Alex's world had slowed down. The rush of birth, the overwhelming celebrations, and the weight of a new existence had settled into something quieter—something almost peaceful.
His first true interactions were with the one constant presence in his new life—his mother.
She was always there, her golden eyes watching over him with a strange mix of warmth and restraint. She held him close, whispered to him, but there was something careful about the way she touched him, as if she were afraid she might break him. It was not hesitation—it was a careful, measured love, a love that had learned to restrain itself.
Her voice, soft yet powerful, carried through the dimly lit chamber. "Alex… my son." She spoke his name often, her lips forming the syllables with reverence, as if confirming to herself that it was real. Alex. The same name he had seen in the system.
'Now that's weird,' he thought. 'Did she choose this name, or was it… given?'
His name, in his past life, had been his own—one of the few things he had taken pride in. It had been given to him by his mother, a woman he barely remembered now, but he recalled the moment vividly. She had told him that his name meant "defender" and that he was born to protect.
'Guess she was right about that,' he mused. His past was hazy, blurred at the edges like an old photograph. He remembered the harsh discipline, the grueling training, the silent nods of approval instead of words of praise. He had been something dangerous, something precise. But there were no war zones here. No commands barked in his ear. Just the steady heartbeat of a mother holding her child.
And then, hunger struck.
It came suddenly, a gnawing emptiness that made his tiny body squirm in discomfort. He barely had time to react before he found himself pressed against warmth, his lips meeting the soft skin of his mother's breast.
The experience was… strange.
Not unpleasant, not disturbing—just odd. A biological need overtaking rational thought. The rich, creamy taste overwhelmed his senses, sending waves of warmth through his body. He had never tasted anything like it before, and his mind, despite its adult awareness, simply surrendered to the moment.
'Okay. Not bad. Actually… really good.'
He felt her shift slightly, her grip tightening just a fraction as she sighed, a sound so soft it barely reached his ears. There was something else in that sigh, something beyond relief. Was it… grief? A sadness buried too deep to surface?
His body was small, weak, but his mind was not. He noticed the moments where she would stare at him a second too long, the times she would whisper things he barely understood, as if speaking to herself rather than to him.
His small antics didn't seem to faze her, though. His uncontrolled bodily functions were met with patience. The first time he urinated without warning, her reaction had been… composed. A brief pause, a small, amused shake of the head, and then she simply cleaned him, whispering something about "strong boys being troublemakers."
The royal treatment was undeniable. The bed he rested in was made of the finest silk, his blankets woven from enchanted threads that adjusted to his body temperature. The walls of his chamber were lined with runes, glowing faintly to ward off any dangers, and the scent of rare incense filled the air—calming, soothing, almost unnatural.
But all of this made him wary.
'Luxury isn't just comfort. It's a statement. And statements invite attention.'
Even in his past life, he had understood this well. Power wasn't just about what you could do—it was about who you surrounded yourself with. The closer the snake, the deeper the bite. He had yet to meet the rest of his family, but the absence of one figure loomed over him.
His father.
There was no mention of him. No murmurs, no discussions. The servants, the attendants, even his mother—none spoke of him. It was an unnatural absence, one that sent a chill down his spine.
'Why is that? A royal child with no mention of his father? That's… definitely weird.'
The thought lingered as the doors to his chamber finally opened.
Three figures entered.
His grandparents and his uncle, the Emperor.
Samuel Finch, the ruler of the empire, carried himself with an aura of quiet strength. His regal robes draped over a body that had clearly known battle, though his expression was softer than Alex expected. He did not wear the weight of the crown in his eyes when he looked at his sister—there was only warmth.
Aliena straightened slightly at his presence but did not break her hold on Alex. "Brother," she greeted with a small nod.
Behind him, two more figures stood with vastly different energies.
Cecilia Finch, his grandmother, had a regal grace, but something about the way she dramatically gasped upon seeing Alex made her seem… eccentric. "Oh, my stars! Look at his little nose! Woden, do you see this? He has our family's noble nose!"
Woden Finch, his grandfather, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmph. His hands are small. Can't hold a sword yet."
"Father! He's a baby!" Aliena scolded, exasperation slipping into her tone.
"A baby who must learn to hold his own in this world!" Woden declared, puffing his chest. "Still, he has promise."
Samuel sighed, placing a hand on his father's shoulder before turning back to Aliena and the child in her arms. "How are you?"
Aliena's lips parted as if she had to consider the question. "I… am well."
Samuel looked unconvinced, but he let it be. "Then that is enough for now."
Alex, observing all of this, couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. He had expected tension and cold formalities—but instead, there was warmth. Even in their quirks, there was something… comforting.
Yet still, the absence of one figure lingered in his mind.
And it seemed no one was willing to acknowledge it.