[Vaelminia Kingdom, Argentvale Dukedom, Sothastirith Region, Eclipsia CXV AH.]
A sudden cry tore through the quiet of the nursery.
"Aaaaaaahhh!!"
Alaric's scream was sharp, raw—filled with a fear too deep for someone so small. His tiny body jerked upright beneath the silk blankets, hands clutching at the air as if trying to push something away. The sheets twisted around him, damp with sweat.
Within seconds, soft footsteps padded across the floor, the scent of lavender perfume wafting faintly through the air. Duchess Elysienne, still in her nightgown, rushed to her son's bedside.
"Alaric!" she gasped, kneeling beside him and cradling his trembling form in her arms. "It's alright, my little star. I'm here. I'm here."
The boy's chest heaved with shallow breaths. His skin burned with feverish warmth, and his silver-white hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His small fingers gripped the duchess's nightgown tightly, as if letting go would send him falling into the nightmare again.
"Cold... it was so cold, Mother…" Alaric whimpered, his voice barely audible between hiccuped sobs.
Elysienne rocked him slowly, humming an old lullaby her mother once sang to her beneath the same moons outside the window. Her heart ached as she pressed a kiss to his crown.
"You're safe now. Nothing can reach you here."
But even as she whispered those words, her gaze drifted toward the frost-laced window. What kind of dreams could make a child this young shake like that? What darkness haunted him, night after night?
Her arms tightened around Alaric as if to shield him from the unseen. Whatever it was… it wouldn't take her son. Not while she still drew breath.
Outside, the distant hum of nocturnal insects played a muted chorus, but inside the room, silence hung heavy—interrupted only by the quiet, rhythmic breathing of a child finally lulled back to sleep.
Elysienne brushed a strand of hair away from Alaric's forehead, careful not to disturb him. His face, though peaceful now, was still damp with the traces of his earlier tears. She exhaled softly, then settled beside him under the covers, wrapping her arms protectively around his small frame.
She stared at the ceiling, her eyes wide open in the dark.
This wasn't the first night like this.
Since his birth, Alaric had been a healthy, radiant child—full of laughter, always smiling, his giggles echoing through the halls like windchimes in spring. He was curious, playful, and never once showed signs of weakness or frailty. The physicians had once praised his vitality, calling him unusually bright for his age.
Something changed two and a half years ago—shortly after his first birthday. That was when the nightmares began. Subtle at first: restless sleep, small cries in the night. But over time, they worsened. The cheerful light in his eyes dulled, replaced by a distant, unfocused stare. He began to tremble in his sleep, to wake soaked in sweat, and no lullaby could reach him in the depth of his fear.
Was it an illness? A curse? Or something deeper—magical in nature?
"No… please, not magic," she whispered, her fingers tightening slightly around him. The kingdom had no shortage of whispers about forbidden arts and old gods. And with the troll rampages a year ago… What if Alaric's condition was connected?
It might've been nothing more than a mother's instinct, but the thought lingered in Elysienne's mind.
She kissed his temple again, as if that alone could ward off whatever plagued him.
"Just hold on a little longer, my little star," she murmured. "Your grandfather… Grand Magician Eadric will be here soon. He'll know what to do."
Still wrapped around her son, Elysienne finally closed her eyes. Her body remained tense, her mind racing with possibilities—but she stayed beside him. She would not leave his side. Not tonight. Not ever.
Morning sunlight spilled across the polished tiles of the nursery floor, warm and golden. Birds chirped softly from the garden trees just outside the arched windows, and the faint rustle of curtains in the breeze gave the room a sense of peace that belied the restless night before.
Alaric sat cross-legged on the floor, a small bundle of curls and oversized pajamas. In one hand, he clutched a stub of charcoal; in the other, a square of parchment taken from the art box Duchess Elysienne always left near his bed. His tongue stuck out slightly in concentration as he drew with steady, meticulous lines—not the playful scribbles of a toddler, but something… deliberate.
Circles intersected with triangles. Arrows pointed toward numeric notations that didn't belong to the written language of Contraria. Curves wove into spirals, then into fragments of something eerily familiar—mathematical notation, the kind that hadn't existed in this world. Not here. Not now.
"Fai-ry Tai... ko-no te de... " Alaric hummed under his breath, almost too softly to hear.
Standing near the doorway, one of the maids—Camilla—froze, holding a tray of warm milk. Her fingers twitched.
The tune was unlike any lullaby sung in Vaelminia. Each note curled into the next with a dissonance that prickled the skin. It was rhythmic, yes, even gentle—but strange, alien, with a haunting pull that made it hard to breathe.
"Camilla?" another maid whispered behind her. "What's wrong?"
"Listen," she murmured, eyes fixed on the boy.
They watched as Alaric continued his quiet chant, his tiny voice repeating fragments of lyrics that, to his young lips, meant comfort—the chorus of songs from Earth, sung many times in his old life. But here, to those who didn't know… it sounded like a spell, half-formed and ominous.
"Tsu-ku-n-da… hi-ka-ri wa..."
Camilla took a step back. The tray trembled in her hands. Her eyes darted to the symbol on the parchment—shapes that had no place in this realm.
She didn't speak. She didn't have to. Her face said everything.
Fear. Confusion. And the growing question none dared to voice aloud: What exactly was this child?
Camilla's breath caught as she glanced around the room. The other servants pretended not to notice, busying themselves with their tasks, but their eyes flickered toward Alaric with a mixture unease.
Outside, the carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestone path as it came to a halt before the grand gates of Vaelminia's noble estate.
Duchess Elysienne stepped down gracefully, her face set with quiet determination. Behind her, Grand Magician Eadric emerged, his robes brushing the ground, eyes sharp and steady despite the fatigue lingering beneath their surface.
Inside the nursery, Alaric sat on the floor, absorbed in his drawing. Charcoal pressed between his small fingers traced intricate lines and strange symbols on the parchment.
Despite the arrival of his grandfather, the boy's gaze never wavered from his work.
Eadric knelt beside him, eyes narrowing as he observed the strange marks on the page. "Alaric," he said gently, "what are you drawing, little one?"
Alaric looked up briefly, his innocent eyes meeting Eadric's. "Shapes," he whispered, his voice soft but sure. "Like... the stars. And songs."
Eadric smiled faintly but quickly shifted his attention, placing his hands just above Alaric's small chest. Closing his eyes, he reached deep into the child's underdeveloped mana core. A ripple pulsed beneath his palms—a strange, restless current unlike anything he had encountered before.
His brow furrowed. Within that fragile core, he sensed a hidden marking—a delicate but powerful sigil etched deep in the boy's mana, stirring unrest and feeding the nightmares that plagued him.
Eadric's eyes opened slowly, his gaze lingering thoughtfully on the boy before shifting briefly to Duchess Elysienne, who watched him with a mixture of hope and worry. He said nothing aloud but the crease in his brow deepened—a silent sign that all was not well.
He placed a steady hand on Alaric's shoulder and gave a faint nod, subtle but charged with meaning. The restless stirring deep within Alaric's mana core was undeniable—a strange, foreign presence disrupting the natural flow.
Alaric's eyes flicked up to Eadric, searching. "Is it bad?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Eadric's expression softened, and though he said nothing, the gentle squeeze of his hand spoke enough. Not yet, but something was hidden there, something unknown and unsettled.
Elysienne stepped closer, her voice trembling as she asked, "Is there a way to help him?"
Eadric offered a small, unreadable smile and shook his head just slightly. "We must watch carefully," his eyes seemed to say, "and be patient."
The room fell quiet once more, save for the faint scratching of Alaric's charcoal on the parchment, and the subtle, uneasy pulse of mana beneath his skin—a quiet herald of a destiny yet to be revealed.
Eadric straightened, his expression unreadable as he turned to Elysienne. His voice was calm, but low, edged with unspoken concern. "Come, dear," he said quietly. "Let's go to the duke's chamber. There are matters we must discuss."
Elysienne glanced once more at her son before nodding, her fingers tightening slightly around the folds of her gown. Without another word, they left the room, leaving Alaric alone with his drawings and the shadow of something neither of them yet fully understood.
*
The echo of boots against stone marked their passage down the long corridor. Grand Magician Eadric walked in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, robes trailing like a whisper of smoke. Behind him, Duchess Elysienne followed quietly, her fingers clutching the folds of her dress. Neither spoke. There was too much to say and no comfort in words.
Eadric's thoughts were tangled in a web of unease. He recalled the whispers—rumors borne from the shadows that clung to the corners of the realm. The Nephraliths, those twisted descendants of demons, had spoken of a child. A child marked not by accident, but by the will of their god. A god who despised order, who thrived on ruin.
"They call him the harbinger," Eadric had once heard in a hushed council meeting. "The child born with a shadow in his soul, destined to bring Vaelminia to its knees."
And now, that child had a name. Alaric.
He frowned deeper, the lines of age on his face sharpening with dread. He had felt it—unmistakable, a disturbance curled in the depths of Alaric's mana core like a coiled serpent. But still, no glyphs, no curse marks. Just a silent, pulsing anomaly.
Elysienne's breath hitched behind him. She didn't ask, but she didn't need to. She had seen his face when he examined Alaric. She could feel the tension in the air around him now, as if the mana itself recoiled from the truth neither dared speak aloud.
At last, they reached the ducal chamber.
The doors opened without any fuss. Inside, Duke Aldric stood by the hearth, one hand on the mantle, his jaw clenched. He didn't turn as they entered. At the other end of the room, Serana—his second wife—sat in a cushioned chair, cradling a goblet of wine with a faintly sour expression. Her eyes flicked toward Elysienne, then quickly away.
"Father… You've seen him?" Aldric asked, voice strained.
Eadric gave a single nod. "He is... strong," he said carefully. "But not untouched."
Aldric turned then, brows drawn. "What does that mean?"
Eadric hesitated. "It means we must be careful. Eyes are already watching him. Dark ones."
Behind him, Elysienne lowered her gaze, her heart pounding. Chairs creaked softly as the four of them settled in, the room falling into a tense, waiting silence.
"The mark," Eadric began, voice low and steady, "lies deep within his mana core. It's not visible on the skin, but it disturbs the natural current of mana. Gentle now—but that may change."
He looked at each of them in turn—Aldric, Elysienne, Serana—letting the words settle.
"It doesn't resemble anything I've studied. Not a curse, nor a blessing. Just... unknown."
Elysienne stood at once, worry etched across her face. "Then we must seek help. From the High Temple, the Grand Guild, anyone with the knowledge to identify it."
"That's dangerous," Serana interjected sharply, folding her arms. "You'd parade this before the kingdom's eyes?"
"I don't care about whispers," Elysienne said. "If it helps my son—"
"Our son," Serana corrected coldly.
"Enough," Aldric said, his tone sharp. He had remained seated, but his voice commanded silence. "Father, what else do we know?"
Eadric took a breath. "Only this. The Nephraliths have been whispering of a child marked by their god. A herald. A destroyer of kingdoms."
Serana's lips parted in disbelief. Elysienne went still.
"You don't believe that," Aldric said, frowning.
"I didn't," Eadric admitted. "Until one of them came to me. Disguised. Slipped past the wards. Spoke Alaric's name. Said their god had chosen him."
"Then it's a manipulation," Aldric muttered. "They want to shake the kingdom. Nothing more."
"Perhaps," Eadric replied, "but even a lie believed by zealots can become dangerous. If they think Alaric is destined to destroy Vaelminia, they may try to fulfill that fate."
A heavy silence followed.
"We must protect him," Elysienne whispered. "Quietly. Discreetly."
"No public declarations," Serana agreed, reluctantly. "Let the dukedom think he's simply... sensitive."
Aldric nodded, grave. "Very well. Until we understand more, this mark never leaves this room."
Eadric's gaze hardened, the weight of the rumors pressing down on them all. "Then we wait. And watch. And prepare."
The words hung heavy in the air, but Serana's voice cut through the silence, trembling as she added, "They're calling him the Cursed Child of Argentvale," Serana said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Aldric's hands clenched into fists on the arms of his chair. "What did you say?"
She met his glare without flinching. "It's spreading, Aldric. The palace, the streets—even among the servants. Some say Alaric was born with a mark that glows beneath the moon. Others say you made a pact for power... that this is the price."
Aldric surged to his feet, the chair scraping sharply across the stone floor. "Lies! I would never—"
"I know," Serana said calmly. "But they don't. And lies don't need truth to become dangerous."
Elysienne looked between them, heart sinking. "How far have these whispers reached?"
"Far enough," Serana replied. "Some magicians from the outer provinces are requesting an audience. Not out of concern—out of suspicion. They believe it may be a forbidden art."
"A summoning magic gone wrong?" Elysienne murmured.
"Or a soulbound ritual," Serana said. "The kind only spoken of in old texts. The kind that twists mana beyond nature."
Eadric, who had remained silent, exhaled through his nose. "I've read similar thoughts in old Nephralith scripts. That a child marked in such a way is either chosen... or cursed."
"Exactly," Serana said. "And others believe this is revenge. That one of your enemies, Aldric, cursed Alaric to bring ruin upon your line. They blame the same ones behind the troll rampage a few years ago."
"Fools," Aldric spat. "Every last one of them, jumping at shadows. They forget what I've done for this kingdom."
"They don't care," Serana said, voice softening. "They're afraid. Fear gives shape to rumors, and your son—our son—is at the center of them now."
Silence fell again, thick with tension.
Elysienne stood slowly. "So what now? We stay quiet while they paint him a monster?"
"No," Eadric finally said, his eyes hard. "We protect him, but we do not isolate him. Let the rumors flow, but control the current. We must choose what the people believe—before someone else decides it for us."
Aldric nodded slowly. "Then we'll fight shadow with shadow. And if they call him cursed—"
"They'll find out what happens when they threaten a child of Argentvale," Elysienne finished, voice steely.
Her words lingered in the air, sharp and cold like drawn steel.
No one spoke.
The room fell into a heavy silence once more, thick with unspoken fears and uncertain thoughts. Even the candle flames seemed to flicker more cautiously, casting long, uneasy shadows across their faces.
Serana's voice, once again, cut through the uneasy quiet, soft but deliberate. "The truth is…" She paused, glancing around the room as the others turned to look at her, their eyes sharp with curiosity and concern.
After a moment, she continued, her tone lowering almost to a whisper, "I received reports that some of the servants have been talking too. Although I chose not to believe it."
Aldric frowned, his brow knitting tightly. "And what exactly are they saying now?"
She hesitated, glancing briefly at Elysienne, who looked down at her hands. "That it's been over two years since Alaric was last seen outside his room. That a boy his age should be running through the halls, playing in the gardens, not shut away in a chamber like a… ghost."
Elysienne flinched, but said nothing.
"Only a few maids have even seen him," Serana continued, her voice lower now. "Even they say he hardly speaks. Some claim he draws strange symbols… Others say he talks to things that aren't there."
She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line before she added, "Some even said that he was trying to cast foul spells."
"That's nonsense," Aldric snapped, rising to his feet. "He's a child. A quiet one, yes, but not cursed."
"They don't see it that way," Serana replied softly. "The fear is growing. They say we're hiding something. That the Duke and Duchess have locked away a demon, not a boy."
Elysienne's breath hitched, and Aldric's face tightened in fury.
Eadric, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, slowly stood. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp.
"This must end," he said, adjusting his cloak. "The rumors, the fear—they are born of ignorance. And I've seen enough to know this mark upon Alaric is not ordinary. It stirs something deep, something not of this world."
Aldric looked at him. "What do you intend to do, Father?"
"I will go to them," Eadric said. "To the Nephraliths. If this marking is truly tied to their god, then I must hear it from their own mouths."
"That's madness," Serana said, her voice low but firm. "It's too dangerous—even for you. They're monsters."
"Perhaps," Eadric replied calmly, "but they hold answers that none of us do. And I will not sit here while my grandson's fate is written in the shadows."
He turned without another word, his robe trailing behind him as he left the chamber, leaving the others in heavy silence once again.
*
Oblivious to the hushed tension filling the duke's chamber, Alaric sat quietly on the floor of his room, still drawing strange looping symbols with charcoal. The lines he traced looked more like runes than doodles, but to him, they were just shapes that felt... right.
He didn't know what people were saying about him. He didn't understand the mark, the whispers, or the unease in grown-up voices. What he did understand was loneliness. The kind that echoed in his chest when he looked out the window and saw the other children—servants' boys, young squires, castle-born girls—chasing each other across the courtyard with carefree laughter.
Alaric longed to join them—the other children laughing, running through the palace grounds without a care. But his "sickness" kept him inside. Always inside. A quiet little world of soft walls and hushed footsteps.
Sometimes, when the halls were empty and no one was watching, his mother would take him by the hand and walk with him through the garden. Just the two of them. Brief moments of sunlight before retreating into silence again.
Then, after a few moments, the door opened—quietly, but not without purpose. Serana stepped in. Her smile was gentle, warm as ever… but her eyes were clouded with something unspoken.
"Your mother is resting, little one," she whispered as she knelt and wrapped him in her arms.
She didn't mention the tears on Elysienne's cheeks—only offered the kind of quiet lie adults told to keep children from worrying.
Alaric leaned into her, his small hands clutching her sleeves. Serana caressed Alaric's head, her touch slow and steady, like a lullaby in motion. His eyelids fluttered. For once, he let go of the fear—and slept.
The night fell.
Inside his room, Alaric stirred, caught in the throes of another nightmare.
Dark silhouettes flashed through his dreams—blinding headlights on a rainy street, the screech of tires too late to stop. Pain. Then white walls. A hospital bed. Beeping monitors.
And then—the man again.
That same stranger. His shadow falling over the bed. The cold glint of something in his eyes. Hands around his throat. Pressure. Struggling to breathe. A woman screaming. Too late.
The world dimming.
Falling—again and again—into a void that whispered his name with a voice that wasn't his.
Alaric jolted awake, chest heaving, lungs clawing for air as if they still remembered the hands that once stole his breath.
Morning had broken. Sunlight filtered weakly through the drawn curtains, dust dancing lazily in the golden beams. His small chest rose and fell rapidly, drenched in cold sweat. But he didn't cry.
His tiny hands clenched the blanket. He sat there for a while, shivering, breathing, remembering.
Slowly, Alaric scanned the room—hoping, maybe, to find someone nearby. But the space was still. Empty. Even the bed beside him… was undisturbed. His mother, Elysienne, wasn't there as she always had been.
She never left without reason. And she always returned before he woke—until now. Maybe today, she couldn't bear to watch him twist and cry through dreams no child should carry.
He swung his feet down, touched the cold floor, and padded across the room.
The window was open, sheer curtains billowing gently in the early morning breeze. Cool air slipped into the room, carrying the scent of dew-soaked earth and distant chiming bells from the outer towers.
He stood before it, a slight figure silhouetted by the morning light, gazing out across the distant horizon of Contraria. Three moons drifted quietly in their orbit above the blue-green world. They were beautiful. Peaceful. Deceiving.
His eyes, though young, held something old behind them. Something heavy.
They fixed on Avalon—the distant satellite hanging silently in the sky, cold and unreachable—like a reminder of everything he'd lost and everything he was still forced to carry.
"Fuck you, Master," Alaric muttered.
The words were bitter, too large for his small mouth, yet they came out naturally. The way Satria would've said them. The way he once did.
He crossed his arms, brows furrowed. "You said it'd just pass. That I just had to hold on a little."
A long breath escaped him. "Fuckin lying, ancient crusty witch of a grandma—900 years rotting in that tower."
Beneath the bitter words, a storm of anger and helplessness churned inside him, fueled by years of pain and unanswered questions.
He remembered now.
All of it.
The death. The resurrection. The choice. The Decay. Viviane's instructions. The mark meant to wake the past. The dreams meant to reclaim it.
She had warned him—nightmares would come, memories would bleed through, until he could hold them all. Until he became whole.
It worked.
And he hated it.
He hated the ache in his bones that didn't belong to a child. The weight of expectation in a boy's body. The silence. The secrets. The fear on people's faces.
But he also understood now.
Satria had died. But he hadn't disappeared.
He had been reborn.
Alaric Argentvale opened his eyes, truly open this time.
No longer just a child.
He was Satria.
He was Alaric.
And with this, his second life had just begun.