Darkness.
Then — wood beams.
Nyxari blinked slowly, her sharp eyes tracing the familiar lines of the ceiling above her — the slanted rafters, polished smooth by years of wind and wax. A single crack ran through the main beam like a jagged vein — the same one she'd traced with her fingers during long nights nursing Noctari.
This was home.
I was just dreaming, she thought with relief.
We're having a baby, he'd said.
No. That was absurd.
And yet…
She furrowed her brow.
A sudden, sharp wail split the quiet.
Nyxari sat up with a jolt.
The cry was unmistakable — the sound of a newborn, raw and urgent, cutting through the early morning stillness like a blade.
Her breath caught. The dream unraveled.
No… no, it wasn't a dream.
She rose from bed and crossed to the chamber door. Everything that had happened — right up to the moment she fainted — came flooding back.
Nocte had stood before her — bloodshot and ragged from travel, cloak wrapped tight around something.
"We're having a baby," he'd said.
And in his arms...
"WAAAAAH!"
The baby's ferocious wails yanked Nyxari back to the present.
Her steps were heavy, deliberate, as she crossed the threshold into the main room.
Crow and Noctari, who had heard her coming before they saw her, had already turned their heads in anticipation of the matriarch's entrance.
Had Nocte not been locked in a life-or-death struggle of his own, he might have noticed that his next challenger had just entered the arena.
She spared no one a glance. Her stride was singular and stormlike — moving straight toward her husband like a thunderhead gathering weight: silent, tall, and ominous.
From his seat on the low bench beside the hearth, Nocte had to crane his neck upward to see what cast such a vast shadow over him.
Meeting her gaze froze him in place.
The black-and-purple eyes that had once mesmerized him were now the eyes of the reaper.
He didn't move as she leaned forward and took the wailing baby from his arms.
Looking down at her stunned husband, Nyxari felt a flicker of something unexpected — sympathy.
The mighty war chief was in a pitiful state. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. The dark circles beneath his eyes were deeper than any trench he'd marched through. His armor was discarded in a heap, his tunic half-buttoned and stained with dried Umbrawild milk… or spit-up. Maybe both.
With practiced ease, she bounced gently a few times, settling the child — all without once looking at it.
"All are allowed to plead their case before being judged guilty," she said coolly.
A warning.
An invitation.
Nocte began to sweat profusely. His life was very much on the line.
Seated on the floor in front of him, Noctari sat wide-eyed, legs crossed, her little hands pressed together like she was witnessing a sacred ritual.
Beside her, Crow rubbed the back of his neck.
His life was also on the line.
"… You're awake," Nocte croaked.
Nyxari took a step forward.
"I'm awake," she echoed, voice low and sharp. "So tell me — did you stumble into some heretic fertility ritual in the woods and conjure this child? Or was it a Cindermarcher witch who finally broke your resolve?"
Nocte opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Dry tongue. Paralyzed jaw.
"I'm waiting," Nyxari growled, closing the distance. "Speak."
Seeing his sworn blood-brother crumble under the weight of the mountain that was Nyxari, Crow stepped in — for both their sakes.
"Nyxari, it's not what it loo—"
"SILENCE! You knew? Then I'll have your head the same as his!"
Crow immediately sat back down, hard. His fate, sealed.
"Hehehehe!"
Noctari giggled, thinking it all a game — completely oblivious to the magnitude of the moment.
"WAAAAAH!"
The baby, disturbed by the commotion, added its cries to the storm.
Nyxari's patience wore thin.
Turning the baby around, she looked at it directly for the first time.
"Silence, you abomination," she hissed.
And then—
Something unbelievable happened.
The baby stopped.
It blinked once, opened its eyes fully, and looked straight at Nyxari.
And Nyxari looked back.
Everything in her — rage, confusion, judgment — evaporated.
Her legs gave way. She sank to her knees.
The black of the baby's eyes was deeper than anything she'd ever seen.
And for someone of her bloodline, that meant something.
But it was the irises that truly stole her breath — gold, radiant, glowing like twin miniature suns.
And beyond that…
Something more.
Not quite intelligence.
But understanding.
They sat in a crooked circle on the floor before her — Nocte, Crow, and Noctari — while Nyxari remained seated above, the baby cradled in her arms like a scepter of divine consequence.
The child was asleep again, peaceful and heavy in her hold.
No one spoke for a moment.
Then Crow broke the silence with a shrug.
"Well, we could just say he's yours."
Nyxari didn't even look at him. "Crow."
"What?"
"He's nearly a year old."
"Sure, but he's small for his age. Look at him. He's practically… compact."
Nocte ran a hand down his face. "Crow, you can't fake a pregnancy and then just… produce a toddler."
"People barely look at babies. They squint, smile, and move on. No one's measuring limbs. And besides — look at Noctari. She's three and already the size of a six-year-old. If Nyxari produced a baby on the larger side, would anyone be shocked?"
Nocte grunted in reluctant agreement. "He's not wrong."
He immediately regretted speaking when Nyxari's head turned sharply toward him.
Nocte once again became silent.
"And look, it's one month," Crow said, turning to face them all. "Not nine."
Both Nyxari and Nocte blinked. "One month?" they said, almost in unison.
Nyxari laughed — a rare, hearty sound. "The armor or the mural in that room must've driven you mad! A one-month pregnancy? Please, do tell how that would work."
Crow stepped closer, hands slicing the air as he built his case.
"We keep you in the house. Say you're nesting — communing with the ancestors, channeling bloodlines, preparing for the spiritual burden of birth. You know, Noctvorn things. If anyone asks why they didn't notice, we ask how they didn't. Better yet — tell them to check their own damn eyes."
Nyxari blinked once — slowly. Her expression was unreadable.
Crow, either emboldened or oblivious, pressed on.
"They'll bow, nod, maybe shiver a little, and move on. No one's going to accuse you of deceit."
Then his voice dipped, the grin fading for just a moment.
"And more importantly, once we convince one — just one — they'll carry the lie. Repeat it. Swear by it. Defend it."
A pause.
"The story becomes truth," he said.
Then the grin returned.
"And the truth becomes legend."
"Fine," Nyxari relented.
Though it killed her to admit it (she didn't), it was a solid plan.
"Still… what is it?" she asked, looking at the baby once more.
The room had gone quiet again.
Even Crow, who was still half-standing from his impassioned pitch, slowly lowered himself back to the floor, casting a glance at the bundle in Nyxari's arms — the child around whom they'd just spun an entire falsehood.
But now, as silence fell, the lie felt… thin.
Nocte spoke first. His voice was soft, hesitant.
"He's Noctarii like us, bur not Varnari, he is a Dusknari."
It wasn't a question. It didn't need to be.
Nyxari didn't look up, but her hold on the child shifted — not tighter, but surer.
"Yes."
That one word carried the weight of tombs and prophecies.
Crow exhaled, no longer grinning. "That's not something you can just… hide."
"No," Nyxari agreed, her voice low and steady. "It's not."
The fire crackled in the hearth behind them, throwing faint shadows across the floor. Outside, morning light had started to creep through the blackroot drapes.
She looked down at the child.
"Dusknari blood hasn't shown itself in over two hundred years," she said quietly. "Not since the last war beneath the eclipse. We thought the bloodline had ended."
"Maybe it has," Nocte murmured. "And maybe this… isn't a continuation."
Nyxari finally raised her eyes.
"It's a beginning."
The others fell silent. Even little Noctari, sensing the shift, leaned in close beside her father, gaze wide and solemn.
Nyxari touched the baby's cheek with the back of her fingers, watching as golden irises fluttered beneath half-lidded eyes.
"A Dusknari child," she whispered, more to herself than to them.
"Born not by the stars… but hidden by them."
She looked up again, meeting her husband's gaze.
"There will be those who fear what this means. Others who will want to use him. Or destroy him."
Nocte nodded. "We'll protect him."
Nyxari held his gaze for a long moment. Then slowly, she nodded.
"We will. But protection will not be enough."
She looked back down. The baby was staring up at her again — calm, quiet, and impossibly ancient.
"This child is not a burden to bear," she said, barely above a whisper.
"He is an omen. A herald. The Dusknari blood does not return without cause."
The room was still.
Crow swallowed hard. "So… what do we do?"
Nyxari didn't answer at first.
She rose to her feet, the baby still in her arms — not as a secret to hide, but a truth to carry.
"We prepare."