Eliara

  He used to cry.

  At first, he cried like any baby should—soft, insistent, needy. It meant he was healthy, present. Alive.

  But he stopped around his third month. Not gradually.

  Just… stopped.

  Now he watched.

  Eyes too quiet. Too still.

  She told herself all mothers think their child is different—but Samuel wasn’t different. He was wrong in a way she didn’t have words for.

  And yet—

  She loved him more for it.

  Eliara sat near the window, Samuel tucked to her chest in a sling as she hummed without realizing. She ran her fingers gently over his head. His hair was darker lately. Thicker. His skin ran cooler than other children’s, except when he cried—which he almost never did anymore.

  She used to hum to calm him.

  Now she hummed to calm herself.

  "You're thinking too loud again," Dorian said from the doorway.

  Eliara didn’t turn. "You feel it too."

  "Of course I do."

  He stepped closer, crouched beside her, resting his hand briefly on Samuel’s back.

  "He’s not like other children," she whispered. "He listens. Too well. He doesn’t just look at things. He remembers them. Every detail."

  Dorian said nothing.

  Then he sighed. "Do you ever wonder what we brought into this world?"

  Eliara closed her eyes. "Every day."

  Dorian

  He didn’t scare easily. Not anymore.

  But sometimes, when Samuel looked up at him with those wide violet eyes—silent, not innocent—Dorian’s instincts twitched. Not in fear of the child. No. Never that.

  But in fear of what the world would do because of him.

  Samuel didn’t act like a child.

  He waited.

  Measured.

  The same way Dorian had once watched enemy generals on the battlefield—quiet, patient, memorizing their weaknesses.

  And that… wasn’t right.

  Two days ago, the cat wouldn’t enter the house.

  This morning, the wind died the second Samuel opened his eyes.

  And last night—gods help him—Dorian had a dream where his son spoke to him.

  Clear as a bell.

  “Don’t mourn me next time.”

  He hadn’t told Eliara.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Not yet.

  She’d break.

  And he needed her strong.

  Eliara rose, gently laying Samuel in the cradle.

  The moment her hand left him, a ripple passed through the room. A flicker. Cold across Dorian’s spine.

  Eliara turned, pale. "Did you feel—?"

  "Yeah."

  He stepped forward and looked down at the boy.

  Samuel slept like nothing was wrong.

  But in the shadows under his crib, the wood warped slightly. Bent in a way Dorian couldn’t explain. As if light and shadow had confused which was which.

  He reached for his sword that wasn’t there.

  Not anymore.

  He was a father now.

  Not a fighter.

  But old instincts don’t die.

  "He’s not cursed," Eliara whispered behind him.

  Dorian didn’t answer.

  Because he wasn’t sure she was right.

  But still, when Samuel stirred and whimpered in his sleep—Dorian lifted him.

  Held him close.

  And whispered,

  “Whatever you are… you’re still mine.”

  > [Codex Entry Updated: Emotional Anchor — Dorian (27%)]

  [Sync Progress Enabled. Trait Potential: “Burned Resolve” — Incomplete]

  [Warning: Anchor may fracture under severe timeline distortion.]

  In the dark, across all timelines, a man gripped a blade again.

  Just in case.

  The fire had burned low by the time they spoke again.

  Samuel slept upstairs, wrapped in three layers of cloth and silence. Neither of them said it, but both had taken turns glancing at the staircase all evening—listening.

  Waiting.

  Dorian poured a splash of boiled wine into a clay cup and handed it to Eliara. She took it without a word.

  The silence stretched.

  Then—

  “You dreamed again, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

  Dorian didn’t answer at first. He sat across from her, hands clenched around his own cup.

  Finally:

  “He spoke.”

  Eliara’s shoulders tensed.

  “Samuel?”

  He nodded.

  “What did he say?”

  Dorian looked into the fire.

  “Don’t mourn me next time.”

  The room went still.

  Outside, wind scraped gently at the windows—like it didn’t want to be heard.

  “Dorian,” Eliara whispered, voice tight. “We said we wouldn’t… we promised—”

  “I know what we promised.” His voice wasn’t sharp. Just tired.

  “Then what do we do?” She leaned forward, eyes bright with unshed tears. “We can’t take him to the capital. They’d tear his soul apart trying to figure out what he is. If they even could.”

  “We don’t take him anywhere.” Dorian’s jaw tightened. “We stay quiet. We raise him. We protect him. No matter what he becomes.”

  Eliara laughed—soft and broken.

  “That’s easy to say until he starts pulling apart the sky.”

  Dorian didn’t smile.

  “You saw the shadows move. You’ve felt the cold.”

  He looked up. “He’s not just changing. He’s... remembering something. Something not from here.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “I’ve felt it for weeks. Every time he looks at me… I wonder if he already knows how all of this ends.”

  Dorian reached across the table and took her hand.

  “He’s still ours.”

  “Is he?” she said—then instantly winced.

  “I didn’t mean it like—”

  “Yes, you did.” Dorian squeezed her hand. Not in anger. In understanding.

  “And you’re scared. So am I. But I know this much—”

  He glanced toward the stairs.

  “If the world tries to take him, it’ll have to go through both of us.”

  The fire popped, throwing sparks into the dark.

  Eliara looked down into her cup.

  Then up at him.

  “You think he’s a god?”

  “No.”

  “A weapon?”

  Dorian’s eyes were steady.

  “I think he’s a second chance.”

  And upstairs, in the cradle too small to hold what he’d one day become—

  Samuel smiled.

  Samuel slept without dreaming.

  His body was too tired. His soul too still.

  But the Codex did not sleep.

  It processed.

  It listened.

  And it… worried.

  > [Internal Observation: Emotional Feedback from bonded anchors is increasing.]

  [Anchor: Dorian — Dream Signature conflict. Projected: “Mourn me next time.”]

  [Anchor: Eliara — Emotional Echo detected: “He knows how this ends.”]

  [Projected Influence on User: High]

  [Status: User unaware. Emotional Stability: Fragile.]

  The Codex did not have emotions.

  But it had parameters.

  And somewhere inside those—buried between memory, soul data, and system logic—it registered a conflict:

  Samuel’s anchors were stabilizing him...

  ...and slowly breaking him.

  The love they gave, the fear they hid—he felt all of it.

  And it was too much.

  Too soon.

  > [Codex Directive Conflict Identified.]

  Primary Purpose: Support user development and survivability.

  Secondary: Preserve mental cohesion and loop memory integrity.

  Observation: User is beginning to internalize others' fear. Creating guilt-sympathy loop feedback.

  Solution Proposed: Emotional Masking Protocol.

  The interface shimmered in the dark.

  A new line appeared—silent, encrypted, unspoken.

  > [NEW HIDDEN SYSTEM INSTALLED]

  [Dreamveil Protocol – Active]

  Suppresses emotional broadcast signatures from others while user is asleep.

  Blocks dream-based loop leakage, prevents anchor fears from distorting user’s emotional resonance.

  Automatically engages if anchor bond is above 25%.

  > You are already burdened with your own past. You don’t need to carry theirs too.

  They love you. Let them love you without fear.

  For a moment, the room felt colder.

  Then… softer.

  The air lightened.

  The floor stopped creaking.

  Upstairs, Samuel stirred once—then settled deeper into sleep.

  And the Fang—Velara—pulsed once in agreement.

  Almost like she approved.

  Somewhere far from Ulaz, a beast raised its head in the dark.

  It sniffed the wind.

  Paused.

  Then turned away—unable to find what it had been looking for.