"Congratulations, Your Grace, it's a healthy baby boy," the doctor announced, his voice gentle yet reverent.
'What?!' I screamed internally, though all I could manage was a tiny, helpless squirm. 'Am I...a baby?'
Disbelief flooded my mind. 'Is this some kind of reincarnation scenario? How am I able to understand everything so clearly?'
I struggled to slow my racing thoughts as I heard another voice nearby, strong yet melodious. "And the girl?" the voice asked, calm but carrying an undertone of worry.
"She's just as healthy," the doctor responded. "You have a pair of twins, Your Grace—a boy and a girl."
The woman's sigh of relief was quiet, but filled with warmth. "Let me see them, doctor."
I felt myself lifted gently by careful hands and passed over to her, and as she held me close, I could feel her strong yet tender embrace. She adjusted me in her arms, turning me so I could see her face. If I could have gasped, I would have.
She was beautiful—no, powerful. Her silver hair framed her face, shimmering in the warm light, and her crimson eyes held an intensity softened only by the tender way she looked down at me. Her expression was unreadable yet somehow familiar, like someone who'd walked through battles and still found the strength to be gentle.
As she gazed at me, her lips softened into a smile, and I felt warmth seep into my heart—an instinctual comfort I couldn't explain.
A soft cry drew my attention to the side. My sister lay beside me, wrapped in an identical bundle. I couldn't turn my head to look fully, but I sensed her there, small and vulnerable like myself. My mind swirled with confusion and wonder. A twin sister. 'Why would I be reincarnated into a world where I'm born with a twin?'
The woman holding us shifted slightly, her gaze sweeping over us both with something between relief and pride. She adjusted her grip, and for a moment, I was pressed close to her, feeling the warmth of her heartbeat—a steady, reassuring rhythm that eased the confusion in my mind.
The room around us was richly decorated, filled with a sense of grandeur and luxury I wasn't used to. Glowing crystals embedded in the walls cast a warm, comforting light that bathed everything in a soft glow. The ceiling was high and arched, adorned with intricate carvings that seemed almost otherworldly.
The doctor's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Your Grace, they are both remarkably strong and healthy," he said, his tone respectful. "If you need anything further, please call for me."
"Thank you, doctor," she replied, her voice low and even, carrying a subtle command.
I absorbed everything I could, but exhaustion was creeping in. The unfamiliar sensations, the gentle warmth of the woman holding me, and the rhythmic sound of her heartbeat combined to calm my scattered thoughts.
Your Grace. The doctor's respectful words echoed in my mind, lingering as I pieced together their meaning. Only someone of noble status would be addressed like that... My mind raced, realizing she wasn't just anyone—she was a duchess, or perhaps even higher.
My eyelids grew heavy as the realization settled in, my thoughts starting to blur. I glanced up once more, catching the depths of her crimson eyes, watching over me with a mixture of strength and tenderness.
For the first time in this new life, I let go, surrendering to the warmth and safety around me, finally allowing sleep to take over.
__________________________________________________________________________________
I let out a mental sigh as my mother poked at my palm again, waiting expectantly for me to grab her finger. Was I doing it willingly? Absolutely not!
It's just a reflex. Babies don't grab fingers because they're thinking, 'Ah, yes, a finger! I'll seize that immediately!' No, it's simply what we do. And why do babies laugh while doing it? I haven't the faintest idea. Babies are profoundly odd creatures, really.
It's been a few months now since I found myself in this new, tiny existence, and it has opened my eyes to how fortunate we are to have no memories of being infants. It's an experience I would gladly skip over—an existence of strange faces, cooing sounds, and, more often than not, a lack of any autonomy. Truly, forgetting our early years is a blessing.
In these months, though, I've managed to piece together a few things. My mother is powerful—more powerful than I first realized. Now that I've sharpened my senses, I can feel the aura surrounding her, a presence of strength. Comparing her to the Climbers of my past life, she's probably on par with an S-class.
This meant that this world had mana. Earth only got mana after the Towers landed, so this world could already have Towers and I was simply unaware since I was so young.
Scientists had theorized that while the Towers did give off mana, they merely introduced it to Earth and then created that ecosystem, thus that was also possible.
Nonetheless, the existence of mana was a big relief as hygiene and medical facilities of medieval times were horrid, which hopefully won't be the case here with mana.
And as I suspected, she is indeed nobility. All the maids and attendants address her as Your Grace, a title reserved for those of the ducal class. This suggests that my mother holds significant influence here as a duchess and that we belong to a prominent family in whatever kingdom or empire this is—assuming, of course, we're not an independent force of our own.
But life as an infant duchling isn't all grand discoveries. For one, I'm obliged to share a cradle with my twin sister. She's a restless little thing, all fidgeting fingers and wandering limbs, and constantly seems to think my space is hers as well.
Most nights, I find myself nudged or kicked by her tiny feet, and while I've tried to inch away, there's only so far one can go in a shared cradle. It's a bizarre and humbling situation, especially when I remember that, not so long ago, I was someone quite different. But, as it stands, this cradle is my world—for now. And the unpredictable adventures of infancy continue.
As the day drew to a close, the room softened under the dim, amber light of the crystals embedded in the walls. My mother leaned over the cradle, her silver hair falling like a curtain, catching the warm glow as she watched over us. Her crimson eyes, both fierce and tender, softened in a way I wouldn't have thought possible from someone of her strength.
She lifted my sister first, cradling her close with a gentle smile. My sister cooed, reaching for a strand of our mother's hair with a clumsy, little grasp. The small exchange brought a faint, rare chuckle from my mother, a sound both unfamiliar and strangely comforting.
"Celia," she whispered softly, pressing a light kiss to her forehead. "Sleep well, my little star." She placed my sister back into the cradle with a care and precision that seemed almost out of character for someone so powerful. My sister squirmed, letting out a soft sound, then settled into sleep, her tiny hand curled around the edge of the blanket.
Then it was my turn. My mother reached down and lifted me from the cradle, her arms steady and warm. It was a strange feeling, this sense of security, even if my mind resisted it. Her presence was both overwhelming and comforting, like a hearth fire burning low and steady on a winter's night.
"Lancelot," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the name itself was something sacred, something to be handled gently. "My little knight."
She smiled down at me, and for a brief moment, I felt the weight of her words. Perhaps it was the echo of a past life or the sheer power in her gaze, but the name seemed to carry with it both an expectation and a promise. I couldn't yet grasp its full meaning, but there was a faint warmth in hearing it, a strange sense of belonging.
With care, she laid me back into the cradle beside Celia. She watched us both for a moment, her eyes drifting between us, as though silently reassuring herself that we were here, safe and sound. Her hand reached out, brushing my hair—a rare, gentle touch from someone I knew to be one of the strongest in the empire.
"Goodnight, my little stars," she whispered, the words barely a breath. She lingered by the cradle, her gaze soft and unwavering, until finally, she straightened, her presence retreating from the edge of my awareness.
The room fell silent, and, side by side, my sister and I drifted into sleep, our mother's quiet strength and warmth filling the shadows around us.