Three moons have aligned over the heart of Valoria, at the dying Mother Volcano. Taking its last breath, ash rains down over the country of Valoria, casting the sky in a silver light. Murmurs of prophecy spread like wildfire across the land—of the child born under ash and silver: Evander, the Breath of Heaven.
A stocky, middle-aged man with streaks of grey in his beard stands before a window that spans from ceiling to floor, his hands placed gracefully behind his back.
He's interrupted by nearby doors bursting open as a short, petite maid storms into the room breathlessly. She quickly curtsies while catching her breath. "Milord! Sorry for barging in, but Milady gave you permission to re-enter," she says urgently before turning around and hurrying down the corridor. A baby's wailing echoes through the hall, and the man quickly follows behind.
Pushing the doors open, the child's cries only intensify as the man walks in, his red gaze falling on his wife lying in bed with their son in her arms. A massive grin spreads across his lips as he rushes to her side.
"Thank the heavens the deliverance was without harm. How are you, my love?" the man says, unable to contain his excitement as he bends down, trying to glimpse his son.
"I am fine. Your seed won't be the end of me," his wife responds coldly, not sparing him a glance.
The stocky man doesn't reply. Instead, he shrivels away like the coward he is, taking a few reluctant steps back.
"Liora, do not be so harsh. It is his son, after all. Let him have a peek," says a noblewoman sitting beside the now "proud" mother, her tone amused.
Liora says nothing, but she pulls the cloth slightly down from the wailing child's face, revealing the cutest of chubby cheeks. His golden eyes shimmer with a power that draws all attention in the room—as if it weren't already on him. More striking still are the small patches of ash-white hair on his little head, and the black veins that seem to stretch from his eyes down his cheeks like roots. A few maidens begin muttering to one another.
They have all heard the rumors. The child born under the silver-ash eclipse. "Breath of Heaven," someone whispers—a child blessed by the heavens, and feared by all. The superstition began months before the boy's birth, when the foreign monkey god Zian declared that, should these celestial conditions be met, a god killer would be born—one who would bring the end of all existence.
Of course, few in the Kingdom of Vulcrest believed a foreign god, especially one known for trickery. Yet even so, there were those who feared the prophecy. If true, their glamorous lives could soon come to an end.
"He has such beauty, does he not?" Liora says with an unsettling smile, her violet gaze darting to her husband, Baron Alaric.
"T-that he does," the baron agrees reluctantly, careful not to offend his baroness.
Baron Alaric is a coward, one who avoids conflict wherever he can. This latest conflict—a child of prophecy, bearing the title of "God Killer"—is his worst nightmare. The attention, the danger—it will be overwhelming.
His wife, on the other hand, is the true head of House Silvercrest to those looking in from the outside. Baroness Liora: beautiful, cunning, and cold—everything Alaric is not.
A small boy peeking in through the open door catches Liora's gaze. Her smile softens. "Lucan, my eldest. Come witness your little brother."
"Come on, sis! Let's see our new sibling!" the boy grins, pulling along a small girl half his age.
The two children approach the bed, peeking over the edge to see the baby.
"Why does he look like that?" the girl asks curiously.
"Because he's special, my dearest," Liora says with a warm smile.
"All right, everyone out. Give Milady some time to rest with her baby boy," the head maid says with a few claps as she ushers everyone out.
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('It's been almost two years—at least, I think it has. A year of hell, being reborn as a damn baby. The first few months? I couldn't even see properly. My thoughts were a foggy mess, and I'd randomly pass out like I was constantly high or exhausted. But through all that, I finally managed to walk. Clumsy as hell, but still—progress. I also picked up their foreign language, not that I had anything better to do. I can only speak in short sentences, but it's enough to get by. My 'new' parents seem overjoyed. My father, especially—he looks more shocked than proud. Maybe even a little scared. Not that I give a damn. At least I can understand them now. I can walk—well, stagger like a drunk—but the point still stands.')
Travis—now Evander—sits cross-legged in the middle of his nursery, pondering his progress. Morning sunlight pours through the open window nearby, casting golden light across his thick white hair.
The doors burst open and a tall, elegant woman strides in with a baby on her hip. Travis doesn't spare her a glance at first, lost in thought.
"Evander! It is feeding time," the woman says with a smile. This catches his attention, a blush creeping across his chubby cheeks.
She gently places the baby in the crib, then scoops Evander up and settles into a well-crafted chair in the corner, placing him on her lap.
('I really wish she wasn't my mom.') he thinks.
Later, after feeding, Liora holds him in her arms and begins reading a story of the great conquering emperor—one Evander has heard a thousand times over. He's read it himself, over and over.
Life as a baby is painfully dull, especially in a world with no modern technology. Back on Earth, babies got iPads and cartoons. Evander has no such luxuries.
Looking up at Liora, admiring her features, he still can't quite grasp her hair and eye color—violet, like something out of a dream. At first, he thought it was dyed, but the peasants and maids he'd glimpsed had ordinary coloring. That, along with the lavish lifestyle and attire, confirmed it: he was born into royalty.
Alaric, his father, is a man with pale blue-white hair and eyes. Stocky, timid, a coward in every sense.
His two older siblings, Lucan and Selena: Lucan is the spitting image of their mother, while Selena resembles their father. Evander's few interactions with them have revealed some subtle resentment from both.
Lastly, there's Orin—his baby brother. Literally. Evander keeps busy trying to play with him and teach him a few words, but so far, no luck.
"Mother, I've aw-weady wead dis. When can I go outside?" Evander asks, struggling with pronunciation. Frustrating, but he's getting used to it—and so is she.
"Oh, Evander, my sweetest. Just give it time. We have a tradition with our heirs. Just three more years, my dearest," she says, kissing his forehead. Another involuntary blush.
Liora is ecstatic with her son's progress. To her, he's a prodigy. No—he's a genius. His development is unheard of, and she can't wait to see what he'll achieve in the years to come for her.