman who entered.
Her silver hair cascaded like a waterfall of moonlight, framing a face that seemed sculpted by the gods themselves.
Her skin was flawless, glowing with faint magical energy that made the air around her shimmer.
Her blue eyes held a depth that felt like drowning in the ocean, terrifying, yet mesmerising.
Even in his past life on Blue Star, having seen countless "Jade Beauties" in novels, movies, and idol groups, Damien had to admit: his new mother was on a different level.
She was more than pretty; she was majestic. She carried an aura of authority that demanded attention even when she was just standing there.
'So this is the Empress of Deceit,' Damien thought, awestruck despite his baby brain.
'In the novel, she tricked an entire enemy army into walking off a cliff with a single illusion spell. She's a legend. And now she's my mom.'
Before he could ogle her beauty any longer, a pair of strong arms lifted him from the crib.
"My Lady, look!" Isabelle giggled, holding Damien up like Simba on Pride Rock.
"He stopped crying the moment he saw you. He must have missed you!"
Isabelle looked at the baby with pure adoration. Her green eyes sparkled.
To her, Damien wasn't just a baby. He was the son of her savior.
The woman who pulled her out of hell had given birth to this child, and Isabelle had already sworn a silent, blood-oath to protect him with her life.
If he needed the moon, she would find a ladder. If he needed a mountain moved, she would bring a shovel.
For Isabelle, he was an extension of the woman she owed everything to, which meant she owed Damien everything by proxy.
Thinking of this, her gaze turned firm as she held him, creating a protective cradle with her arms.
Elizabeth smiled, her anxiety melting away instantly at the sight of her son safe and sound. Her lips curled upward in a gentle, radiant smile that would have made emperors kneel.
"It's alright, Isabelle. But I think he missed his lunch more than his mother."
"Come here, my little trouble."
She walked over and gently took Damien from Isabelle's arms before gently untying the strap of her gown.
Damien's eyes went wide.
'Wait. No. Hold on.'
The realization hit him like a truck.
'I'm an adult! I was eighteen! I was about to go to college! I had a life! I can't do this!'
He looked up at his mother's beautiful face, then at the… impending situation.
'This is humiliating! I refuse! Babies shall never be slaves!'
He tried to protest. He opened his mouth to shout a defiant refusal, to demand a bottle, or at least a spoon.
"No! I have dignity! I have—"
But the moment the warm milk hit his tongue, his brain turned off.
'…Okay, maybe just a little.'
The primal instinct of an infant overrode the complex logic of a transmigrator. His body relaxed. His eyelids grew heavy.
In an instant, his high-level sucking skills came into play.
The warmth of his mother's arms and the rhythmic beating of her heart lulled him into a deep, comfortable darkness.
As his consciousness faded, he heard Elizabeth whisper softly.
"Sleep well, my little prince. I have a surprise for you when you wake up."
She stroked his cheek, her eyes shining with a fierce, protective light that banished the shadows of the room.
"You might not believe it, but your father just completed his mission. He's on his way home."
Damien drifted off, completely unaware of the bomb she just dropped.
If he had been awake, he would have been terrified.
Because his father wasn't just any mage. He wasn't just a noble.
He was Theron Voss.
The King of Darkness. The strongest man in the Dragon Empire. The only Half-Step 9th Order Mage in the world. The man closest to God.
And he was coming home to meet his son.