Months passed ...
The morning the heavens softened their light, Angelo has finally put to bed.
The cries of the newborn rang through the vast marble chambers, bright and piercing, like a hymn calling the dawn itself to awaken. Even the skies above the upper realms seemed to pause—clouds thinning, light mellowing—as though the world held its breath to witness the arrival of new life.
Anthian stood near the threshold of the birthing chamber, arms folded behind his back. His posture was as immovable as the mountains he ruled from, yet his face—so often carved in stone and command—had softened. In his gaze flickered something rare: peace.
A son had been born of flame and blood.
And yet… that son was now a brother.
Anthonio could hardly breathe for joy.
For hours he had remained outside the birthing room, pacing the corridor worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Every cry that tore from Angelo's throat tightened his chest; every moment of silence made his heart stutter. He whispered prayers beneathtaken this day.
When the cry finally came—sharp, whole, alive—something deep within him broke open.
Before anyone could stop him, he pushed through the doors.
Warm light flooded the chamber. Incense curled in lazy spirals. Servants froze mid-step as the boy crossed the marble floor, silver eyes wide with wonder. There, within the cradle of gold and silk, lay a tiny, wrinkled being with fists clenched tight against the world.
"My brother," Anthonio whispered.
Azel.
Anthian watched as the boy approached the crib, his steps slow, reverent. Anthonio's fingers trembled as he reached forward, hesitating—afraid to disturb something so fragile, so sacred. But when the infant's tiny hand curled instinctively around his finger, Anthonio's breath caught, and his heart surrendered completely.
From that moment, he never truly left Azel's side.
The nights became theirs.
When the torches dimmed and the halls fell silent, Anthonio would sit beside the cradle, humming lullabies older than the palace itself—songs his own father had once sung beneath starlit skies. Azel slept more soundly then, his breathing steady, his small chest rising and falling in time with the melody.
When the winds screamed through the upper realms, Anthonio draped his cloak over the crib, shielding the child with his own warmth. When servants came to bathe or feed the baby, he followed close behind, silent but watchful, refusing to be sent away.
"He's too little," he would say softly. "He needs me."
And no one ever found the will to argue.
Anthian noticed.
Though Azel was of his blood, his gaze often lingered on the boy who was not. He saw in Anthonio a quiet strength—an unspoken resilience that did not demand attention yet commanded respect. The child carried a heart far older than his years, one forged from loss and endurance, calm and storm entwined.
To Anthian, Anthonio was more than a ward.
He was legacy.
But such affection does not go unseen.
From her bed of silk and linen, Angelo watched.
She was pale still from childbirth, her body aching, her spirit raw. She saw the way Anthian smiled at the boy who was not hers. She saw the pride in his eyes, the approval offered so freely. At first, the feeling that bloomed within her was small—easy to dismiss.
Jealousy.
Yet as days turned to weeks, that seed took root.
Anthonio's laughter echoed too brightly in the halls. His singing soothed the child too easily. His presence, constant and unwavering, felt like a shadow over her own motherhood. Every word of praise Anthian gave him, every lingering glance, carved deeper into her chest.
He loves him more, the thought whispered.
More than us.
More than me.
One twilight evening, when the air smelled of rain and the first stars pierced the sky, Azel began to cry.
The servants had withdrawn. The palace was quiet. Angelo was meant to be resting.
Anthonio sat beside the crib, gently brushing the baby's soft hair with careful fingers. His voice rose in that familiar hum—the ancient melody, woven with love and memory.
Almost instantly, Azel stilled.
The infant's eyes fluttered open, dark and trusting, fixed on his brother's face. Anthonio smiled, warmth flooding his chest, a joy so pure it eclipsed every wound he had ever known.
Then—
The door slammed open.
Angelo stood in the doorway, her night robe trailing across the marble floor. Her eyes burned, wild and sharp, stripped of all softness.
"Why would you touch him?" she hissed.
Anthonio froze. Slowly, he turned.
"But… he is my brother," he said, confusion trembling in his voice.
Her words struck like lightning. "No! How many times must I tell you?" she cried. "You were picked. You belong in the woods!"
The chamber fell deathly still.
Those words—he had heard them before, whispered in anger, spoken carelessly. But now, spoken aloud, before the child he loved… they tore something open inside him.
"Angelo!" Anthian's voice thundered as he appeared behind her, his presence filling the room like a gathering storm. "Enough!"
But it was too late.
Anthonio's eyes dimmed.
He rose slowly, shoulders bowed, not daring to meet Anthian's gaze. His throat burned, yet no words came. He looked once more at the sleeping baby—at Azel's peaceful face—then turned away.
The palace felt colder as he walked.
Lanterns flickered weakly, shadows stretching like claws along the walls. Servants stepped aside, eyes lowered, pity and fear etched upon their faces. His footsteps echoed, hollow and alone.
Past the gardens he walked. Past the old fig tree where laughter once lived. Until at last, he reached the stream.
Moonlight spilled across the water, silver and soft. The stream whispered as it always had, welcoming him, mourning with him.Anthonio did not stop at the stream's edge.
Anger carried him forward, hot and unrelenting, until the palace lights were nothing more than a distant memory behind the trees. He followed the river as it bent through stone and root, his steps uneven, his breath heavy. Moonlight clung to the water, breaking apart with every step he took.
At last, his strength gave way.
He waded into the stream and sank onto a smooth, half-submerged stone. The cold seeped through his garments, biting into his skin, but he did not move. His head bowed, silver hair falling around his face as the questions came—relentless, unforgiving.
Why was I chosen?
Why was I loved… only to be cast aside?
What am I, if I do not belong?
His chest tightened. The grief he had held back tore free at last. His breath broke, and his shoulders shook as he cried openly, the sound swallowed by the flowing water. Tears struck the surface and vanished, leaving no mark behind.
This was the third day since Azel's birth.
The day Angelo changed.
When he finally lifted his head, moonlight revealed the boy he once was—before time and sorrow reshaped him. His features were striking, carved with a quiet grace that felt almost divine. Bronze skin caught the pale glow of the moon, smooth and unscarred. Long black hair spilled down his face in both sides like liquid starlight, and his luminous eyes held a depth far older than his years—ancient, aching, alive.
Even in grief, he was beautiful.
The water stirred.
From the shadowed bends of the stream, the mermaid watched. Half-seen beneath the rippling surface, they lingered, drawn by his presence, by his sorrow, by the power humming beneath his skin. They stole glances at him, whispering softly, then vanished again.
Anthonio felt them.
He knew they were there, yet he did not look up. His heart was too heavy to care.
When he finally rose to leave, water streaming from his clothes, panic rippled through the river.
The Mermaids dove beneath the surface, fleeing in startled splashes—
all but one.
She surfaced too late.
Entangled in weeds and stone, she struggled violently, breath breaking as fear seized her. Then she saw him turning back.
Anthonio stepped into the water without hesitation. He reached down, his grip firm and steady, and pulled her free, lifting her onto the stone.
For a moment, she only stared at him, heart pounding.
He looked down at her once—his expression unreadable, his voice low and weighted with age beyond years.
"The waters are not always kind to those who wander without care," he said softly.
"Choose your paths wisely… for not every current will lift you when you fall."
Terror and awe flooded her at once.
She did not speak.
The instant her feet touched the river again, she fled, vanishing beneath the surface without a backward glance.
Anthonio watched the ripples fade.
A bitter scoff escaped him.
"So even spirits run from me now."
He turned away from the stream and walked into the dark, shoulders squared, grief sealed behind his eyes.
Behind him, the river whispered.
And deep within its depths, the Mermaid would remember the boy who cried like a mortal…
and warned like something far more.