"Bath time, my little pebble."
Rocky's eyes widened. He shook his head gently at first, then shook it more dramatically, his ears burning red.
"M-Mom, I'm big now! I-I can bathe myself…"
But his mother only raised one brow and gave him that look—the kind that was patient, loving, but unshakeable.
And before he could protest further, she had already picked him up like a sack of flour.
"No turning into a boulder in the tub again, alright?" she said with the tiniest smile in her voice.
Rocky groaned softly as his face turned redder and redder, his entire body stiff from embarrassment. Every time she scrubbed behind his ears or checked under his nails, he felt like he was going to poof into a rock from sheer secondhand shame.
"I-I'm big now…" he muttered for the hundredth time as she poured warm water over his hair.
"You'll always be my pebble," she said calmly, gently rubbing scented mountain oil behind his ears.
Once he was squeaky clean and bundled in a thick gray towel, she dried his hair with gentle pats before carrying him back to his room, where his soft nightclothes awaited. A servant handed her a pair of fluffy socks, and she quietly helped Rocky slip them on without a word.
Then, she held his hand and led him downstairs.
The dining hall was large, echoing with soft crackling from the fire pillars placed around the edges. The Boulder King was already at the head of the stone-carved dinner table, reading a tablet of reports. But when he saw Rocky being led in by his mother, he set everything down.
"Come sit by me, little one."
Rocky quietly climbed onto the large stone seat, and a thick cushion was placed beneath him so he could reach his plate.
Servants brought in hot dishes—stone-baked root vegetables, fire-roasted meat slices, and mountain grain bread with golden honey. His favorite meal.
But he didn't speak. He just watched his mother serve his food carefully, and his father pat his head once before returning to his quiet.
He picked up his tiny stone spoon and began to eat.
Small bites. No talking.
But he felt full.
***
Far away from the joyful noise of other kingdoms, hidden deep within the Shadow Domain, the world remained still. Shadows moved like whispers on the walls, the moonlight didn't shine here—only soft, cool glows from spirit lanterns floating gently in the air.
In a small, neat room tucked at the far end of the Nightshade Court, a quiet boy sat at a low desk, his tiny legs folded beneath him.
Sable.
He was writing slowly, carefully, in a small black notebook with faded corners. .
"Today... was different," he wrote in his childlike handwriting with pencil. "New Teacher smiled at me... even when I didn't talk. She didn't get angry."
He paused, staring at the page for a long time. The room was silent, but he wasn't afraid. He was used to silence.
He gently turned to the next page.
"I ate a KitKat. Just one piece.
I saved the other half."
Sable reached beside his notebook and looked at the small silver wrapper. Half a piece of chocolate still sat there, untouched. It had slightly melted at the edge. He didn't eat it—not yet. He didn't know why.
Maybe… just maybe… tomorrow, if Teacher Alina smiled at him again, he would give it to her.
Maybe.
His pale fingers gently folded the wrapper, protecting it like it was gold.
Sable lived alone in this room, a clean, small chamber with dark curtains, soft floors, and a simple bed. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm either. It was somewhere in between—quiet, respectful, distant.
Just like him.
He didn't have parents. He didn't remember ever having them but the Nightshade Court had taken him in. And Lord Dante Nightshade, the principal of the kindergarten, was the one who made sure he had food, clothes, notebooks, pens, and warm socks every winter.
He wasn't treated badly. In fact, he was respected here.
But…
No one ever hugged him.
No one ever kissed his forehead.
No one ever sang lullabies before bed.
He didn't even know what that felt like.
But… today, someone called him "sweetheart."
Someone looked him in the eye and whispered gently what happened? You can tell teacher. I will Help you sweetheart..
He blinked slowly.
Maybe he was too quiet.
Maybe he wasn't brave like Drake.
Not elegant like Vlad Jr.
Not funny like Boo.
Not strong like Luna.
Not aloof like Felix.
But… maybe…
He could still be loved.
Just a little.
Sable closed his notebook and placed it neatly under his pillow. He then crawled into bed, holding the blanket up to his nose. One hand still held the KitKat wrapper like a fragile wish.
He whispered into the darkness with his sleepy broken baby accent,
"T'mowwow… I twy say tank-you…"
And the shadows around him, soft and gentle, stayed close—watching over the quietest child of them all.