Only three hours had passed since Lyriq Ravelline had entered the world.
Three hours since the once-withered soul of Augustine Mercenes, the forgotten warrior of Bellantos, was torn from the silence of death and placed into the embrace of the Ravelline family.
Now, as he lay bundled in his father's arms—warm, fragile, helpless—he watched a group of small figures crowding around him.
Two boys.Two girls.Wide eyes. Bright smiles. And—
"Ow…"
Tiny fingers pinched his cheeks. Again. And again.
Their voices were soft and playful, full of wonder.
"He's so squishy!""Look at his face!""His eyes are like little stars!""Can I kiss his nose?""Stop it, you'll make him cry!"
But it was already too late.
Within Lyriq's newborn chest, a storm of confusion surged.Why are they touching me? What is this… warmth? This softness?Where are the bruises? Where's the cold steel? The shouts, the orders, the betrayal?
Back then, in the fields soaked with blood, he had flinched at every hand that neared his face—for they brought knives, not affection. His skin remembered pain, not play. Love was a foreign language. Gentle touch, an unknown script.
And now, in this bizarre and tender world...
He was being cuddled. Pinched. Worshiped like a toy.
He couldn't contain it.
He furrowed his tiny brows. His body tensed.He wanted to shout, "Stop it!"
But all that came out was—
"WAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"
A wail. Loud. Thunderous.As if an army of spirits had been awakened in a single breath.
The room fell into chaos.
"Ah! What happened?""Don't pinch him anymore!""Someone get milk—NOW!""Did I scare him!?""Please, Your Majesty, he'll burst a lung!"
Zaren looked helpless. Veronica tried to rock him. The children backed away in fear, their eyes wide.
And then—
Cricus Ravelline entered the room with a serene smile, holding a bundle in violet silk.
His newborn daughter, Isabel Ravelline, cooed softly in his arms.
"Having a hard time, brother?" Cricus said with a chuckle, stepping beside Zaren.
Lyriq turned his tiny head and locked eyes with the other baby in the room.
Isabel.
Her eyes sparkled. Her cheeks were plump. And for no particular reason, she smiled.
Something inside Lyriq twitched. A pang. Sharp, strange, and unfamiliar.
What… is this now? Why am I staring at her? Why is he holding her like that?
The confusion twisted in his little soul.
Was this… jealousy?
He didn't even know why. He just knew he didn't like it. Not one bit.
So he cried louder.
As if offended by the challenge, Isabel's smile faded. Her lips puckered.
And then—
"WAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"
She joined in.
Now both babies were screaming at the top of their lungs, each louder than the other, neither willing to back down.
The entire Ravelline household descended into chaos.
"This isn't crying," muttered Rovan, stunned."This is a duel," Cedric said in awe."They're arguing," whispered one of the sisters."They were born three hours ago!" said the maid. "How are they already quarreling?"
Zaren and Cricus exchanged bewildered looks. Both rocked their babies. Both failed miserably.
Veronica sighed. "Well. At least they have spirit."
The midwife, now sweating buckets, muttered, "The stars above have given us two fires. May the kingdom survive them."
And in the cradle of love, rivalry, and absurdly loud lungs, the tale of Lyriq Ravelline—the soul of a warrior reborn into peace—truly began.