The birthing chamber was stiflingly hot. While the ruthless wind of the North battered the castle walls outside, a giant fireplace roared inside, and torches on the walls made flickering shadows dance across the stone floor.
Elara's final, long scream echoed through the room, then cut off like a knife. Only the crackling of the wood in the fireplace and the hurried footsteps of the midwives remained. The old midwife took the baby, cleaned him quickly, and wrapped him in rough cloth.
The baby did not cry. He didn't make a single sound. He simply opened his eyes.
His vision was blurry at first, as if looking from underwater. Then the world sharpened, but it was not the world he expected.
There was no sky. No snow. No familiar scent of blood.
The first thing he saw was the sooty, rough-hewn stones of a low ceiling. Beams of orange light dancing above his head cast threatening shadows on the stones. The air was filled with a dry heat that burned his lungs and the smell of burnt wood.
Is this Hell? the voice in his mind thought. Or have I been taken prisoner in an enemy camp?
A massive, wrinkled face entered his field of vision. An old woman... But her proportions were wrong; she loomed over him like a mountain. Her eyes were wide with shock.
The samurai tried to sit up by reflex. To assess the situation, to put his back against a safe wall… This was the first rule of the warrior.
But his body betrayed him.
His spine was like jelly; he couldn't even hold his head up. His nerves were not responding to his commands. Was this paralysis? Had a poisoned arrow shut down his nervous system?
He wanted to reach for his hand, to grasp his sword. Was this giant an enemy?
He looked down. He expected to see his broken armor, his bloodied robes.
But what he saw was horrifying.
His arm... that arm, hardened by thousands of sword drills, calloused and strong, was gone. In its place hung a pink, knobby, defenseless piece of flesh, swinging meaninglessly in the air. Tiny fingers grasped at the air, but there was nothing to hold; no hilt, no hope.
I... what have I turned into? cried the old voice within.
I died. I know that. I breathed that last breath. So what is this? This helpless body, these giant rooms... Is this a punishment? A humiliation drafted by the gods for the lives I failed to protect? Why am I trapped in the body of an infant? Did time flow backward, or did I shrink?
I am trapped, he thought in terror. Not inside armor, but inside a cage of flesh and bone that hasn't even hardened yet.
Panic tightened his tiny chest. He felt he couldn't breathe.
Then, his gaze drifted to the source of light in the room, to the fireplace.
And in that moment, his panic ceased. That fire... The dance of those flames... It seemed to say to him, "Do not fear." As if those flames were the soul of the sword he had lost.
The baby narrowed his eyes.
They were red. Not the color of freshly spilled blood, but the color of molten steel, of the hottest ember in a blacksmith's forge. And it wasn't just his eyes... The thin, newly sprouted strands of hair on his head were a vibrant flame-orange, like a burning coal glowing from within.
At that moment, the fireplace in the room suddenly flared. The fire spilled out of the chimney and rose toward the ceiling, roaring as if an invisible dragon had awakened. The midwife stumbled back in fear, dropping the wet cloth in her hand.
"Gods..." whispered the old woman, her voice trembling. "Those eyes..."
Elara extended her arms, shaking with exhaustion. When she took the baby into her arms, she brushed her platinum blonde hair, plastered to her forehead with sweat, back. The crimson light of the fireplace danced on her porcelain-white, flawless skin. The smile spreading across her face erased the deep fatigue in her ice-blue eyes for a moment.
"Give him to me," Elara said, ignoring the midwife's horror.
She pressed the baby to her chest. "Your name... will be Aetherion," she said. Her voice was filled with both fear and indescribable love. "Aetherion... my little miracle."
The baby focused on his mother's face. His tiny hands wandered in the air as if searching for something, then touched his mother's wet cheek. His fingertips were hot—much hotter than a normal baby's.
The midwife flinched and turned to the shadow at the door. "Commander... please look. But... but I must warn you..."
Zero entered, his heavy boots making dull thuds on the stone floor.
His massive 1.92-meter frame cut the light entering from the door like a wall. The matte black armor he wore seemed to swallow the light in the room. When he took off his helm and tucked it under his arm, raven-black, long hair spilled onto his shoulders. His face was like a dark rock carved by northern winds; sharp, angular, and expressionless. An old scar running from his chin to his neck was lost amidst his stubble.
The moment he entered the room, the temperature seemed to rise by several degrees. His presence was more dominant than the fire in the hearth.
When he leaned over the baby from where he stood, he saw the orange hair and the crimson eyes staring back at him.
Zero's breath caught in his throat. Unlike his own burnt, dark skin, the baby was white like his mother. But those hair... and those eyes...
"His eyes..." said the midwife, trembling. "And his hair... Sir, this is not normal. We must inform the priests—"
Zero slowly turned his head. He looked at the midwife. His eyes were a dull blue, but the killing heat behind that blueness glued the woman's tongue to the roof of her mouth.
"The fireplace," Zero said. His voice sounded like the metallic friction of a sword being drawn from its scabbard.
"S-sir?"
"The flame of the fireplace," Zero said, without taking his eyes off the baby. "It reflects in the child's eyes. It reflects on his hair. That's why he shines like that."
The midwife swallowed. "But Commander... even when I held him in my arms—"
Zero took a step. A massive shadow fell over the woman.
"I said," Zero spoke, hitting every word like a sledgehammer. "I saw the reflection of the fire. What did you see?"
The room fell into a deathly silence. Only the crackling of the fire could be heard. The midwife read the threat in the eyes of this massive, dark man. This was not a question; it was a final warning before an execution.
"A reflection..." whispered the midwife, bowing her head. "Just the reflection of the fire, sir. The child... the child's eyes are dark. His hair too... ordinary."
Zero withdrew his gaze from the woman and turned back to Elara. His sharp facial features became completely vulnerable for a moment, just a moment, as he looked at his wife. The suffocating heat he radiated into the room gave way to a peaceful warmth.
He leaned down and gently kissed his wife's sweaty forehead. His black hair mixed with Elara's platinum blonde. They were like night and day.
"Thank you, Elara," he said. His voice held the trembling tone of a man in love. "You were my sanctuary... Now you have turned this sanctuary into a home."
Elara smiled, her eyes closing. Zero brought her hand to his lips, holding that delicate hand as if afraid to crush it with his calloused fingers.
Then his gaze shifted back to the baby in her arms.
Aetherion... His son.
An indescribable, warm wave of joy rose within him; that primal pride called fatherhood swelled his chest. But immediately after, when he looked at the baby's flaming hair and magma-glowing eyes, an icy, heavy shadow fell over this joy.
He felt that massive, crushing weight settle onto his shoulders.
Zero touched the baby's tiny, orange-haired head. The smile on his face didn't fade, but the dull blue veil in his eyes deepened. He looked silently at this game fate played on him, at this gift that was both cursed and holy.
And that night, while the ruthless wind of the North howled outside, Zero stayed awake until morning—not with the peace of a victory, but with the vigilance of a sleepless watch.