Ashar, now just a few months old, grew quickly—not in size, but in silence.

He rarely cried. He never babbled like the other royal infants. When he laughed, it was soft and short-lived. His eyes, vivid sky-blue, watched everything—every servant’s routine, every guard’s shift, every breath his mother took when she was anxious.

And though he spoke no words, his thoughts were always racing.

“They love me. Genuinely.”

That simple truth unsettled him more than any battlefield ever had.

---

Father’s Hands

King Alric was a man of war, not words. His calloused hands had held swords longer than his son had lived lifetimes. But when he held Ashar, those same hands became careful, unsure, almost too gentle.

One morning, Alric took Ashar in his arms while watching the sunrise from the battlements.

“You don’t cry much,” the king muttered.

Ashar looked up at him, silent.

“That’s... good. Or bad. I don’t know.”

He chuckled awkwardly. “I’ve led armies. Killed monsters the size of towers. But your silence? That’s harder to read than any general’s bluff.”

Ashar rested his small hand on Alric's chest. The heartbeat there was slow and steady.

“This man bleeds. Fears. Loves. But he still stands tall. He’s not just strong—he’s stable.”

Alric stared into the distance.

“I want you to be stronger than me, little one. But not harder.”

---

Mother’s Eyes

Queen Lira was different.

She didn’t hold him with awe—she held him like she was deciphering him.

In her private chamber, she would rock him to sleep while whispering forgotten elvish lullabies, her fingers brushing through his hair as if casting a spell of comfort.

“You see too much for a baby,” she whispered one night. “You don’t just look—you analyze.”

Ashar blinked.

She smiled faintly. “You remind me of myself. But colder.”

And yet, her magic—subtle, soothing—always calmed the storm inside him. She never pressured him to speak or play. She simply... understood.

That frightened him more than any battlefield ever could.

---

The Night of the Wind

One stormy night, thunder rolled across the hills. The wind howled like wolves. Ashar lay awake in his mana-thread crib, eyes tracing the dancing shadows on the ceiling.

His door creaked.

It was Lira, wrapped in a soft cloak, her hair loose, her expression gentle.

“You’re awake,” she said. Not surprised.

Ashar didn’t move.

She stepped inside, holding a thick, ancient book. “Want a story?” she teased, knowing he couldn’t answer.

Still, she sat beside the crib and opened the book—not to read, but to share.

“It’s about the sky dragons,” she began, voice low. “Proud creatures. Untouchable. But they all have one weakness... they underestimate the small.”

Ashar blinked.

Lira’s voice grew softer. “Even the sky can be rewritten, my son. But only by someone who understands the ground.”

She leaned in, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “Even kings need warmth.”

---

A Quiet Moment

Weeks later, the family gathered under the great starlit dome of the royal garden. Fireflies, drawn by the mana-rich flowers, floated like tiny stars.

Ashar sat bundled in his mother’s arms, while Alric stood beside them with arms crossed—watching not the horizon, but his family.

No grand prophecies. No pressure in the air. Just... peace.

“I don’t think he’s normal,” Alric said, not unkindly.

“He isn’t,” Lira replied.

“That a problem?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s a miracle.”

They sat together for a while.

And for the first time since his rebirth...

Ashar leaned his head into his mother’s chest.

Not because he was tired.

Not because he calculated it.

But because—for just that one moment—

he wanted to.

---

End of Chapter 2