A few years ago...
The sky over the southern reaches of the Velkrath Empire was angry.
It wasn't just a passing storm; it felt like the heavens themselves were tearing apart. Thick, bruised clouds devoured the silver glow of the moon. The night was suffocatingly dark, illuminated only by jagged flashes of lightning that split the sky like broken glass.
A deafening clap of thunder shook the earth, closely followed by a relentless assault of rain. It hammered against the stained-glass windows of the Draven estate—a sprawling monument to high nobility dripping with wealth and ancient magic.
But tonight, all the gold and influence in the world couldn't buy a moment of peace.
Inside the grand halls, the atmosphere was suffocating. The frantic slap of leather-soled shoes against polished marble echoed endlessly as dozens of servants darted back and forth. Maids hurried past carrying basins of steaming water, while footmen rushed in with arms full of fresh linens. Their faces were pale, their lips pressed into thin lines. No one dared to speak above a whisper. They were all praying.
Because from the upper floor, cutting through the violent howling of the wind, came the agonizing cries of their lady.
A raw, guttural scream tore through the heavy oak doors of the master bedroom, sending shivers down the spines of the stationed guards.
Inside the opulent room, the air was heavy with the metallic scent of blood, mixed with sweat and burning lavender incense. At the center of the massive, silk-draped bed lay Duchess Sylvia Draven.
Normally a vision of untouchable beauty, she was currently consumed by the brutal reality of childbirth. Her long white hair was plastered to her forehead in damp clumps. Her striking blue eyes were blown wide, clouded with sheer agony. She gripped the twisted bedsheets so hard her knuckles turned 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, leaned in close. Two other maids flanked the bed, gently wiping the cold sweat from Sylvia's pale forehead with damp cloths.
"You're doing beautifully, Your Grace," a younger maid chanted, her voice shaking. "Just one more strong push! The baby is almost here!"
Sylvia let out a sob, shaking her head weakly. Her body felt like it was breaking apart, her muscles screaming in protest. But the fierce instinct of a mother forced her eyes open again. She gritted her teeth and drew in a massive, shuddering breath.
Thunder rocked the mansion once more. As if matching the sheer force of the storm outside, Sylvia pushed with every last ounce of strength left in her fragile body, letting out a final cry that scraped her throat raw.
And then… the pressure broke.
The 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.
Sylvia collapsed back against the pillows, entirely spent. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. Her face was ashen, dark circles bruising the skin under her eyes, but as she stared at the ornate ceiling, the tight lines of pain began to soften into a weary peace. It was over. Her baby was here.
At the foot of the bed, the senior maid carefully lifted the fragile newborn. The boy had a tuft of pure white hair, just like his mother. The maids worked quickly, wiping the fluids from his tiny body with a warm towel and wrapping him securely in a velvet blanket embroidered with the Draven crest.
But as the seconds ticked by, the relief in the room began to curdle into something cold.
There was no sound.
Newborns were supposed to scream. They were supposed to fill their lungs with air and announce their arrival to the world. But the room was dead silent, save for the rain lashing against the windows.
The senior maid froze, the towel slipping slightly from her grasp. She stared down at the bundle in her arms, her eyes widening in horror. She nudged the baby. She rubbed his chest.
Nothing.
"S-Something is wrong," the maid choked out, completely shattering the brief peace. 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, hands flying to their mouths. The temperature in the bedroom seemed to plummet.
Sylvia, who had looked half-dead a second ago, jolted upright. Her exhaustion vanished, instantly replaced by a blinding terror. Her face drained of whatever life was left, turning the color of bone.
"Give him to me," Sylvia ordered. Her voice was hoarse, stripping away her usual poise to reveal only the frantic demand of a mother whose world was collapsing. "Give me my baby. Now!"
Hands trembling violently, the maid rushed to the side of the bed and placed the 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," Sylvia whispered, her voice breaking. 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 begged, her voice rising in pitch. "Please, 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 tragedy unfolding before them. The heir to the Draven Dukedom… stillborn? In that moment, nobody cared about the political implications. They only saw a mother holding her dead child.
Tears spilled over Sylvia's eyelashes, dropping fast and hot onto the baby's pale cheeks. She clutched the tiny boy to her chest, burying her face into his soft white hair, letting out a shattered sob. She held him so tightly it was as if she could force her own beating heart to jump-start his.
Then, Sylvia froze.
Her breath hitched in her throat. She hesitantly pulled her head back, looking down at the bundle. 'Did I imagine it?'
Then, she felt it again. A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch against her palm.
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 shade of blue that she possessed—a color her husband had proudly called the 'deep sea'.
He blinked up at the ceiling, then his gaze lazily drifted up to meet Sylvia's. He shared her delicate features, observing her with those 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 smile bloomed across her tired face.
"Oh, thank the heavens," she whispered fiercely.
She brought him to her face, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. She held him protectively, wrapping her arms around him as if she never wanted to let him go. The overwhelming relief crashing through her was intoxicating. He was alive.
The maids let out a collective sigh of relief, wiping away their own tears of joy. The disaster had been averted. But as the senior maid watched the mother and son, a small frown creased her forehead.
"Your Grace… forgive me," the maid said softly. "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.
Sylvia paused, studying her son's calm, almost analytical expression. The question lingered in the air, but her smile returned with a hint of melancholic longing.
"He probably takes after his father," Sylvia murmured, her thumb gently stroking his 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 rest. Let me take care of the young master."
Sylvia hesitated. Her arms instinctively tightened around her baby. She was afraid that if she closed her eyes, the nightmare from minutes ago would become reality again. But bone-deep exhaustion was finally catching up to her.
She finally nodded, giving the baby one last kiss on his tiny nose. "Be gentle," she whispered.
The maid carefully lifted the quiet baby from Sylvia's arms, carrying him to a beautifully carved, gilded wooden cradle. 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, falling into a deep sleep, the sound of the rain outside finally acting as a lullaby rather than a threat.
The maids tiptoed around the room, cleaning up in absolute silence. They dimmed the magical light crystals, leaving 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, staring blankly at the ornate, painted ceiling. His face was round and innocent—a face that absolutely did not match the chaotic storm of thoughts 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?'