Anthony McCoy was impossible to ignore, even without the trappings of his power. The gold-threaded cloak, the symbols of his rank, and the aura that made lesser magicians quake with fear couldn't detract from his sheer presence. Standing nearly two meters tall, his physique was chiseled for battle, yet refined enough to pass as a noble. His blonde hair cascaded over his forehead in loose strands, shimmering in the light as if spun from sunlight. His steel-blue eyes, steady and unyielding, carried the weight of a drawn sword.
In another world, people might mistake him for an actor or a god descending from a stage. But in this world, there was no confusion – he was a living legend, a demigod, and a war commander who had faced the fury of elder wyrms and emerged with only a scar on his jaw. As the husband of Francisca, the most formidable woman on the continent, he exuded an aura of invincibility.
Yet, in this moment, his grandeur was reduced to something almost comical. He paced.
The maternity wing's marble floors glowed softly under the lampstones, their faint silver veins pulsing with the enchantments buried deep in the foundation. The sound of his golden boots was muffled by wards designed to dampen magical surges – a precaution during childbirth, when a mana-rich body could make the process... unpredictable.
He had counted thirteen steps from one end of the corridor to the other, then again, and again. It wasn't the walking that wore him down; it was the stopping. Whenever he stopped, his thoughts rushed in. He should be in there, with Francisca. He could see, if he chose – one flicker of divine sight, one thread of mana sent through the wall...
No. He clenched his jaw.
Francisca had been clear: she didn't want him there "in that state." Weak, she had called it. But Anthony knew better. Her version of weakness could still shatter stone. He had learned to read between her words over the years. Pride wasn't a thin shield for her; it was her second skin. She would rather face an army alone than let her husband witness her vulnerability.
And then there were her eyes – a rare, impossible constitution that made even his divinity stumble. If he so much as peeked into that room uninvited, she'd feel it – not just see it, but feel it like a blade between her ribs.
So he paced instead.
The hallway's air was sterile, scrubbed of every trace of dust or scent. Somewhere down the wing, a servant whispered an incantation over steaming herbs; the words blurred into the hum of the mana wards. Anthony ignored it.
As he walked, he flexed his hands, feeling the prickle of magic along his skin. Breathe in. Out.
And then, a sound – a small, precise click. The latch on the delivery chamber's door.
Before he could think, his body was in motion. He passed through three layers of spellwork that would have sent a mortal sprawling.
Inside, Francisca sat upright against rune-etched cushions, her shoulders square despite the dampness on her temples. No wasted movement, no slouch. Her breathing was slow, steady – controlled. In her arms lay a bundle wrapped in soft cloth, no larger than a loaf of bread, yet somehow heavy enough to tilt the entire axis of his world.
A boy, with a share of his mother's beauty and a shock of silver hair, looked up at him. The baby's skin was pale but warm-toned, with the faintest blush in his cheeks. His little fingers had curled into the edge of Francisca's cloak, holding fast with a quiet stubbornness that Anthony already recognized.
"A boy…" Anthony's voice came out softer than he meant, a little unsteady.
Francisca met his gaze, her eyes sharper than any blade he'd wielded – but now softened with something else. Something gentler.
"Look at him with your mana sense," she said, lifting her hand to weave a dome of transparent energy over them.
Anthony closed his eyes and reached out – not with his hands, but with the divine current that lived in his blood.
There it was – a core, small but solid. Not the fragile flicker of untamed mana every child carried, but a true core – formed, anchored, already drawing in the energy of the world.
He opened his eyes sharply. "Impossible… How...? What....?"
Every being waited until twelve. That was the law of the body, the rhythm of the soul. Before that, the vessel was unstable; shaping a core too early was like pouring molten metal into an uncarved mold – it warped, cracked, and ruined the vessel entirely. Even the children of gods obeyed the same clock.
But this boy – his boy – had done it from birth.
"I felt it as soon as he breathed," Francisca murmured. "The mana entered him… and the core was there."
Anthony's chest ached with pride so fierce it almost hurt. "He's… perfect."
Francisca's lips curved faintly. "He's a miracle."
For a moment, nothing else existed. The dome held the warmth between them, the world outside reduced to nothing but a faint memory.
Then, a knock at the outer chamber door.
Evane stood in the waiting room, her gloved hand still on the latch. The space was empty.
"Sir Anthony?" she called.
No answer.
She exhaled through her nose, a sound equal parts annoyance and fondness. "Of course," she muttered. "Demigod."
In three strides, she was at the delivery chamber. She knocked once, out of habit more than need, and stepped inside.
The sight rooted her to the spot.
Francisca sat tall, the child against her chest, a calm radiating from her that Evane had never seen – not in battle, not in court. Beside her, Anthony sat on a silver-gilded chair that might as well have been a throne. He wasn't the commander now. He wasn't the weapon. He was just… a father, watching the tiny life he had helped create.
Evane swallowed and stepped forward.
Anthony's gaze shifted to her, and some of that softness vanished, replaced by the gravity she knew well. "Evane," he said, "what we discuss here will never leave this room. You may swear upon my divinity, or you may leave and never bear the burden."
She didn't hesitate. "I, Evane, swear upon Sir Anthony McCoy's divinity to guard the secrecy of what is said here."
He inclined his head. "Good."
Evane gazed at her master, only to see him shoot a questioning look towards Francisca – as if to ask if this was necessary. Francisca raised an eyebrow, her lips parting as if to say something – likely to remind Anthony she had already explained this to him.
"Stop," Anthony cut in quickly, one hand raised. A flicker of panic crossed his face before he masked it again. Anthony McCoy was a man worthy of worship anywhere he found himself, and there was literally nothing that scared him – except, it seemed, his wife's lecture.
Evane blinked, unsure whether to be amused.
Anthony turned back to her. Then, slowly, he told her about the core – the way it pulsed with natural absorption, the divine calm that had kept the boy quiet even under Francisca's aura.
Evane listened, at first with the cool, distant poise she had cultivated over the years. Then she reached out with her own senses – cautious, precise. And felt it.
The truth.
Her composure cracked. For years, she had believed herself a prodigy, the exception to the world's rules. And here was a newborn who made her life's greatest achievement look like a child's trick.
She fell silent, her mind caught between awe and disbelief. Anthony didn't rush her.
When she finally looked up again, the air around her felt clearer somehow. She understood. This was why they had called her. Why the oath mattered.
Francisca's voice softened. "War is coming. My husband and I will be at the front. We entrust him to you – his safety, his training, his life."
She looked down at the baby. "His name is Rick."
Evane breathed it once, quietly. Rick. Simple. Ordinary. But not the boy who bore it.
Francisca eased him into a cradle of moonwood lined with enchanted starcloth. Anthony stepped forward, bent to press a kiss to the tiny forehead, and drew from his coat a sigil – the McCoy crest. Within its lines shimmered a single drop of divine blood.
Evane's eyes widened. For even a Grand Magus, having a divine essence was a waste – but here, it was being given to a newborn baby, as if to tell her that an ant having a whole elephant as just a dinner was enough to describe how wasteful it was.
He pressed it to Rick's chest. The essence sank in without a ripple, the baby's breathing never breaking rhythm.
Then, without ceremony, Anthony and Francisca turned. They gave their son one last look. And then, with the quiet ripple of space-time parting, they were gone – vanished into the war that waited for them.
Leaving behind a miracle – a child named Rick McCoy.