As his past flooded back to him, Mascious glared at the Whydit twins, a deep-seated animosity enshrouding his heart. They were monsters, he thought bitterly. Varessi had hoped to find freedom through them, but instead, they had destroyed her. To Mascious, they were no different from the cursed old races. They might appear human, but they were bound by the same laws as those ancient, corrupted beings—creatures that had no place in this world.

  Lady Varessi struggled to give birth. Everyone present understood why: bringing a High Ranker’s child into the world was no easy task. Her pain was drawn out and unrelenting. Even the two guards, Heltrell and Surtrell, who stood watch nearby, had grown impatient. There was an air of defeat etched into the faces of those assisting her, a strange calm that had settled over the room, sharply contrasting the initial chaos when the process began.

  Suddenly, a shift in the wind caught everyone’s attention. An object had interrupted the breeze flowing in through the solitary window. A long shadow stretched across the brightly lit floor, unsettling those present. Mascious and the guards turned their heads toward the window, and what they saw was not an object, but a person.

  A figure loomed just outside the window, silhouetted by the light. She was shaped like a woman, though her identity was obscured by sleek black armor, its surface gleaming like polished obsidian. Mascious’s heart sank at the sight. There was only one kind of armor made from that oily black metal: Alidora.

  The room tensed instantly, as if the air itself had thickened with anticipation. The figure dropped silently to the floor, landing with a quiet grace. She moved swiftly, positioning herself between Varessi and the others like a makeshift barricade, her black armor radiating menace. Mascious and the guards exchanged uneasy glances—assuming she must be from one of the branch families’ search parties. More politics, Mascious thought grimly. Just another player in the ever-growing web of power struggles surrounding Varessi and her unborn child.

  But that assumption was quickly challenged when Surtrell stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his needle. “State your name and purpose,” he demanded, his voice sharp and commanding.

  The armored woman tilted her head at the question, her face hidden behind the dark mask of her helm. For a moment, the room was deathly quiet, every breath held in anticipation. Then, without uttering a word, she raised a hand and pointed a single finger directly at Varessi.

  That was all the provocation needed. Surtrell acted immediately, his needle glowing with a blue frost as he drew it, the blade chilled to a temperature so low it could freeze anything it touched. Mascious moved almost simultaneously, pressing his gloves together, summoning a blade of flames that materialized in his hand. But just as Mascious prepared to strike, he saw Heltrell—his supposed ally—turning his needle on him.

  Mascious’s and Heltrell's weapons clashed in midair, sending shockwaves across the room. Fire met steel, the energy of their blows causing sparks to fly in every direction. Mascious was stunned, not expecting to be blocked by Heltrell. His anger flared. “Why are you blocking me?” he spat, his voice rising with frustration. “She’s the enemy!”

  Heltrell hesitated, his face hardening as if torn between conflicting loyalties. But before he could answer, a loud crash erupted behind them.

  Surtrell had lunged at the woman, his frozen needle aimed directly at her chest. But she was faster. Much faster. With inhuman reflexes, she caught the blade in midair, stopping it cold. For a brief moment, it seemed as if time stood still, her armored hand gripping the frozen blade like it was nothing. Then, in one fluid motion, she yanked Surtrell forward, using his own momentum against him. She grabbed his tunic with her free hand and, with an effortless pull, flung him across the room.

  Surtrell’s body slammed into the entangled drive in the corner of the room, sending a cascade of sparks into the air. The needles connected to Varessi’s body jostled loose, and the excruciating pain of childbirth surged back into her. Varessi screamed, her body convulsing with the sudden rush of agony.

  At this, the Feydaks shrieked in terror, retreating to a corner of the room and cowering in fear. The engineer pulled out a pulse blade and pointed the thing at the woman. They both stared at each other, and they both knew that in that whole room, the Engineer was the last person they would want fighting. His blade appeared less as a statement and more a statement of warning, a warning the masked woman understood and kept her distance from the Engineer.

  The two men quickly brokered an unspoken truce, realizing that they had no hope of defeating the armored woman if they continued to fight each other. They turned their attention to her, moving in tandem as they prepared for battle.

  Heltrell adopted the Threadweaver stance, his needle weaving intricate, serpentine patterns in the air as he attempted to trap the woman in his attacks. But she moved like liquid silk, her body bending and twisting in ways that made her seem more shadow than substance. The needle strikes passed harmlessly through empty space, her form already gone before they could land.

  Mascious’s flaming sword lashed out in powerful arcs, sending blazing waves of fire toward her. But she was untouchable. With almost supernatural precision, she dodged, blocked, and countered every move they made. It was as if she was toying with them, her movements effortless and graceful, while Mascious and Heltrell struggled to keep up.

  And she hadn’t even activated the full power of her Alidora armor. That much was clear. She was holding back, playing with them, biding her time.

  A sense of dread settled in Mascious’s stomach. They were outmatched. Completely.

  Heltrell adopted the Threadweaver stance, his needle moving with expert precision as he wove intricate strikes through the space where the armored woman stood. But she moved like slippery silk, effortlessly dodging each thrust, her body a blur of fluid motion.

  Mascious's attacks were no more effective. He swung his flaming blade with all his strength, but the woman blocked, dodged, and countered with ease, as if she were sparring with a child. Despite the deadly efficiency of her movements, she hadn’t even activated the full power of her Alidora armor. It was clear now—she was merely playing with them.

  Meanwhile, Varessi's anguished screams cut through the chaos, her struggle adding an unbearable weight to the already fraught room. The engineer, stationed directly in front of her, shifted nervously. His attention briefly flicked between the fight and the laboring woman. When his eyes accidentally glanced between her legs, he froze in shock— the baby’s head was visible, protruding and retreating with each contraction.

  Without warning, the engineer fainted, collapsing onto the floor with a thud.

  The battle momentarily ceased as all eyes turned toward him. Mascious instinctively thought another enemy had breached the room. But then, they realized the cause of the engineer’s sudden collapse—the baby was crowning.

  The sight of the emerging child snapped the Feydaks back into action. They rushed toward Varessi, quickly monitoring her vitals and resuming their roles to assist her in delivering the baby. One of the Feydaks turned to a guard and barked an order. "You, fetch a towel and a bowl of warm water."

  The guard sneered, unwilling to follow orders from a Feydak. "I'm not taking orders from a Fey."

  "Then go screw yourself somewhere else," she snapped back, her patience gone.

  The other Feydak, focusing entirely on Varessi, propped up the bed, raising her into a seated position to help with the delivery. Varessi swayed, dizzy from the exertion, and vomited onto the floor. As the first guard finally returned with the towel and water, the Feydak snatched the items from his hands.

  She gently tipped the bowl to Varessi's mouth, allowing her to sip the water. Then she soaked the towel, pressing it against Varessi's forehead. Her voice softened as she whispered to her, "Don’t push, my lady. The baby is already fighting its way out. Just breathe." Varessi nodded weakly, her eyes filled with both pain and determination.

  The room now focused on the birth, gathering around Varessi in a rough crescent. Even the second guard, Heltrell, had lowered his weapon. The intensity of the moment silenced everything else. As the baby’s head fully emerged, one of the Feydaks reached out to catch the child. The child would eventually fall into a pair of cradling hands. Blood and amniotic fluid covered the newborn’s tiny body, but the person handled it with care.

  The engineer, having regained consciousness, took one look at the blood and mucus-covered baby—and fainted again, collapsing in the same spot he had fallen before.

  Everyone in that room had fought their own battles that night, but Varessi’s struggle had been the hardest. Birthing a lord’s child required more soul essence than she possessed, and yet she had persisted. After an agonizing final push, the weight of the ordeal slipped away from her. Her child was born.

  But just as the tension in the room began to ease, realization struck: the first hands to hold the newborn did not belong to one of the Feydaks.

  It was the armored woman.

  In the distraction of the birth, everyone had forgotten about her, but now she cradled the baby in her black, metal-clad arms. Her fingers, though tipped with iron claws, held the child gently. She brought the baby close to her sealed, helmeted face. The room collectively held its breath, hearts pounding with fear.

  The baby, however, was unfazed. Instead of the usual cries that accompany a newborn’s first moments, the child let out a soft, almost musical laugh, a sound of comfort and ease in the woman’s deadly arms.

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  One of the Feydaks, Peprin, who had been overseeing the birth, cautiously stepped forward, her eyes filled with concern. She extended her hands toward the armored woman in a silent gesture, implying that she wished to hold the child.

  To everyone’s surprise, the armored woman obliged. Slowly and carefully, she passed the baby into Peprin’s waiting arms. The Feydak cradled the newborn gently, inspecting the baby’s delicate features—sparse, turquoise hair clung to the infant’s forehead, a telltale sign of the Whytid lineage.

  Peprin then passed the baby to the other Feydak, who also admired the child, cooing softly at its adorableness. From there, the baby was handed to the twin guards. As they looked at the newborn, they instantly recognized their bloodline. The sea-colored hair was unmistakable—this was their sibling, a new Whytid brought into the world.

  Yet despite the familial connection, a melancholy hung over them. The joy of the moment was overshadowed by the complexities and sorrows that surrounded the birth. The guards handed the baby to the engineer, who had just regained consciousness once again.

  Unlike the others, the engineer did not handle the child with the same tenderness. Awkwardly, he grabbed the baby by its foot, holding it at arm’s length as if it were a rag doll. The room collectively gasped in dismay.

  Shaking his head in frustration, the engineer said, “You people are unbelievable. Putting your ungloved, unsanitized hands all over a newborn child. A newborn needs to be sanitized and medicated before being touched by others.”

  He swiftly retrieved a compartment from the fallen entangled machine in the corner, pulling out a set of needles, patches, and tablets. He carefully administered the necessary medicines to the baby, who remained calm and quiet, not once uttering a cry. “There,” he said when he finished, his tone clipped. “Now it's healthy enough to be touched by even the dirtiest beggar.”

  The engineer then moved to hand the child to Lady Varessi. But Varessi, still too weak to lift her arms, gestured instead toward Mascious. The weight of everything that had transpired settled heavily on him as he stepped forward.

  Mascious took the baby from the engineer, holding the tiny child close to his chest. As he studied the infant’s features—the light ebony skin, the small pursed eyes—he felt his heart soften. Despite the Whytid hair, this baby looked so much like Varessi. There was no doubt in his mind that this was his Lady’s child.

  With tenderness, he handed the baby to her mother.

  The moment the child passed from Mascious’s arms to Varessi’s, the baby let out soft gasps, which quickly shifted into gentle cries. Varessi, startled, looked around anxiously, unsure of how to respond to the sudden change in her newborn’s mood. But within moments, the cries turned to laughter. The baby’s tiny, stubby hands reached up, instinctively grasping at her mother’s face.

  Varessi gazed down at her daughter, her lips forming a faint smile. “Already playing tricks on me, little one?” she chided softly, her voice filled with tenderness. The tension in the room eased, and for a brief moment, everyone around them smiled. Varessi’s amber eyes met her daughter’s, and she marveled at the baby’s bright blue gaze—like sunlight glistening over a clear, sandy shoreline.

  Among Koleson’s women, Varessi had been the most active within the Whytid family, and the only one who had managed to get close to him, a closeness that had sparked envy among powerful factions across the region. She had once loved Koleson deeply, loved him until she uncovered the truth—truths that would haunt the child now resting in her arms.

  Yet, as she stared at her newborn, a fierce resolve settled in her heart. She swore in that moment to protect her daughter from that terrible truth, to shield her from the dark burdens that would otherwise shape her life.

  “I will love you, my child,” she whispered, her voice low but firm. “Against thy curse, I will love thee.”

  The Whydit guards standing nearby exchanged solemn glances, their expressions unreadable but thoughtful. Though no words were spoken, they silently reached a decision: Varessi would keep the child. In this small act of mercy, perhaps they could avoid a darker fate for themselves as well.

  But love would not be enough to save the baby. No sooner had she entered the world than the brightness in her eyes dimmed, flickered once, and went out.

  To an untrained eye, it would have appeared as if the baby had drifted into a peaceful sleep. But a mother knows better. Varessi’s heart tightened with dread as she searched frantically for the light that had so recently danced in her daughter’s eyes. There was nothing.

  “My baby!” she screamed, her voice cracking with panic. “Where has she gone? I never got to name her! I never gave her a name, my Helletta!”

  The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by Varessi’s frantic sobs. The group surrounding her exchanged uneasy glances, unsure of what to say or do. Mascious stepped forward, gently taking the newborn from Varessi’s trembling hands. His pulse quickened as he cradled the child, and he felt the chilling truth in his arms—the baby’s body had already turned cold.

  Mascious, his breath catching in his throat, placed the child back on Varessi’s chest—perhaps a bit too hastily, too roughly, as if he had glimpsed a truth he desperately wished to avoid.

  Varessi remained frantic, desperately searching for any sign of life in her newborn. Her eyes darted over the baby, seeking some movement, a breath—anything to prove her child was alive. The engineer, sensing the rising tension, hurried to his drive’s compartment, fumbling for any medicine that might help. A brief wave of panic washed over the room, with everyone fearing the worst.

  And then, unexpectedly, the sound of soft, newborn sobs filled the air.

  Varessi gasped, grabbing the child hastily, her hands trembling. She watched in disbelief as the baby's eyes fluttered open. A collective sigh of relief spread through the room as the tension broke. The guards, Mascious, and the Feydaks all felt the same: they had nearly lost hope, but the baby was alive.

  The engineer's wrist capsule beeped, pulling him away from the chaotic scene. Grateful for a distraction, he excused himself, hoping whatever message had come through would give him an excuse to leave. The emotional whirlwind in the room had left him drained.

  But as Varessi gazed down into her baby's eyes, a horrifying realization gripped her. The twisted truth she had tried so hard to shield her child from—it had already taken hold. Too quickly. Too early. She hadn’t seen it coming. A visceral scream ripped from her throat, a sound filled with raw anguish and madness.

  “This is not my child!” Varessi shrieked, her voice trembling with terror. “Something else, something twisted, has taken over the body of my baby! My child is dead, and this… this thing is inhabiting her corpse!”

  Before anyone could react, Varessi flung the baby from her arms in a frantic, horrifying motion. One of the guards, quick on his feet, caught the infant in midair, cradling it protectively. His eyes blazed with anger as he glared at Varessi. “Have you lost your mind?” he demanded, but the answer was clear—her sanity had slipped, overtaken by grief and madness.

  Mascious rushed to her side, his face streaked with tears. He pleaded with her, his voice cracking as he begged to take some of her burden, to help her bear the weight of her grief. To the guards, it was a pitiful sight, watching a man so broken. But as they looked down at the baby in their arms, confusion clouded their expressions. The child seemed perfectly fine—just as she had moments earlier. What had changed?

  The engineer, having turned off his capsule, returned with a grave look of confusion and anger etched across his face. He muttered something under his breath, but no one seemed to hear him at first. Then, with a sharp edge in his voice, he shouted, “He’s dead!”

  The room fell silent, the chaotic energy drained in an instant. The engineer’s voice trembled as he spoke again, louder this time, “He’s dead! Koleson Whydit, Lord of the Kerrasuk regions, hero of the Voidborne Wars—he died in his hold, the Leviathan's Rest.”

  For a moment, an unsettling silence gripped the room. The weight of the news hung over them all like a shroud. Lord Koleson had not only been a lord but a hero of the Voidborne Wars, a warrior so mighty that he had been awarded a great needle. Yet Koleson was more than just his titles—he was the custodian of a great family, the patriarch of an ancient culture, and the embodiment of the empire’s vast uncertainty.

  Before Koleson, it was easy to believe that only the strong and powerful could claim the bloodline of the gods. But what of a child who had once washed ashore, alone and unknown, with no family, no ties to any land or origin, yet possessing a power mightier than that of any Lancer?

  What claim did he have to such power? Why had he carried the symbol of a dead god? And why had he refused a seat among the Fifty Great Lords in the Radstadt? Was it an act of subservience, a silent protest, or something deeper still—a quiet rebellion against the empire’s order?

  Koleson had always been a powerful enigma, a force that many assumed would endure forever. And now, this enigma, this symbol of strength and mystery, had died—peacefully, in his sleep—just minutes ago, according to the engineer.

  A heavy, oppressive feeling settled over the room, passing like a shadow from the Feydaks to the engineer, over the armored woman, to Mascious, and finally to Varessi—who, despite her fragile state, seemed to embody the essence of this unfolding tragedy. The weight of Koleson’s death loomed over them all.

  Yet, in the midst of this gloom, three figures stood apart, still tethered to the scene: the two Whydit guards and the newborn child they held between them.

  A palpable disgust rippled through the group, a growing realization that they had unwittingly been part of something far darker than they’d imagined—a profane ritual, or so it seemed. One of the Feydaks shuddered, leaning toward her companion and whispering, “One Whydit born and one Whydit dead. And they call us heretics with sullied blood. The audacity.”

  Though the words were spoken softly, the quick glance she cast toward the guards made it clear who her true target was.

  “I should’ve trusted my instincts,” the engineer muttered bitterly. “I knew something was off when that shady woman sent me here. This is why she was expelled from the classroom.” His voice trembled with fear and anger, almost as if caught in a trance. Snapping back to the present, he declared, “I’m leaving. I was never involved in any of this.”

  “We’re leaving too,” one of the Feydaks said sharply. The second Feydak nodded in agreement. Neither the guards nor anyone else in the room could convince them to stay. A quiet resignation lingered in the air—as though, deep down, everyone knew that something like this had always been inevitable.

  Perhaps a part of them had always understood this fate, but none had expected it to come so swiftly.

  “A Whydit born into this world will always be alone,” they had been told. And now, they realized, nothing could ever save them from that destiny.

  The first guard attempted to reason with Mascious. His voice was steady but urgent as he cautioned, “The people searching for you are getting closer. You should take the child and the mother and leave the island before it’s too late.”

  But Mascious’s fury had reached a breaking point. His eyes burned with disgust as he spat back, “Keep that serpentine abomination away from my mistress.” The venom in his words stung everyone in the room. It was clear—there was nothing they could do for him or for Varessi.

  The armored woman, who had been climbing out of the window, paused when Surtrell, one of the guards, hesitantly offered her the child. Heltrell, his brother, immediately pulled him back, whispering harshly, “Have you lost your mind?” But Surtrell stood firm, his eyes pleading. “Please,” he begged the woman. “Take the child. Love her as your own, if it’s even possible.”

  For a moment, the armored woman hesitated. She turned, her gaze lingering on the child, and her hand almost stretched out to take the baby. But something stopped her. With a slow shake of her head, she turned away and disappeared into the night without another word.

  The Whydits—all three of them—were now alone. They stared at the child, who gurgled and laughed, her tiny hands reaching up innocently toward them. Her pure, unknowing joy felt like a mockery of the dark reality surrounding her.

  If love could not save her from her fate, the brothers thought, then what could? They knew the answer, and it weighed on them heavily. Nothing could.

  Cradling the baby in their arms, the two guards turned and fled, leaving the echoes of that terrible night behind them.