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The carriage rocked gently, the rhythm almost like a lullaby.
Inside, Elias sat with the three children curled against him.
Lucien, lay asleep on his left thigh, his golden hair spilling like sunlight over Elias's dark coat.
Elias brushed his hair gently and inject just tiny amount of mana in him.
Elen and Lucien on left and Leya on right, their heads resting on his thighs as if they were the softest pillows in the world—which, to be fair, they were.
The carriage was big and comfortable, but still… it was a carriage. No feather beds here. Even so, it was warmer than the cold stone basement they'd been rescued from, and the furs inside made the night bearable.
Outside the window, the sky was paling, the stars slowly fading.
The night had passed.
---
Elias glanced down. The children hadn't stirred once after taking the medicine he'd given them—potent enough to heal their outer wounds quickly, but the inside… that would take much longer.
Scars ran deeper than flesh. And sleep, though peaceful now, still carried the weight of fear in the way they curled too tightly against him, as if ready to be shaken awake at any moment.
He couldn't erase what had happened to them, but maybe, just maybe, he could paint over it with something brighter, a new color for their hearts.
His gaze softened as he looked at them. Blindfolded though he was, he could sense them, their every movement.
First the twins, identical yet different in their little frowns and breaths.
Then Lucien, breathing evenly, his small hand twitching now and then in a dream. Elias's hand rose almost on instinct, brushing over each head in turn—gentle, careful, as though they were something precious.
And maybe they were. In fact, he realized, he'd already begun thinking of them as his.
Of course, there was no doubt in his mind—Lucien was probably from a noble family.
But the question remains...
Why was his hair that particular shade of gold? The king was the only one known for such hair, and as Elias knew, the king, his friend had no child.
Then again, this was a magical world.
Parents with different hair colors could mix and—poof—you got yellow. Or "maybe someone somewhere dyed their baby at birth," he muttered his thoughts out loud. The thought made Elias's lips twitch.
The idea was ridiculous, but somehow, the confused expression he pulled at the thought would have been too funny for anyone to look away from.
---
A faint stir drew him back. The children were waking. Not Lucien—his condition was too serious—but the twins. They had been sleeping since yesterday noon. Slowly, one of them blinked open their eyes.
Leya first… or maybe it was Elen. Elias could feel them waking, but not in the order—they moved almost like one person anyway.
They didn't move right away. They just lay there, heads still on his thighs, clearly finding the position too comfortable to abandon. Elias chuckled under his breath but didn't push them.
His hand moved to their hair again, slow and steady, though he felt the faint ripple of tension run through them at first touch. They had been struck too often for hands to mean comfort.
But he stayed, patient, and warmth seeped from his touch—the same warmth they'd felt back in that basement, when a strange blindfolded man had stood between them and danger.
Despite the blindfold, his beauty was almost unfair, like something that didn't belong in this cruel world.
The twins knew better than to trust beauty—it had betrayed them before., always, everytime.
But… maybe this was different. Maybe. The hope was there, but locked tight. Not yet.
Eventually, they sat up, though reluctantly. Their eyes wandered to Lucien, still sleeping beside Elen, Elias pick him up and settle him on his lap, Lucien was peaceful in a way none of them had been for a long time.
Leya's gaze lingered on the boy's face, while Elen looked straight at Elias.
"What do you want from us now?" Elen asked, voice flat, carrying that tired weight that wanted everything to just end. His tone was too old for someone so small.
Leya also glanced at Elias after hearing Elen's question, her eyes asking the same.
Elias didn't answer right away. He moved his hand slightly, and Elen flinched back before he could stop himself.
Elias paused, then reached slowly, brushing his fingers against the boy's cheek. A soft touch, nothing more, but enough to say it's fine. Elen didn't move away again.
That was enough for now.
"There's no 'just because' in this world," Leya said suddenly, her voice trembling. She remembered too well what happened when they'd trusted people—when they wanted someone to cry with, someone to call family.
All they found were snakes in human skin. The man before them was beautiful..… too beautiful.
Elias tilted his head slightly, his voice warm and genuine. "Maybe you haven't seen the whole world yet, dear."
His tone had no edge, no trick—just the sort of sincerity that couldn't be faked. Leya blinked, caught off guard.
In that basement, she'd learned to read people's intentions—not perfectly, but well enough.
And yet… she couldn't find a single false note in him. She didn't want to believe him. She just couldn't. Not yet.
"It's okay," Elias said gently. "The world is hell, there are good things too but..… I guess the world's given you nothing but the worst. Don't worry. At least it won't be that bad from now on."
The twins didn't reply, but something in their shoulders loosened. Maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth.
Elias turned to the window, and after a moment, the twins followed his gaze.
What they saw made them blink.
The outside world was… beautiful. Rolling green, flashes of flowers, a line of forest dappled with early sunlight. Fireflies lingered in the shade, tiny flickers of gold. Animals grazed in the distance—close enough to see, far enough not to run.
The twins' eyes widened, and for a moment they forgot to be guarded. Elias noticed and allowed himself the faintest smile.
"We'll reach the capital soon," he said.
"Oh, by the way, I am Elias," he continued.
They didn't answer. But their minds had already noted it—Elias, their saviour.
Their hands were clenched, as if holding on to something invisible.
Their hearts were stirring again—foolish human nature, always letting hope sneak back in when it shouldn't.
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