Chapter 1 — New Life - Part 2: A New Family

Settled in his new mother’s arms, the details around him began to make more sense.

The room was small, almost square. The wooden walls had fine cracks, and whatever varnish had once existed there had surrendered a long time ago. The low ceiling put the oil lamp — hanging from a bent nail — almost level with a standing adult’s eyes.

The flame danced nervously inside its little glass container, throwing stretched shadows that swayed with the fire’s rhythm.

The floor was packed dirt, uneven. In some spots it was hardened by use; in others, covered by rough fabric rugs already frayed. A wooden bench shoved into a corner supported a basin of water and a pile of rolled cloths.

No wires.
No modern metal.
Nothing that looked like technology.

“Zero technology. Fire light, dirt floor, straw bed… looks like I left the modern world and fell straight into a hole at the end of the world. At least there’s something interesting here…” Lian assessed, cataloging the scene like someone opening a new game map and already marking the first points of interest.

Besides Lia and Yana, there were more people in the room.

The man who had been watching everything closely finally moved. He stepped forward, leather boots dragging over the dirt floor with a muffled sound. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a wide chest under a thick cloth shirt darkened by sweat at the neck.

His eyes shone wetly, almost embarrassed to exist. His huge hands wrung together, nervous, like they didn’t know where to go.

He leaned over the bed, bracing one hand on the straw mattress for balance.

— You gave us quite a scare, little guy — he said, his deep voice softened by a genuine smile. The corners of his eyes wrinkled when he smiled. — Look at him, Lia…

He stretched out a thick finger, brushing it gently over Lian’s cheek with almost ridiculous care.

— He’s my spitting image. When Caliste comes back from the hunt, he’s gonna go crazy. Another Raymond.

“Someone tell this guy if he doesn’t take his hands off me right now I’m gonna bite that finger off.” Lian thought, uncomfortable and a little embarrassed, while that giant touch on his tiny face underlined just how vulnerable he was.

Instinctively, he tried to turn his head away from the huge finger. His miniature neck only managed a lame sideways twist, but it was enough to pull a low chuckle from the man.

On the other side of the bed, a little girl stepped closer in short, anxious strides. Her bare feet kicked up tiny puffs of dust with each step.

She held the hem of her dress with both hands, like she didn’t want the fabric blocking her view. Her big eyes made her face seem even smaller.

— Mom! Can I hold him? Please? — she begged, leaning toward Lia, almost climbing onto the bed.

Lia laughed — weak, but sweet. She ran a hand through the girl’s hair, stroking it lightly.

— Not now, Lyra — she said, shaking her head slowly. — He’s still too small. More fragile than a newborn flower. When I’m stronger, you’ll be able to hold him. I promise.

Lyra pouted instantly, her shoulders sinking for a second. Then she recovered, rising onto her toes again to stare at her brother up close.

Her eyes glittered with the raw curiosity of a child in front of something new that suddenly belongs to her.

“So that little brat is her daughter, apparently… they’re identical. Damn. If she’s half of what Bia was when she was little…” he concluded, already imagining himself in weird outfits, carried around the house like a living toy.

Farther back, near the door, another girl finished folding the last bloodstained cloth. She carried the bundle to a bucket in the corner, walking carefully so she wouldn’t trip.

Her face was more serious. Her features resembled Lia’s a bit, but with a sharper chin and narrower eyes. Her expression was focused — used to seeing things most kids didn’t.

She tossed the cloths into the bucket with a decisive motion, wiped her hands on her skirt, and shot a quick look at the baby, measuring him from head to toe.

— He’s smaller than Lyra was when she was born — she commented, crossing her arms over her chest, her tone mixing observation and mild criticism. — He’s going to be work.

The father turned toward her with a sideways smile.

— Lilia, you say that about everything — he shot back, half amused, half proud. — But you’re the one who held this house together when your mother was stuck in bed. You’ll handle this one too.

Lilia arched one eyebrow, glancing from her mother to her father and finally to the baby. The corner of her mouth lifted, almost imperceptibly.

— Someone has to — she said with a shrug, before grabbing the bucket and dragging it away with both hands, metal scraping on the floor.

Lia, oblivious to the exchange, adjusted her son more securely in her arms. She leaned back into the worn pillows. Her chest rose and fell in a calmer rhythm now, but the exhaustion was obvious: dark circles, drooping shoulders, muscles forced into rest.

She kept one hand at the baby’s neck, like she was afraid to let go and have him vanish.

And for the first time in his life, Lian felt his body react to that contact in a different way.

It wasn’t only physical. There was something in the way her fingers — warm, trembling with exhaustion but steady — pressed lightly into his delicate skin that slipped past every mental defense he had.

“So… this is that maternal love everyone talks about?” he wondered, curious and wary, like someone touching something too warm and not knowing if it was a trap or shelter.
“It’s weird… but it’s not that bad…” he admitted, feeling some hardened part of him loosen against his will.

His head tilted a little to the side, resting against her chest. The rhythmic thump of Lia’s heart filled his inner silence, becoming an organic, hypnotic soundtrack.

Beside them, the father pulled up a wooden stool and sat, his knees cracking as he bent. He rested his elbows on his thighs, laced his fingers, and watched in silence for a few seconds.

Then he reached out and ran his fingers through Lia’s sweat-stuck hair, brushing it back from her forehead with reverent care.

— You were strong, Lia — he said softly, like he didn’t want to wake the baby. — I… thought I was going to lose you both for a moment.

She closed her eyes for a second, breathing deep as she felt the gesture. When she opened them, she met his gaze and smiled, worn out.

— He survived — she said, looking back down at the small face nestled in her arms. — And he’s here, with us. That… is already more than I expected.

“In my old life I was a nobody… and now, apparently, I’m a miracle.” he thought, with a dry humor only he could hear.

For the first time since realizing he was alive, Lian — now Christian Raymond — fell asleep believing, even if only a little, that living might be better than dying…