She could feel her mood lift again.
This boy… this little miracle… was here.
And he needed a name.
A name worthy of the legacy he was about to carry.
She thought for a moment, the wheels in her mind turning.
Dozens of names flashed through her head. Strong ones. Traditional ones. Powerful ones. But none felt right. Not until one name surfaced in her heart—sudden, simple, inevitable.
A name that didn't just sound noble…
It felt right.
"His name," she said aloud, her voice steady and proud, "will be… Anthony."
She looked down at him and smiled.
"Anthony Ashborn."
The maids echoed the name with murmurs of approval.
Lady Bella smiled wide.
The boy—Anthony—let out a soft gurgle, then another squealing laugh, as if approving the name himself.
Cathy laughed through her tears.
"Troublemaker already, huh?"
She gently nuzzled her son.
The wind outside howled again, but now it felt distant—almost reverent.
And in that room, beneath thunderclouds and flickering lanternlight, the child destined to shake the stars had finally received his name.
Anthony Ashborn.
Moments passed.
The once-tense chamber had transformed into a gentle celebration, filled with soft laughter and the coos of maids who now surrounded the bed where Cathy lay with her newborn in her arms.
Even though the Ashborn family was in decline—everyone knew it—they didn't speak of it today. Not because they were blind to reality, but because today, it didn't matter. The failing empire they served, the crumbling structure of power that dragged them down year after year—none of it reached the warmth in this room.
Because today wasn't about legacy or loss.
Today was about life.
And that life had a name: Anthony Ashborn.
The baby was energetic—more than anyone had expected. Most newborns cried, flailed a little, and promptly fell asleep. But Anthony? He giggled. He wiggled. He looked around with wide, alert eyes. His little hands grabbed at anything that came close—fingers, hair, fabric, even the head maid's nose, which earned another round of light-hearted laughter.
The maids, despite their long shifts, couldn't help themselves. One by one they came closer to join in. A gentle touch here, a whispered greeting there. A room that had once felt clinical was now full of warmth.
He wasn't just the heir of a noble family.
In this moment, he was a miracle.
A new beginning.
A few moments later, the door to the chamber opened quietly.
Freya entered.
A tall woman with deep emerald eyes and sleek silver-blonde hair tied into a precise bun, Freya was no ordinary maid. She was Cathy's personal retainer—caretaker, confidant, and protector.
In her hands, she carried a transparent crystal bottle. The liquid inside shimmered gold, laced with swirling motes of silver—a postpartum recovery solution, brewed with nano-medicine and mild sedatives.
She took one look at the cluster of maids and the small mountain of silken pillows and cloth toys that had begun piling up around Cathy and the baby and sighed audibly, shaking her head with a smirk.
"Alright, alright. That's enough fun for now," Freya said with a gentle but firm tone. "Let's give our young master and Lady Cathy some space."
There were a few quiet chuckles, and then slowly, the maids began to step back. No one resisted. They all knew she was right.
"Cathy just gave birth. That's no small thing. She needs rest, and so does he."
She stepped up to the bed and offered the bottle.
"Here," she said softly, "drink this and get some sleep."
Cathy, half-lidded and visibly drained, took the bottle without a word and began sipping it slowly. The warmth of the solution spread through her almost instantly, relaxing her aching muscles and dulling the last remnants of labor pain.
Freya, smiling faintly, added, "And by the way… Anthony, huh? I'm honestly surprised you picked such a strong name. You're not exactly known for your naming sense."
There was a light tease in her voice, but no malice.
Cathy tried to shoot a glare at her, but her mouth just twitched, too tired to muster up a comeback. She sighed instead and mumbled with a half-smile, "Thank you, Freya."
"I mean it," Freya said, softer now. "It's a good name."
As Cathy finished the last of the bottle, her eyelids fluttered. Her arms trembled faintly as fatigue finally demanded payment in full.
She turned toward her mother.
"Mother… can you…?"
"Of course, my child," Bella said, stepping forward gently.
With careful arms, Bella took baby Anthony from her daughter and cradled him. Cathy leaned back against the pillows, barely whispering, "Take care of him…"
"Always."
And just like that, Cathy fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Bella stood by the bedside, rocking her grandson gently. His energy had finally begun to fade as well. His wide eyes blinked slowly, heavier each time. The warmth of his grandmother's arms, the softness of the golden light around him—it was finally enough.
Anthony yawned, a tiny sound barely louder than a sigh.
"That's it, little one," Bella whispered, brushing his forehead. "Even your fire needs to rest."
She walked slowly across the room and placed him gently in the cradle that stood near the large window.
It was no ordinary crib.
Handcrafted from rare moonlight timber, it was inlaid with protective carvings and faintly glowing runes, each etched personally by Anthony's father years before. Silver ornaments hung from the overhead frame, catching the faint lanternlight and scattering it into tiny stardust reflections.
"Your father made this for you," Bella murmured, tucking Anthony in with a soft wool blanket. "He's not here now… but he will be."
Anthony, barely able to keep his eyes open, gave one last faint smile—and finally closed them.
He drifted off into his first true sleep.
And with that, the room fell into a sacred silence.
The head maid gave a quiet nod, and one by one, the attendants began to slip out. No words were spoken. No orders were given. They simply understood.
Mother and child needed rest.
They closed the door behind them, leaving only the soft breathing of Cathy on her bed… and the rhythmic, peaceful sighs of a sleeping Anthony Ashborn.
And as the lanterns dimmed, and the thunder outside faded, every servant in the estate whispered the same quiet prayer in their hearts:
May Lady Cathy recover quickly…
And may Young Master Anthony always burn with the same energy he carries today.
Outside, the rain finally began to fall.
Not in torrents.
But in soft, steady drops—cleansing the air, cooling the soil, and washing the ancient walls of Ashborn Keep in silver light.
A new heir had been born.
And in the endless sky above…
The stars watched in silence.