The first thing Alex had known was warmth. His mother's warmth, the gentle yet firm embrace that shielded him from the countless gazes beyond.
He had been aware when they entered the ceremonial hall, carried in Aliena's arms. The air had been heavy, filled with expectation, curiosity, and judgment. Even before the ceremony began, he had felt their eyes on him. The tension in the room was something he didn't understand fully, but he recognized it—a silent battle being fought in glances, in measured words, in the way certain figures stood too still.
His mother's friends had been there. He had felt their presence even if he could not yet see them clearly. Their voices carried through the room, each different—some concerned, some filled with hidden strength. He had sensed his mother's comfort in them, in their presence, in the unspoken bond they shared. But even they had been bound by the weight of the moment, unable to do more than watch.
Then came the old emperor.
A figure of power, of control. His voice, steady and commanding, had declared the ceremony's beginning, setting into motion something far beyond Alex's comprehension.
Then Elias had spoken.
The poem had been grand, dramatic, perhaps even beautiful—but oh, how quickly the air had shifted. The words had weight, and the weight had consequences.
Garfunkel had not been amused. The old emperor's reprimand had been sharp, but instead of silencing the gathering, it had steered the conversation into something far heavier. Words turned to judgments, history mingled with unspoken power struggles, and Alex could feel, even through the haze of infancy, that this moment was bigger than the people within it.
His grandfather, Woden, had stood like a storm about to break, restrained but coiled, ready. His grandmother, Cecilia, had been composed, but there had been something in her eyes—something unsteady. And Samuel... Samuel had been the only one who seemed to hold the room together. The way he had spoken, redirected, controlled—it was as if the entire empire was being balanced on the sharp edge of his words.
And then, the water.
Everything had been too much, too fast.
Alex had been aware—more than an infant should be. He had felt the weight of the stares, the whispers, the murmurs layered with hidden intent. He had sensed the expectations, the uncertainties, the quiet fear masked beneath regal expressions. But none of it compared to what happened when he was placed in the water.
The moment his small body touched the shimmering surface, the world around him ceased to exist.
For a moment, there was nothing but warmth—something familiar, something almost comforting. Then, the energy wrapped around him, surging like a living thing. It did not just surround him; it pulled at him, tested him, measured what he was, what he could be. Millions of threads twisted around him, shifting and writhing, whispering in voices that did not belong to this world.
A trance-like state overtook him, but it was not a mere loss of awareness. It was forced, imposed, woven into his very being like a well-practiced technique. This was no accident—it had purpose, intent, a structure that felt eerily precise. It was as if something—or someone—had designed this moment, guiding him through its unseen hands.
There was no time, no identity, only sensation.
He saw flashes—brief, fragmented, controlled. Not chaotic glimpses, but something selectively presented to him, as though he were being led toward an understanding rather than discovering it on his own—of people he did not know, of lands unfamiliar, of something ancient looking back at him through unseen eyes. He could feel something vast and endless pressing in, not hostile, not kind, simply observing. His body remained still in the water, but in that space—that place that was nowhere and everywhere—he felt as though he had taken a step forward into something unknown.
Then came the whispers.
Not the murmurs of nobles, not the thoughts of those around him. Something else.
It spoke of his talent, his fate, his limits—or lack thereof.
And then, it declared his end.
A life to be severed by the hands of one blessed by the world.
The trance shattered.
His infant body remained weightless in the bath, his limbs too weak to fight, to move, but his mind—his awareness—screamed.
He had barely begun, and yet they had already marked his end?
A bubbling, raw fury laced through him, foreign yet his own. It was not the tantrum of a child, not the simple frustration of an infant—it was something deeper, something older, something wrong in the way it settled into his fragile form.
And then, through the haze of his newborn mind, through the lingering remnants of the trance, he felt her.
His mother.
She was there, just beyond the veil of his vision, beyond the water and the light. He could not see her, could not move toward her, but he felt it.
Her pain. Her doubt. Her trembling hands as she pulled him free.
The anger inside him flared, then twisted into something worse—helplessness.
His first moments of true consciousness, and all he could do was feel. Feel her grief. Feel her sorrow. Feel the weight of something crushing her from within, something far heavier than the burdens placed upon her by title or duty.
She cleaned him gently, but he could tell—her hands were shaking.
She held him close, but he could feel it—the desperate, wordless plea in her touch.
And then, she turned from the world.
As the doors shut, as the voices outside grew distant, as he lay against her chest, listening to the uneven rhythm of her heart, he made a silent vow within the depths of his infant mind.
He would understand.
He would grow.
And he would never let her feel like this again.
One day, he would grasp the full extent of what had transpired, the power plays and veiled intentions surrounding his birth. And when that day came, he would not merely survive—he would shape, control, and manipulate this world to ensure no one, not even fate itself, could decide his end.