The name lingered in the chamber like an oath whispered to the stars.
"Ace Voltaire," the Empress repeated softly. Her voice was faint but warm, every syllable carrying both pride and tenderness. She brushed her fingertips along the infant's cheek, as if sealing the name upon his skin. "A fitting name," she murmured. "He will bear it well."
Emperor Alaric's expression softened for a moment before his shoulders straightened again, reclaiming the composure of a ruler. "It is tradition," he said quietly, "that one month after a royal birth, the child's elemental affinity is revealed. The ceremony will be held before the lords, the generals, and the pillars of our realm. The first prince of Voltaire deserves nothing less than a celebration worthy of his name."
The Empress smiled faintly, though exhaustion tugged at the edges of her lips. "Then let it be so. May he shine brighter than any before him."
The head maid bowed, voice steady but reverent. "I shall see to every detail, Your Majesties."
For a while, peace seemed to settle upon the room. The faint crackle of the lanterns, the steady rhythm of the Empress's breathing, and the soft cooing of the newborn filled the silence. Outside the windows, dawn was only a whisper on the horizon, painting the marble corridors with the first hints of gray.
But peace, in the Empire of Voltaire, was a fragile thing.
It shattered moments later.
Footsteps thundered down the corridor—hurried, deliberate, and heavy with urgency. The doors swung open with a resonant thud. A tall figure stepped inside, his steel-gray armor marked with dust and streaks of dried blood. His presence was sharp, commanding—like the first strike of a blade in battle.
He knelt immediately, his voice firm but urgent. "Your Majesty. Forgive the intrusion. I bring dire news from the western border."
Emperor Alaric's gaze hardened. "Speak, Commander Darius."
"The neighboring Empire of Infris has moved its armies past the border of Duke Viron's territory. Their vanguard has already breached two outposts. If left unchecked, they will push deeper before dawn."
A heavy stillness settled over the chamber. Even the flames in the lanterns seemed to waver. The emperor's features shifted—gone was the father who had cradled his son moments ago. In his place stood the ruler of Voltaire, the man who had unified a continent through iron and resolve.
"So…" Alaric said quietly, his voice a low rumble that carried through the hall. "Infris dares test our borders."
He turned toward Darius, every word that followed carrying the weight of command. "Ready the Imperial Guard. Summon the generals. I will take command personally."
The Empress's breath caught. Her hand, still resting on the infant's small form, trembled faintly. "Alaric…" she whispered, her voice breaking for the first time that night. "Please… stay safe."
The emperor turned back to her. For a fleeting heartbeat, the iron mask of authority slipped, revealing the man beneath—the husband, the father. His gaze softened.
"I have weathered worse storms, Selene," he said gently. "This empire was forged in blood and fire. It will not break now—not while I draw breath."
His eyes moved to the child one last time. "For him—for all of us—I will return."
He stepped away then, his cloak sweeping across the polished floor, trailing the scent of steel and cold air. The sound of his boots echoed through the hall until it faded into silence.
The Empress sat still, staring at the doorway long after he was gone. The newborn shifted faintly in her arms, unaware of the shadow that had already begun to stretch across his father's empire.
Outside, the wind carried a distant rhythm—the first deep roll of war drums.
And somewhere beyond the capital walls, the horizon flickered with the red glow of torches marching toward Voltaire's borders.
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