In the Naming Courtyard, nobles and warriors of the Noxfaire line had gathered to witness the sacred ceremony that would decide the child's fate.
At the center stood Rayner Noxfaire, eyes glowing crimson under the torchlight—like embers that refused to die.
Today, it was his right to decide:
Would this child be worthy of carrying the family's name?
Far from the firelight, Kray sat alone in the shadows—distant from her siblings, her father, and the legacy she once belonged to.
She was Rayner's youngest daughter, but no longer had a place among them.
To them, she was the traitor—the one who ran off with a commoner and soiled the purity of the bloodline.
Now, after his death, she had returned—not seeking forgiveness, but to protect her son.
Even so… she knew deep down that protection here might be possible.
Lara entered the courtyard with heavy steps, the child in her arms.
Her arms hadn't stopped shaking.
When she reached the stone altar, she carefully laid the child down, then stepped back beside Father Caldric—the family priest,or perhaps more accurately, the family's one and only sorcerer.
He stepped forward and raised his hands. His voice echoed through the courtyard:
"Today, we witness the birth of a new blade."
The earth trembled faintly. Crimson mist rose from beneath the altar—the sacred blood of the family—twisting like a serpent in search of prey.
It coiled around the child, circling him over and over…
As if searching…
As if waiting for something to respond.
But it didn't touch him.
The mist hovered above the infant's body, frozen.
As though an unseen barrier separated it from the child.
Then, the silk slipped from the infant's body—slowly, like a veil unveiling a forbidden truth—revealing hair as white as untouched snow, glowing under the firelight like frost beneath a blood moon.
A storm of whispers swept through the gathering.
"He doesn't carry the blood!"
"He's not one of us!"
White hair? In a family known for black hair and blood-red eyes?
The ground trembled again—more violently this time.
The blood mist spiraled faster, as though trying to force its way in, to break through the invisible wall.
And then… a blue aura emerged.
A dim, unnatural energy began to rise from the child's body.
It wasn't sorcery.
It wasn't sword aura.
It was something else entirely.
Something unclassifiable.
In an instant, that energy burst forth—slamming into the blood mist.
The two forces collided, blended, twisted—like a battle for dominance.
Then, the blue light pierced through the crimson fog.
On the child's hand, a glowing mark appeared.
A red crescent, burning against his skin.
The emblem of the Noxfaire family—only ever granted to those of pure blood.
A heavy silence fell over the courtyard. No one could believe what they had witnessed.
Rayner stepped forward.
He stood before the altar, staring at the child in silence.
Then he spoke in a voice that silenced even thought:
"This child… bears the face of our founder."
He raised his head and looked at his sons:
"He will carry my father's name. The name of the First Noxfaire."
A wave of protests erupted.
"No! This is madness!"
It was Xypher, the Second Banner-Bearer.
"He's the son of a traitor! And you would give him the forbidden name?!"
Some of the children supported him. Others stayed silent—watching.
But Rayner did not flinch.
Their voices were wind to him.
The ceremony ended. The news spread like wildfire.
But Kray didn't care.
She had returned to her room, holding her son in silence.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, while dread gripped her heart.
"Why doesn't he cry? Why is he so quiet? Why hasn't he opened his eyes?"
She rocked him gently, humming an old lullaby.
But the fear didn't leave her.
Then, suddenly—
The infant lifted a tiny hand and patted her chest.
As if to say: "Calm down, Mother… I am here."
In the depths of his consciousness…
Where his soul still struggled to fit within flesh, a voice stirred.
Cold. Mocking. Watching.
"You've truly been reborn… but this feeling? This is unfamiliar."
"He granted you a second chance, or so He claimed…
And yet, why can I no longer feel Him?
This is different. Deeply, disturbingly different."
The king drifted into his own thoughts, trying to suppress the unfamiliar sensation burning beneath the surface. His hand rested on the child's tiny frame, cold fingers trying to command a warmth he'd never known.
In his previous life
The king had never felt a mother's touch.
His own mother had died giving birth to him.
His father had perished before that.
He was raised not by love, but by discipline—in the barracks of a faceless army.
He gripped a sword before he ever held a spoon.
His life was forged through pain, carved by duty. He pursued power, not comfort. Knowledge, not affection.
He trained himself into a machine of war, despising weakness, scorning mercy.
To ask for help was to admit defeat. And so, he never did.
As he stared at the woman now holding her child like the world itself could break him, king's voice echoed in his mind:
"She asked the world for love…
and it gave her me.
A child who doesn't cry, doesn't feel—born of silence and ambition."