Somber organ music rolled through the Cathedral of Eltaras, heavy enough to weigh on the ribs of those gathered within. The great bells tolled once every few minutes, their deep voices echoing through the vaulted ceiling like reminders of a sin no one dared name aloud.
At the center of the cathedral rested a silver casket trimmed in white roses and ribbons. Inside lay Lady Amelia Skycroft—the late Baroness of Skycroft—her hands folded neatly across her chest, her expression too peaceful for a woman who had bled herself dry to give birth.
The air was thick with incense and hypocrisy. Nobles filled the pews in their finest mourning silks, eyes glistening with just enough moisture to be convincing. Candlelight danced across stained glass depictions of angels and gods—radiant, benevolent figures smiling down on the mortals below. It was a comforting illusion. If heaven were watching, it was surely laughing.
Baron Richard Skycroft stood at the head of the casket, rigid and unshaken. His face was carved into composure, not grief. He had buried his heart long before this day, sealing it beneath duty and politics. Even now, as the priest droned on about divine providence and the "sacrifice of motherhood," Richard's expression never faltered.
Only his youngest child made a sound.
From the front pew, a faint wail cut through the organ's dirge. It came from the bundle in the arms of a maid standing quietly to the side—a dark-haired infant, too small, too unaware, and yet far too conscious.
Baby Ivan.
Born from tragedy, baptized in whispers.
Nobles turned to look. Some shook their heads. Others muttered behind veiled fans.
"She died giving birth to him…"
"The cursed child."
"Poor Baron. To lose his wife for that."
Every cruel murmur reached the maid's ears, but she only tightened her hold on the baby. Hera—the same midwife who had delivered him—held the child protectively, her jaw set in quiet defiance.
Ivan's small eyes blinked open, and for the briefest second, something ancient stirred behind them.
The candlelight flickered—and in that flash, memory returned.
The moment right after his birth.
The weak crying. The warmth of his mother's arms. Then—the creak of the chamber door.
Someone had slipped out.
He remembered it in fragments: the hem of a cloak brushing the floor, a gloved hand catching the light, an insignia etched into a silver ring. A mark shaped like a coiling serpent biting its tail. And just above that hand—a small scar running from the wrist to the thumb.
He had seen it clearly through newborn eyes, unable to move, unable to shout as the shadow disappeared into the hall.
Hours later, his mother was dead.
The memory burned through his tiny body now like fever. Hera rocked him gently, mistaking his soft cries for grief, but they were not. They were fury—silent, infantile, helpless fury.
I'll remember that scar, the thought echoed faintly within him, though no words left his lips. I'll find it again.
From his place at the casket, Baron Richard turned briefly, his cold eyes sweeping over the child who had taken his wife. He said nothing. But the smallest movement—a twitch of his jaw, a tightening of his fingers—betrayed that he felt something. Not sorrow. Not love. Something closer to disdain.
The priest's sermon ended, and the nobles rose in unison as Lady Amelia was carried out to her resting place. The organ's final note lingered, then died. Only silence and the rustle of fabric remained.
The House of Skycroft was now without its matriarch.
Days later, the Skycroft estate was cloaked in mourning black. Curtains drawn, halls quiet, servants whispering rumors about divine punishment and cursed births.
Richard buried himself in work, shutting himself in his study for days. The elder children wandered the mansion's long corridors, whispering things they thought Ivan could never understand.
"Mother died because of him," Roland, the third child, hissed one night, his voice sharp with adolescent cruelty. "Father only keeps him alive out of guilt."
"Don't be naïve," Cecilia replied. Her beauty was already polished like a blade. "He keeps him alive to save face. No noble kills an infant in plain sight. Not unless they want to ruin their name."
Elias, the eldest, didn't speak at all. He only watched Ivan with the same quiet calculation that made the servants avoid his gaze. It was clear to all three: the baby was an outsider in his own home.
Only Hera offered warmth. She tended to Ivan when no one else dared, humming lullabies from the countryside she came from. Her presence softened the oppressive chill of marble halls and curt whispers.
"You're not cursed, little one," she would murmur, pressing a gentle finger to his small hand. "You just came too early for this world."
Ivan would watch her, unblinking. If she knew what really lived behind those calm infant eyes, she might not have spoken so kindly.
[The First Year]
By the time the estate's mourning banners came down, a year had passed. The somber gray of grief gave way to glittering gold. The Skycrofts held a grand banquet—ostensibly to mark young Ivan's first birthday, but in truth, it was a performance.
The nobles of the Northern Province arrived in carriages embossed with family crests. Velvet gowns swept the marble floors, jewels shimmered beneath chandeliers. The estate glowed with power, every detail screaming wealth and influence.
Baron Richard smiled tonight. It wasn't joy—it was politics. This was not a celebration of life but a declaration that the Skycroft name stood unbroken.
Guests gathered in the ballroom, cooing at the baby with feigned affection.
"Oh, he's adorable," one lady murmured.
"Yes, poor thing," whispered another, "his mother would have loved to see him grow—if he hadn't killed her."
Their laughter was soft, practiced, venomous.
Ivan sat quietly in Hera's arms, dressed in miniature noblewear—a tiny dark suit trimmed with silver. His wide eyes reflected the chandeliers, watching, absorbing, calculating.
Fragments of his old self—Richard Hudson—flickered somewhere deep inside. The scent of wine, the sound of idle chatter, the game of masks and false smiles. He had lived this before, in another world, though the suits were modern and the stakes were money instead of power.
He almost wanted to laugh. Even in another world, the rules of the table never changed.
As the banquet reached its peak, fireworks began outside. Bright colors bloomed against the night sky, reflected in the glass walls of the ballroom. The nobles gasped in awe, lifting their cups.
Hera stepped onto a side balcony to let Ivan see the lights. She held him close as the colors painted her face red, blue, gold.
Then—just for an instant—a faint pulse of blue flickered in Ivan's eyes. It wasn't reflection. It was something internal. Lines of light traced faintly across his pupils before fading away. Hera didn't notice. She was too busy smiling down at him.
Ivan blinked. The light was gone as quickly as it came, leaving only a lingering warmth in his chest—a heartbeat not quite his own.
He didn't understand it yet, but the first thread of his new existence had stirred awake. Something beneath his flesh—data, code, divinity—had recognized him.
Inside the ballroom, Baron Richard raised his glass for the toast.
"To Lady Amelia," he said, voice firm and polished. "And to her final gift to the House of Skycroft."
Nobles echoed the sentiment, their smiles razor-thin.
"To the gift," they repeated, meaning anything but.
Outside on the balcony, Hera gently rocked the baby, oblivious to the false praise echoing beyond the glass. Ivan's tiny hands clutched at her sleeve. The fireworks painted the sky in bursts of light and smoke.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled—a storm gathering far beyond the horizon.
Later, when the last guests had gone and the mansion returned to silence, Hera carried the sleeping child to his nursery. She laid him down beneath soft blue sheets embroidered with the Skycroft crest and brushed a stray curl from his forehead.
"Sleep well, little Ivan," she whispered, her voice barely above the rain beginning to tap the window. "Your mother would've loved you."
She hummed softly—a tune that had no name—and turned down the light.
Ivan stirred once, eyes fluttering open. The last echo of fireworks still danced in his mind. He stared up at the ceiling, silent, thoughtful.
I remember the insignia, he thought dimly, the image of that ring burning faintly in the dark. And the scar.
A slow, almost imperceptible smile formed on his lips—a strange expression for a one-year-old.
"And so," the world seemed to whisper as thunder rolled outside, "under a sky of fireworks and falsified joy, the cursed child of Skycroft smiled for the first time."