The child listened.
Not just to the words—but to the way they were formed. The movement of breath. The shaping of sound. The pauses between syllables. With every passing second, he learned. And as he learned, he adapted.
Something shifted within him.
Muscles he had never used before responded. His throat tightened, loosened. Air moved.
For the first time, he spoke.
"Who are you?"
The voice that emerged did not belong to a newborn. It was deep—resonant, carrying the weight of something far older than his existence.
The four men froze.
Every one of them turned sharply toward the glass chamber, eyes narrowing, instincts igniting. In a heartbeat, they vanished into the shadows, weapons ready, senses stretched to their limits.
They searched.
There was no one else.
Only him.
"There is no one here," the child said again, his voice clearer now, the distortion from the liquid barely noticeable. "Only you four… and me. There is no need to be on guard."
Silence followed.
Then, slowly, the tallest among them stepped forward.
August.
His movements were controlled, deliberate. He sheathed his weapon before approaching the chamber, stopping just inches from the glass. His glowing gaze locked onto the child's mismatched eyes.
"Do you have a name?" he asked.
The child paused.
Processing.
"…No."
August gave a small nod.
"Will it be safe for you to come out?"
"Yes."
"Do you require assistance?"
The child inclined his head.
"Yes."
Without another word, August turned to the control panels. The old machines flickered as he disabled them one by one with practiced precision. Tubes detached. Systems died.
The glass container groaned.
Then it released.
Fluid spilled out in heavy waves, flooding the floor. The corpse of the old man was pushed aside like debris.
August stepped forward without hesitation.
For a brief moment, he studied the child—thin, pale, unnatural.
Then he reached in and lifted him.
Carefully.
Almost gently.
Cradling him as one would a newborn.
From within his cloak, August produced a strip of black cloth and wrapped it around the child's body, shielding him from the cold.
"Sleep," August said quietly. "When you wake, we'll be far from this—"
The child's eyes closed.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
A perfect imitation of sleep. Or perhaps something closer to shutting down.
August glanced at him, then toward the shadows where the others still lingered.
"Take everything useful," he ordered. "We're leaving."
A pause.
"And bring the body."
Two hours later
The hall was विशाल—vast beyond reason.
A normal man could walk for nearly an hour and still not reach the far end.
At its center, elevated upon a grand dais, stood two thrones.
And upon those thrones sat power itself.
On the left—upon a throne of deep crimson—sat a man who seemed carved from war.
Nearly seven feet tall, his physique was overwhelming, every muscle defined as though it carried the memory of countless battles. His black hair fell loosely around his face, framing eyes that burned with a blood-red intensity. To meet that gaze was to feel as though one stood drowning in an endless sea of crimson.
He wore a long red coat, intricately embroidered with gold—a masterpiece of craftsmanship that resembled living art. Beneath it, a white shirt lined with delicate golden patterns. Dark trousers, equally adorned, completed the look of someone who did not merely command power—but embodied it.
Yet his posture betrayed indifference.
He lounged carelessly, one arm draped over the throne's side, legs stretched forward, as though the world itself failed to hold his interest.
Beside him—on a throne of deep emerald—sat his equal.
Or perhaps his opposite.
A woman with hair like flowing silver, cascading all the way to the floor, each strand catching the light like threads of moonlight. Her eyes glowed a piercing green—alive, watchful, impossible to escape. To look into them was not to drown—but to be dragged back from the abyss, whether one wished it or not.
She wore a long, fitted gown of layered emerald silk, the fabric flowing like liquid around her form. Intricate patterns—stitched in gold and darker green—coiled across the dress like living vines. The bodice was structured and regal, while the lower half fanned outward in elegant folds, trailing behind her like a royal mantle. Translucent sleeves draped from her shoulders, shifting softly with even the slightest movement.
Where the man radiated chaos restrained only by boredom—
She radiated control.
Absolute.
She sat upright, legs crossed with precision, fingers interlocked and resting upon her knee. Every inch of her posture spoke of authority—not demanded, but inherent.
Together, they were contradiction.
Conflict and harmony.
Destruction and order.
And the air itself seemed unwilling to disturb them.
As August entered the hall, he dropped to both knees without hesitation.
Carefully, he placed the child before him—the small body still, silent, wrapped in black cloth.
Upon the crimson throne, the man known as the Starkiller cast a passing glance toward them. For a brief moment, something flickered in his blood-red eyes—
Interest.
Then it was gone.
Beside him, the Allmother's reaction was entirely different.
Her gaze softened the moment it fell upon the child. Concern surfaced immediately… and beneath it, something deeper. Something instinctive. Maternal.
She leaned forward slightly.
"Is he dead?"
Her voice flowed like spring water—soft, clear, and impossibly melodious. It carried no strain, yet filled the vast hall with ease.
August lowered his head further.
"Yes, Madam. His body has been secured in the interrogation chambers. The reason for his attack on the young miss… and the purpose behind this creation… will be uncovered shortly."
The Allmother gave a small nod, her eyes never leaving the child.
"Does this being have a name?"
"No, Madam."
A pause.
Then she turned her gaze toward the man beside her.
"Will you name him… or shall I?"
The Starkiller glanced at her, then back at the child.
Silence lingered for a heartbeat.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly.
"We're keeping him?"
His voice was a contradiction—calm and youthful on the surface, yet layered with something far darker beneath. As if countless tormented echoes whispered beneath each word.
The Allmother's expression tightened, faint irritation surfacing.
"Is that even a question?"
For a moment, it seemed he might argue.
Then he caught her gaze.
And stopped.
"…You name him."
She exhaled softly, clearly accustomed to his deflections, and turned her attention back to the child.
Raising her hand, she reached toward him—
Before she could touch him, his eyes opened.
Instantly.
Not groggy. Not confused.
Aware.
A subtle shift in the air followed.
Something unseen brushed against him—and in that same moment, he began to understand it. To grasp it. To replicate it.
His body lifted.
Slowly, weightlessly, he rose from the ground and drifted toward her.
August did not move.
Did not question.
He remained kneeling.
The child settled into her arms.
She held him with effortless grace, as though he had always belonged there.
And for a brief moment—
He simply looked at her.
Then her gaze shifted.
To his eyes.
She froze.
For the first time, true shock broke through her composure.
"Alexander… look at his eyes. These are—"
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
The Starkiller—Alexander—was already moving.
The indifference that once defined him vanished completely. In its place stood something else—
Authority.
Absolute.
He leaned forward, his crimson gaze locking onto the child's.
And then—
He saw them.
The twin, interlocked pupils.
The impossible symmetry.
Recognition struck instantly.
"…The Eyes of the All-Seeing Pharaoh."
The words left him low and sharp.
He straightened slowly, his expression no longer bored… but grave.
His gaze shifted to the Allmother.
This time, there was no trace of laziness.
Only certainty.
And something dangerously close to realization.