[Rynthall Estate—Post-Birth Chaos | Early Evening]
For the first ti in centuries, the Rynthall estate wasn’t echoing with orders, steel, sword drills, or drama.
It rang with laughter.
Baby laughter? No, not yet. But sothing better.
Silence. Peace. The soft, delicate hush of a newborn sleeping beside her parents.
Lucien—though still pale, disheveled, and swearing under his breath—was dozing lightly, one hand resting protectively near his daughter. Silas sat beside the bed, utterly bewitched, his thumb gently brushing her tiny fist every few seconds like he still couldn’t believe she was real.
In the hallway, Faylen had to physically restrain Marcel from sprinting into the room with "a celebratory flower crown" and a baby-sized silk cape.
Alphonso was standing in a corner with red eyes, quietly humming a lullaby no one knew he knew.
And then—
BANG!
The front doors exploded open like the estate was being raided.
The front doors exploded open like soone had fired a cannon made of dramatic nobles.
"WHERE IS MY NIECE?!" A voice bellowed like thunder wrapped in pearls and nobility.
"WHERE IS SHE?! WE SLLED NEWBORN AND BLOOD FROM TEN MILES AWAY!" another shouted like the herald of a royal apocalypse.
Countess Isadore stord in first, trailing gold-threaded silks, wild emotion, and earrings so large they could deflect arrows. Behind her, Count Alaric was already in ergency noble mode—cravat undone, boots muddied, and sleeves rolled up like he was ready to arm-wrestle the concept of childbirth itself.
Seraphina, the human embodint of "pastel chaos," barged in behind them like a cot that slled like roses and judgnt.
Alphonso, ever the loyal gatekeeper, stepped forward like a brick wall in a waistcoat.
"Please," he said calmly, "lower your voices. The Little Miss is sleeping."
All three froze in place.
Seraphina blinked.
Countess Isadore whispered, "Li—little... Miss?"
The Count stared, then gasped, hand fluttering to his chest.
"We..." Countess Isadore sniffled. "We have a princess to adore."
She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with House Rynthall’s crest—and probably the tears of past ancestors.
The door to the chamber slamd open for the second ti that day—Fredrick didn’t even flinch this ti.
He rely sighed from the corner. "We should just remove the door at this point. Replace it with a curtain. Or a dramatic beaded one."
Countess Isadore swept toward the bed like a queen returning to her rightful throne, her face a ss of joy and eyeliner.
She knelt down, hands trembling. "Ohhh, my sweet Lucien," she crooned, cupping his cheek like he was still five. "You did it. You survived! I told you you wouldn’t die. But did you believe ? Noooo... You’re just like your uncle. Full of lodrama and fainting."
Lucien cracked one eye open, dry as desert sand. "Aunt... I was very close to death. I saw stars. And an old goat who told to walk into the light."
Count Alaric leaned in, voice thick with pride. "And yet you returned. Like the dramatic phoenix you are."
Seraphina stalked up beside Silas, jabbing a manicured finger into his chest like she was issuing a royal decree.
"You," she hissed, "you absolute cursed bouquet of muscle and charm—if you don’t take every night shift, I swear I’ll enroll you in sleep-deprivation boot camp for new fathers."
Silas, wide-eyed and obedient, nodded instantly. "Every single night. Forever. Till I die. And then so."
"Good." She patted his cheek like she was proud of her pet warrior.
And then Seraphina saw her.
The baby.
Wrapped in soft cloth, nestled beside Lucien, cheeks flushed pink, a full head of black hair peeking from the blanket.
She froze.
Her mouth dropped open.
Her hands went to her chest.
"Is that... is she...?" Seraphina choked.
Marcel—who had already cried three tis, journaled her birth like a historian, and was now handing out celebratory handkerchiefs—gestured proudly toward the bed.
"Everyone... et the newest mber of House Rynthall."
The baby lay quietly, eyes half-open, her little hands curled into fists of soft fury.
Black hair. Crimson eyes. A scowl like she was already disappointed in the entire court.
Seraphina clutched her pearls (and chest). "She’s so tiny. So perfect. And that tiny judgey frown—SHE’S CLEARLY ONE OF US!"
Countess Isadore leaned in closer, face softening.
"She reminds ... of our little Lucien when he was born," she whispered.
Count Alaric nodded solemnly beside her, his voice a touch nostalgic. "Yes. Wiggly. Judgntal. Wrinkled like a royal raisin. And still cute."
Lucien blinked at them both, disoriented and emotionally scrambled.
"...Wait."
He looked at his aunt.
To the countess.
To the count.
Back to his baby.
Then to Silas. Then back again.
And in his frazzled, pain-numbed, newly parented, completely exhausted mind, one strange truth floated to the surface like a soap bubble of panic.
It’s been years since I transmigrated into this world... but... I never actually figured out who Lucien’s parents were.
Why didn’t I?
Lucien blinked slowly, his gaze drifting toward the golden chandelier above as though the answer was carved in crystal.
Was I too distracted by near-death experiences? Royal drama? The cursed politics?
Or was it because I got accidentally pregnant, and everything since then has been one big emotional rollercoaster strapped to a hormonal unicorn?!
He let out a soft sigh. His limbs were too tired to move, his thoughts tangled like a pile of embroidery threads, and his baby had just punched him.
Fair.
Silas, who’d been watching him like a hawk disguised as a very loving husband, leaned closer and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. His thumb stroked a small, calming circle.
"Did sothing happen, my love?" Silas asked, voice low and gentle.
Lucien blinked at him.
He wanted to say, "I just realized I’m living soone else’s life and I don’t know if I’m winning or losing," but instead—
He leaned into Silas’s chest like a wilted flower being pressed into a love letter.
"...No," he murmured. "Just... exhausted."
Silas held him closer, heart racing.
And then—
A tiny noise.
Soft. Barely audible.
"—Oh," Fredrick said suddenly, "she stirred."
Everyone turned.
Eyes wide. Breaths held.
Ti stopped. The room—all noise and chaos a minute ago—fell into total, sacred silence.
The baby wiggled.
And then... she yawned.
One big, scrunchy, full-body newborn yawn.
The whole room froze.
Even the chandelier above them seed to stop swinging.
The baby blinked, her little crimson eyes scanning the crowd of people hovering around her like emotionally unstable gargoyles.
And then—
She frowned.
A dramatic little frown.
A what-is-wrong-with-you-people frown.
It was judgntal.
It was ancient.
It was iconic.
Sowhere in a distant dinsion, a goddess of sarcasm blessed her soul.
Marcel, already on emotional thin ice, gasped so sharply it sounded like a dying dove—and imdiately collapsed onto Alphonso’s shoulder like a Regency-era maiden seeing a scandalous ankle.
Count Alaric stumbled back, grabbing the curtain like it was a lifeline. "She... she yawned," he whispered. "I saw it. My knees. I can’t feel my knees."
Seraphina clutched her chest, mouth open, barely breathing. "Soone—SOONE GET A PAINTER! Or a bard! Or a tapestry artist! This mont must be immortalized in thread and rhy!"
Countess Isadore was already sobbing quietly into her lace handkerchief. "She’s a masterpiece... like a baby Mona Lisa with a war plan..."
Even Faylen whispered under his breath, "The frown of a thousand empires."
Fredrick, completely unshaken, just sipped tea. "I assu we’ll be calling her ’Fairy’ starting next week?"
The baby, still frowning like she’d just been interrupted from reading a thesis on interdinsional taxes, blinked again and rolled over slightly—deliberately turning her back on the crowd (But she couldn’t)
A clear ssage: You’re dismissed.
Silas whispered reverently, "She’s exactly like her mother...like you, my love."
Lucien, still pressed against Silas’s shoulder and barely hanging on to his mortal form, muttered, "She’s already judging us."
The room swelled with laughter, giggles, muffled sobs, emotional declarations, and the kind of joy that wrapped around the walls like a warm sunrise.
Happiness had arrived.
Not the polite kind. Not the noble kind that wore gloves and bowed. No, this was the unfiltered, chaotic, utterly ridiculous happiness of family.
Of survival.
Of miracles wrapped in swaddling cloth and high expectations.
For a mont... it felt like nothing in the world could go wrong.
But.
Outside the glowing windows of Rynthall estate... In the shadows of a crooked cathedral, where incense curled like snakes and bells echoed like distant threats—
High Priest Caldric stood cloaked in white and gold, his smile thin, his eyes bright with hunger.
A holy bastard in every sense of the word. His fingers clutched a glass orb that shimred with strange light—inside it, a faint image: a black-haired baby, curled beside her parents.
He spoke, voice sweet as poison.
"The child has been born." Behind him, figures in robes stirred like snakes waking up. He looked at the orb again, eyes narrowing.
"A girl, born of power and prophecy... We cannot let them keep her."
He raised the orb higher, and it pulsed with crimson light.
"It’s ti to separate the fla from the hearth..."
He smiled.
"...before it burns the world."
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