Edric Hale
The room was dimly lit, the flickering light of a few oil lamps casting long shadows on the stone walls. The air carried the scent of herbs, faint and earthy, mingling with the sharper tang of iron. It felt heavy, as if the very atmosphere was filled with anticipation, and yet there was a strange calmness that hung in the air. I stood by the bedside, my hands clasped behind my back, my heart beating in slow rhythm with the moment. My eyes flickered over the figures in the room, watching every movement, each small detail, my nerves tightening with every passing second.
Doctor Luthan, older and seasoned with experience, gave quiet, measured commands. His voice was low but steady, cutting through the tension in the room like a well-worn path. His hands, though weathered and marked with age, moved with precision and confidence, a skill born from years of tending to noble families. He had seen many births, and yet there was a certain calm in his demeanor that made it clear that he never took the process for granted.
Beside him, Doctor Arvell, younger and eager, seemed to work with a quiet urgency, his hands steady but carrying a sense of hesitation. There was potential in him—his movements showed promise—but he lacked the quiet assurance that only comes with time. He adjusted the cloth beneath my wife with care, wiping the sweat from her brow with a cloth that quickly became soaked through. His focus was sharp, though his expression betrayed his inexperience, every glance toward Luthan betraying a subtle uncertainty.
Mara, our maid, stood at my wife's side. Despite the serious nature of the moment, Mara remained a steady presence. Her hands were firm, but tender, as she offered soft reassurances to Selene. Her voice was low, barely a whisper, but it had a grounding quality, steadying both my wife and me. Mara had been with us for years, through every challenge, every hardship, and in this moment, she was a rock for us both. Her quiet words, a soft melody of comfort, seemed to calm the storm inside the room, as though her very presence was a balm against the chaos of what was happening.
I could only observe, feeling the weight of the moment pressing on my chest. Luthan moved with practiced ease, his hands slow and deliberate, while Arvell worked quickly, yet with the slight tremor of someone who had yet to fully earn his place. Mara, though a servant, exuded the most comfort, her calm presence filling the room more than anyone else's. The contrast between their actions spoke volumes—Luthan with his years of wisdom, Arvell with the hunger for experience, and Mara with her quiet support, grounding us all in this overwhelming moment.
Then, a cry broke through the stillness. A sharp, demanding sound, as if the world itself was being announced through that single, pure noise. My heart stopped for a beat, and then—time seemed to slow as I turned toward the sound.
The older doctor's voice was steady, calm. "It's a boy, Lord Hale. Congratulations." His words seemed distant, as though they were coming from another world entirely.
I took a few steps forward, instinct guiding me. My hands reached out to grab him, the cloth beneath him soft and warm. He was small, fragile—so fragile that I almost felt as though he would slip through my fingers. But his hair... his hair was black, just like mine, clinging to his damp skin. Even in that moment, even as a newborn, it was striking how much he resembled me. But his eyes—those eyes were Selene's. A breathtaking shade of purple, a deep, swirling color, like a galaxy filled with distant stars. They weren't wide or fearful like I expected a newborn's eyes to be. Instead, they were quiet—filled with something profound, as if they already understood more than the world around them. There was a depth to them.
This was my blood's successor. The one who would one day take my place, whose hands would bear the same weight of leadership, responsibility, and legacy that I now carried. He had just taken his first breath in this world, and yet, I could already see the shape of his future before me.
I looked over at Selene, her body still trembling from the exertion, her cheeks flushed with the effort of what she had just gone through. Her purple eyes were wide and unfocused for a moment, her breath shallow as she tried to recover from the overwhelming wave of emotion that came with childbirth. Her hands, though trembling with weakness, reached out toward me, her fingers grazing over our son's tiny, wrinkled skin. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a breath of relief, as she held her son close.
"He has your eyes," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper as I sat beside her. My arm slid around her back, holding her gently as I offered her the warmth of my presence. I could feel the slight tremor in her hands as she touched him, but I also felt the immense love and relief that radiated from her.
Selene Hale
The room was hot, heavy with the lingering warmth of the labor that had just ended. The doctors, having done their part, had already left, their footsteps fading away in the distance. Only Mara remained, moving quietly about the room, cleaning up with the practiced hands of someone who had seen this routine time and time again. She worked efficiently, her focus unbroken, while I kept my eyes on the one person who mattered most in that moment.
Edric stood by the bedside, holding our son carefully in his arms. A small smile played on his lips, and for a moment, I thought I saw the faintest glimmer of relief in his eyes—like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. But then I remembered the truth of the moment: another weight had just been laid in his arms, one far heavier than anything he had carried before. Still, he gazed down at the child with a quiet reverence, his expression softening for just a moment as he took in the sight of our newborn son.
I reached out for the baby, my hands trembling just slightly as I touched the small bundle wrapped in soft cloth. His dark hair, so like his father's, was damp from the birth, sticking to his tiny forehead. His face was peaceful, the kind of peaceful that only a newborn can possess. The room, heavy with the scent of sweat and the aftertaste of labor, seemed to stand still as I held him close, my heart swelling with love and an overwhelming sense of responsibility.
Edric sat down beside me on the bed, his arm wrapping around me gently. He held me close, the warmth of his body a comfort in the aftershock of the birth. His voice was quiet, yet full of affection as he looked down at our son. "He has your eyes," he said softly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His deep purple eyes—the color so like mine—held a depth that was still empty, waiting to be filled with all the experiences of life.
I kissed his cheek lightly, feeling the weight of what had just happened. The joy of bringing a child into the world mingled with the weight of what it would mean for both of us moving forward.
*
After cleaning myself up and dressing in a simple gown, I made my way upstairs to where Edric and our son were. The guards opened the door for me, and I stepped into the room, greeted by the warmth of sunlight pouring through the tall windows. The room was spacious, bathed in golden light, and there, in the center, stood Edric. He was deep in conversation with an old man, his brow furrowed, a look of frustration on his face.
Our son lay in front of them, sleeping soundly in his small, white cloth. The delicate rise and fall of his chest were the only signs of life in the otherwise quiet room. Edric's attention was focused on the old man in front of him, his voice stern and low, but there was an edge to it that I could not ignore.
"I am deeply sorry, my lord, but there are no mistakes made," the old man said, his voice shaking slightly. His long white beard was neatly tied, his robes immaculate, yet there was an air of uncertainty about him. He bowed low, a gesture of respect—and perhaps a hint of fear—as he spoke.
The tension in the room was palpable, and as I walked closer, I could feel it pressing down on me. Edric's eyes flicked toward me, his gaze narrowing as he took in my presence. His brow furrowed deeper, a subtle sign that something was amiss. The old man, noticing my arrival, straightened and bowed again, but it did little to ease the discomfort in the air.
I didn't need to ask. I could see it in Edric's face, the frustration, the disappointment that seemed to be eating away at him from the inside. During my pregnancy, he had talked about our child's ki potential with such enthusiasm. He had spoken of how our son would inherit not only his exceptional control over his own ki but perhaps even exceed it. His hopes had been high—too high, maybe—and now, standing here, I could tell they had been dashed.
Edric's family was known for their immense ki reserves. His strength, his power, had always been something to be reckoned with. But for all their power, it was always their ability to control it that set them apart. He had always imagined our son would be no different. That he would be born with a vast ki pool, a natural-born leader in control of his abilities. But what I could sense, what I knew deep down, was that the old man's words were true. There was no mistake. Our son, though healthy, was not what Edric had hoped for.
"I name the child Julian," Edric said, his voice flat and emotionless, the words tumbling from his mouth as if they held no weight. His tone was stern, unyielding, but I could hear the undercurrent of something else beneath it—a quiet acceptance of what he could not change.
The room grew still for a moment, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something that would never come. I looked at Edric, at our son, and then back to the old man, who stood awkwardly in the corner of the room, his head bowed in silent respect.
There was nothing left to say. Only time would tell what kind of future Julian would have, and whether he would live up to the legacy we had imagined for him—or whether his own path would be something entirely different.