Fate of Fateless

The chamber had settled into a fragile peace—warm, golden light flickering from wall sconces, the scent of iron and cloth still lingering in the air. The cries had faded, replaced by the soft rhythm of new breath, as the mother held her child close, wrapped in the unshakable silence that followed birth.

Duke Hepton knelt beside the bed, a man of war and rank now reduced to trembling fingers and a spinning heart. He reached for his son again, his hand brushing over the newborn's small chest, over the curve of a barely formed arm.

But something was wrong.

He frowned.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Then he reached out again—this time, not with touch, but with sense.

His mana. His perception. The energy all Dukes of the Empire had refined since youth—sharpened like steel to feel the breath of a threat before it drew a blade.

But now?

Nothing.

His senses met a void.

No heartbeat. No soul-thread. No presence.

It was as though the child didn't exist.

Hepton's breath hitched. He drew back slightly, staring down at the boy. The child blinked up at him—calm, still, watching.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

"Hepton?" the mother asked, concern tightening her voice. "What is it?"

The Duke didn't answer. His jaw tensed, the shadow in his eyes deepening. For a man who had never known fear on the battlefield, this sensation—this emptiness—was terrifying.

Behind him, the midwife watched his change in posture. "Is he… unwell?"

Hepton didn't respond. His hand hovered again over the infant's chest. His face was unreadable, but the silence around him thickened.

Then, at the doorway, Lionheart stepped inside.

It was rare for the old Duke to enter without being called—but something in his son's stillness had unsettled even him.

"What is it?" Lionheart asked, his gravelled voice cutting through the room like steel drawn from a sheath.

Hepton turned slightly, eyes still locked on the child. "I cannot sense him."

Lionheart paused, his boots sounding heavy on the stone floor as he came closer.

"Impossible."

"I've tried three times," Hepton said quietly. "There's nothing. No mana, no breath, no soulprint. He's not masked… he's empty."

The midwife's eyes widened. "But he's breathing—he's alive. I heard his cry."

The mother clutched her child tighter. "He's warm, Hepton. I feel his heart."

"He is alive," Hepton said, almost to himself. "But not in a way I can understand."

Lionheart stepped forward, placing a large hand over the infant's chest—just as his son had. His own sense stretched forward, honed from decades on the battlefield.

And like Hepton, he felt—

Nothing.

The silence inside the child was not lifeless. It was worse.

It was hidden. Sealed. Something deeper than a void—it was a mask of nature itself.

Lionheart pulled his hand back slowly.

He looked at the child's eyes—open, calm, dark as midnight. Then at his daughter-in-law. Then at Hepton.

"This child…" he said slowly, "is not unmarked. He is untouched."

A long silence followed.

The midwife took a small step back, crossing herself under her breath. "A child without a soul-thread? That's—" she stopped. "That's not supposed to be possible."

"No," Lionheart muttered. "It isn't."

Hepton sat back on his heels. His expression was no longer fear—it was wonder.

"He's not like us," he said quietly. "Not like anyone."

The mother's arms tightened protectively around the infant, but her voice remained soft. "Then perhaps… he is meant to be something else."

Lionheart straightened, the weight of old battles in his shoulders.

"Or someone."

The child blinked again, utterly calm in the storm he had just birthed. A silence settled over the room once more—but it was no longer the silence of peace.

It was the silence of something vast, beginning.

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