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.
He 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, Isaac'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."
The ruler's voice broke the silence, slow and steeped in gravity:
"Emotions are the essence of humanity. To abandon them is to unmake oneself.
They are the line between man and abyss.
Even beasts feel. But humans… we give name to the feeling, we bear the burden of its meaning.
And those who claim to feel nothing—they envy the warmth they lack. So they wear faces. Masks.
To look human."
He turned his head toward her.
She was holding him close, crying silently into his hair.
And something stirred—deep, quiet, without name.inside him
Isaac raised his hand. Slowly, unknowingly.
And touched her cheek.
It was a simple gesture.
But it silenced everything inside her.
Kray froze for a moment, then wiped her tears. Her lips trembled—but finally, they curved into a faint smile.
"You do love your mother, don't you, Noxfyr?"
She pulled him tighter, as though her grip could shield him from the cruelty of the world.
"Don't leave me," she whispered.
"I'll protect you. I'll kill for you. Just stay beside me. That's all I ask."
Days passed.
No visits.
No footsteps from brothers.
No word from the blood she once shared.
Only the silent steps of servants—obedient, distant, final.
It wasn't silence. It was banishment.
Two months passed in that frozen exile. Kray endured.
But she knew—
The reckoning was near.
The summons came.
She entered the room like a storm wrapped in skin, her child in her arms, her presence sharp and poised for war.
Rayner sat still at the center of the room, unmoved.
To the side, the guardian dragon, Karthiona, stood watching—silent and coiled like a sleeping god.
Rayner didn't rise.
He looked at the child, his voice even:
"In three days, you and the boy will move to the Northern Palace.
He will remain there until his sixteenth year.
Everything he needs will be provided.
This is not a request. The family does not waste potential."
Her eyes hardened. Her jaw locked.
She spoke, low and venomous:
"You don't understand, Father.
He's mine. Not yours. Not theirs.
I will bleed for him. Burn for him.
And if I must, I will bury your name beneath his feet.
You, more than anyone, know I am not weak.
And I was never alone."
Rayner didn't flinch.
He sighed, as though used to the fire in her voice.
"You still believe I killed his father… don't you?"
She didn't answer.
But her eyes did.
He stood, turned away from her, and spoke in a voice barely louder than a whisper:
"Be careful.
You carry something priceless in your arms."
She left the room in silence.
Karthiona broke the stillness with a single breath:
"That child…
his energy feels familiar. But I can't trace it.
Still… he is fascinating."
Rayner allowed a faint smile.
"Isn't he?"
Falco, the head steward, stepped forward, voice heavy:
"My lord… why didn't you tell her the truth?
Why let her hate you?"
Rayner kept his eyes fixed on the door.
"She needs something to hold onto… even if it's hatred.
If that's what keeps her and the child alive,
then so be it."
He paused.
"Let her hate me.
As long as she lives."
At dawn, Kray stood beside the royal black carriage, Noxfyr in her arms.
Lara at her side.
A small convoy surrounded them—heavily armed, by Rayner's order.
Throughout the journey, Isaac remained quiet.
He watched her.
How she walked.
How she buried pain beneath dignity.
How quickly she controlled herself.
There was strength in her—raw, untaught, .But acquired
He admired it.
On the second night, they camped deep within a forest.
Tents rose. Fires crackled.
Kray sat near the flames with the only knight still loyal to her—Carmez.
He broke the silence gently:
"Don't let their words reach your heart, my lady."
She smiled faintly.
Then the air broke.
Not sound. Not light.
Pressure. Power.
Everything froze.
She stood before the guards reacted.
"Let him in," she commanded.
He entered.
He didn't walk—he arrived.
Red hair flowed like fire. His eyes shimmered with old runes, ancient and alive.
His body was tall, lean, shaped by centuries of battle.
A sun-shaped tattoo blazed across his cheek, as though the gods had branded him.
For the first time in months, her voice softened:
"Welcome… Lord Solarin."
The man smirked.
"How's my little cat doing?"
She smiled, truly.
Lifting the child with pride:
"I kept my promise. I gave birth to my dream."
He stepped closer and took the child into his arms.
The moment he touched him, he paused.
Something familiar pulsed beneath the skin. A memory, long buried.
"Hmm…" he thought, "he reminds me of that man…"
He gently brushed the boy's hair.
"You've brought a gifted child into this world, Kray."
Isaac laughed and grabbed a lock of his hair—like any child would.
But inside, he thought:
"You're strong. I respect that.
But I wonder… how would it feel to surpass you?"
And in the depths of his mind, the Blue Sovereign's voice returned like glowing coals:
"Yes, Isaac… no—Noxfyr.
Show me how you'll do it."
Solarin chuckled and kissed the child's forehead.
"I like him. And it seems he likes me.
What's his name?"
Kray's eyes gleamed with pride:
"Noxfyr."
Solarin laughed.
"A fitting name.
I have a feeling… he'll surpass even that old fossil one day."