CHAPTER 4 — FIRST BREATH, FIRST NAME
Pain arrived before thought.
Not sharp pain—no single point to focus on—but an all-encompassing pressure that crushed, stretched, and burned at once. Lucician's awareness slammed into existence like a consciousness forced through a keyhole far too small for it.
His first instinct was to scream.
His second was confusion.
His third was terror.
'I can't move.'
The realization landed with more weight than the pain. His thoughts were clear—too clear—but his body refused to obey. Limbs existed only as distant suggestions. His chest moved on its own, dragging air into lungs that felt too small, too raw.
Sound assaulted him.
Harsh voices.
A guttural language layered with growls and clipped syllables.
The crackle of fire.
The copper-sweet stink of blood.
'Okay. Okay. Don't panic,' he told himself, clinging to calm like a lifeline. 'Panicking never helps.'
Light pierced his vision—too bright, unfocused. Shapes blurred in and out. Massive silhouettes loomed above him, their outlines wrong in ways that triggered something deep and instinctive.
Not human.
Demons.
'Good. Of course it's demons.'
A memory surfaced—not from this life, but the agreement. The choice. The parameters.
Half-demon.
Incubus lineage.
Unaligned territory.
'You absolute idiot,' Lucician thought dryly. 'You really went all in.'
His mouth opened.
A cry tore out of him—raw, shrill, involuntary.
The sound startled even him.
The world reacted instantly.
A sharp hiss.
Movement.
Something large shifting closer.
Then—
Warmth.
Gentle, careful hands wrapped around his tiny, useless body. The grip was firm but not cruel, practiced in a way that spoke of familiarity rather than ownership.
A voice followed. Soft. Female. Low, with a rasp that suggested horns and fangs, but the tone—
The tone was unmistakable.
Concern.
"There, there… I've got you," the voice murmured, words heavy with an accent he couldn't yet parse. "Easy, little one. You're safe."
Lucician froze.
'…That's unexpected.'
The hands adjusted him against a solid chest. The heat was comforting, almost painfully so. His cries faded into weak whimpers without conscious intent.
'Okay. File that under: reassess assumptions.'
He focused, forcing himself to observe instead of react.
Her heartbeat was steady.
Her breathing controlled.
No tremor of disgust. No hesitation.
This wasn't a handler.
This was a mother.
He felt her tail curl slightly around his body, instinctive and protective. A faint pulse—something subtle and unfamiliar—passed between them.
Incubus blood.
But muted. Restrained. Disciplined.
'She's… strong,' Lucician realized. Not physically—though probably that too—but internally. Whatever this world was, whatever it demanded, she had survived long enough to give birth and still care.
That alone made her dangerous.
The room came into clearer focus.
Stone walls. Rough-hewn. Darkened by soot and age. Primitive but lived-in. Not a dungeon—more like a border dwelling. A place built to endure, not impress.
Other figures lingered nearby.
Demons, mostly. Some watching with disinterest. Others with open calculation. He felt gazes linger a moment too long.
Assets.
Value.
Risk.
'Yep. There it is.'
A shadow leaned closer, sniffing the air. "Incubus-blood," a male voice rasped. "Thin, but present."
The arms around Lucician tightened imperceptibly.
"He's mine," the woman said, calm but iron-hard. "You can stare somewhere else."
A pause.
Then a scoff. Footsteps retreated.
Lucician released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
'Not bad,' he thought. 'First negotiation won. Zero skills used.'
Fatigue pressed in—not mental, but physical. This body was a disaster. Fragile. Weak. Draining him simply by existing.
He tried—carefully—to reach inward.
The Skill Weaver System.
Nothing responded.
No interface.
No prompt.
No comforting brackets.
Just silence.
'Figures.'
But it wasn't blocked. He could feel it—like a sealed organ, present but inaccessible.
'Stabilization phase,' he guessed. 'Newborn brain. Soul-body mismatch.'
Annoying. Logical.
Survivable.
The woman adjusted him again, pulling a rough cloth around his small frame. Her movements were practiced, efficient. She'd done this before.
That thought carried weight.
She sat, rocking gently despite the hard stone beneath her.
"I know," she murmured quietly, eyes lowering to his face. "I know this world isn't kind. But I'll keep you breathing. I promise."
Lucician blinked.
Her face came into focus at last.
Gray skin, faintly scaled along the temples. Curved horns swept back from her forehead, polished smooth by time. Her eyes—deep violet—were sharp, but softened when they met his.
There were scars on her arms. Old ones. Healed badly.
'She's fought,' he noted. 'And lived.'
Her lips curved faintly. "You're quiet now," she said. "That's good. Quiet ones last longer."
He resisted the urge to laugh.
'That makes two of us.'
A faint pressure brushed against his awareness again—not intrusive, not controlling. Just… attentive. A presence acknowledging his existence.
Incubus bloodline, filtered through maternal instinct.
'Interesting,' Lucician mused. 'That might matter later.'
She leaned down, forehead touching his gently.
"I'll name you," she said softly, as if the act itself carried power. "A name to hide you. A name to carry you forward."
Her voice steadied.
"Zephyr," she whispered. "Because even a weak wind can slip through blades."
Lucician stilled.
'…Clever.'
"And Nightshade," she continued, eyes lifting briefly toward the dark ceiling. "Because beauty doesn't mean harmless. And poisons don't need strength."
She looked back at him.
"Zephyr Nightshade," she said firmly. "My son."
Something settled.
Not magically.
Not systemically.
Psychologically.
A name anchored him. Not Lucician the anomaly. Not the error. Not the variable.
Zephyr Nightshade.
A role. A mask.
'A good one,' Lucician admitted. 'I can work with this.'
Her thumb brushed his cheek, rough but careful.
"You don't have to be strong yet," she murmured. "Just breathe. I'll handle the rest."
Outside the room, something howled.
Close.
Predatory.
Her body tensed instantly.
Lucician felt it—the shift from warmth to readiness, from mother to survivor. Her grip adjusted, positioning him away from the open side of the room.
'Ah,' he thought calmly. 'There it is.'
A shadow passed the doorway.
Someone paused.
Lucician did the only thing he could.
He cried.
Not loudly. Not desperately.
Just enough.
The sound was weak. Pathetic.
Perfect.
The shadow lingered—then moved on.
The woman exhaled slowly.
She pressed her forehead to his again. "Good," she whispered. "Good instincts."
Lucician would have smiled.
But newborn bodies weren't built for that yet.
'Welcome to Axiom Nullara,' he thought instead.
'Let's survive long enough to break it.'