"What should you call him?" Oliver asked, pointing at me while sitting on a bench with a small child resting on his lap.
The training hall was empty as today was a rest day before we moved to the Mendonça Dukedom tomorrow.
The child, who looked about a year old, had short dark-blue hair that complemented his round face filled with baby fat.
His skin was softer than cotton and white as milk, and he was wearing a baby outfit that I had bought for him.
His lavender-colored eyes turned towards me, his mouth curving into a smile as he replied in a lively voice, "...Dada."
"No, no, don't call him that," Oliver grumbled in annoyance, shaking his head. "Call him motherfucker."
The child tilted his head in confusion before he exclaimed, "...Dada!!"
"No, not Dada, motherfuc—"
"Shut up, Oliver," I snapped, walking towards him before taking the child away.
