The small house was silent save for the soft, steady breathing of the infant nestled close to Arion. The birth had been a savage, lonely ordeal, and now, in the aftermath, Arion felt a profound, bone-deep exhaustion—not just physical, but a weariness that settled over his very soul.
He lay on the rough bedding, his body aching, gazing at the child. The boy was perfect, robust, and disturbingly familiar. Those amber eyes, so precisely a mirror of Kyon's, were open and watchful. This was the living, undeniable truth of his violation, the proof of his utter defeat.
His mind was a tangled mass of conflict and tired thoughts. I should hate him, the soldier in him screamed. He is the heir of my tormentor, the final seal on my shame. The logical warrior knew that the child represented the ultimate threat: a link to the royal family that could expose his location and shatter the fragile peace he had built. He should, by all reason, find a way to dispose of the problem, to send the infant to an orphanage or—cruelly—leave him in the custody of the same court that had betrayed him.
Yet, a deeper, animal instinct—the omega parental imperative—fought back with shocking ferocity. This child had lived and grown within his body, drawing strength from his own meager resources. This was a life he had brought forth, alone and against all odds. When the child shifted and let out a soft, seeking cry, Arion's hand moved instinctively to stroke the downy black hair. The scent of the newborn, a clean, sweet milky scent overlaid with the faintest whisper of alpha pheromones, was both terrifying and utterly captivating.
What am I supposed to do? The question hammered against his skull. He was a fugitive, a former legend now reduced to selling garden vegetables to survive. He was too weak, too poor, and too isolated to raise a child, let alone a royal heir. His plan had been survival and revenge; the baby was a massive, unexpected obstacle to both.
The tired thoughts weighed him down. He longed for the simple relief of oblivion, for a moment when he didn't have to calculate the cost of a breath. He was tired of fighting his own body, tired of fighting his memory of Kyon, and tired of the constant, debilitating fear.
He closed his eyes, accepting the grim reality. He couldn't kill the child, and he couldn't abandon him. The amber eyes were his anchor to the world, a constant, painful reminder of the debt he owed Kyon. The child was proof that his struggle was not over; it had only just begun. Survival was no longer just about himself. It was about this small, silent, demanding life that was the living embodiment of his deepest betrayal. He had to live, and he had to grow stronger, because now, he had two lives to fight for. The time for hiding was ending; the time for preparation for the final confrontation had begun.
*
*
*
The first week after the birth was a haze of agonizing recovery and fierce, solitary mothering. Arion's body was slow to heal, still marked by the scars of the dungeon and the immense strain of the childbirth. He sustained himself on weak broth and the few herbs he knew to gather, forcing himself to move, to care for the infant, to prove to himself that he was not utterly defeated.
He had resisted naming the child. A name was an acknowledgment, a bond he was terrified to form. For days, the boy was simply "the infant," "the child," or "the problem." But one afternoon, as the setting sun streamed through the single window, illuminating the fine, dark hairs on the baby's head, the child let out a satisfied sigh after feeding, his tiny, heavy eyelids fluttering closed.
Arion looked at the boy's sleeping face. He saw not Kyon, but a fragile, utterly dependent life. The constant presence of the amber eyes demanded a decision. If he was going to hate the father, he had to define the son. He needed a name that represented both the darkness of his origins and the hope of his future survival.
"Your father," Arion whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse, "is a serpent. But you... you will be different, you have to."
He finally settled on Aiden. It was a common, powerful name, meaning "little fire"—a name that held no association with the royal court, yet suggested a burning strength.
The naming was the final act of acceptance. Aiden was his son. He was the anchor, the living proof of his brokenness, but also the catalyst for his ultimate revenge. He understood now that he couldn't leave Kyon's child to suffer the neglect or cruelty of the court. Kyon had forced this life into existence, and Arion would use that responsibility against him.
Holding Aiden close to his chest, Arion looked through the small window, past the dense forest, toward the distant, unseen capital. His eyes, though tired, hardened with a clarity he hadn't possessed since his arrest.
He made a solemn vow, etched not in stone, but in the depths of his violated soul:
"I will raise you here, away from their poisonous world. You will be strong, Aiden, stronger than either of your fathers. And when the time comes, when I am healed and ready, I will return. I will not seek to harm Kyon; that is too easy. I will dismantle his empire of lies, piece by agonizing piece. I will take back everything he stole, my name, my honor, and my peace. And he will watch me do it, all while knowing that his true heir was raised to be the very weapon of his destruction."
The long, agonizing path of exile was over. The path of calculated, patient retribution had begun. Arion had seven months of suffering to repay, and he would take every last pound of flesh. He had a garden to till, a house to fortify, and a son to raise into a shadow of vengeance.