Elyrain Continent — Empire of Voltaire — Royal Capital: Volaris
The night was restless. Even the stars above the royal palace seemed to tremble, their faint glow reflected in the marble courtyards below. Inside the palace, the air was thick with tension and whispered prayers.
Behind a pair of grand gilded doors, the cries of the Empress echoed faintly—sharp, labored, and human. A dozen attendants moved about the chamber in frantic rhythm, their hands trembling as they fetched water and towels, their hushed voices overlapping in anxiety. The scent of burning incense and medicinal herbs hung heavy in the room.
Just beyond those doors, a man paced back and forth, his boots striking the polished floor in slow, deliberate steps.
Emperor Alaric Voltaire, ruler of the greatest empire on the Elyrain Continent, was not a man known for uncertainty. Yet now, his composure cracked beneath the weight of helpless waiting. His jaw was tight, his hands clasped behind his back so firmly that the knuckles had gone pale.
He had faced wars, rebellions, and betrayal without flinching. But the sound of his wife's strained breaths cut through his heart more deeply than any blade ever could.
Then—
a sound broke through the tense silence.
Waaaah!
It was the sharp, clean cry of new life. For a moment, time itself seemed to hold its breath. Alaric froze mid-step, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Then the doors creaked open, and the head maid emerged, her face bright with relief.
"Your Majesty," she said, voice trembling with joy, "congratulations. The Empress has given birth to a boy!"
For the first time that night, Alaric's expression softened. He didn't speak. He simply nodded, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
When he entered the chamber, the smell of fresh linen and lavender filled the air. The Empress, Selene, lay against the pillows, pale but radiant. Her hair clung to her temples, and her arms cradled a small bundle wrapped in silk. The child squirmed faintly, tiny fingers curling as if grasping at the air.
Selene's lips curved into a tired smile. "He looks just like you," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.
The emperor stepped closer, his eyes lingering on the child's face. "No…" he murmured. "His eyes—they're yours."
The newborn blinked, his eyes dark as obsidian, curious and unknowing. The emperor felt something shift inside him—a mixture of awe and responsibility so heavy it almost made him tremble.
"What shall we name him?" Selene asked softly.
Alaric's gaze lingered on his son. He didn't answer right away. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the steady crackle of the lantern flames. He thought of the empire—the legacy of kings, the weight of history, and the endless expectation that came with the name Voltaire.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, steady, and filled with quiet conviction.
"He is the first prince of the Grand Empire," he said. "His name must carry the will to lead. A name that declares he will bow to no one."
He paused, looking once more at the small face in his wife's arms. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"His name shall be—Ace Voltaire."
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, as if the heavens themselves had acknowledged the name.
And so, on that night in the royal city of Volaris, beneath the watching stars, a prince was born—
one who would one day change the fate of Elyra itself.
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