The Darlings.

In the opulent confines of Solarius Palace, the air shimmered with energy. The sigil of the Solarius family glowed faintly on the walls, resonating with the rhythmic hum of magic coursing through the room. Elowen lay on the grand birthing bed, her face pale but determined. Around her, the finest awakened physicians and healers worked in synchronized precision, their hands aglow with power as they guided her through the crucible of childbirth.

The tension in the room was palpable, a symphony of whispered incantations and soft encouragements. Elowen's cries pierced the air, sharp and fierce, carrying with them the weight of creation. Then, as if the world itself held its breath, the sound of a newborn's cry shattered the stillness.

A son. Darven Solarius, his usually unflappable demeanor replaced by a rare blend of awe and pride, stepped forward. His hands trembled slightly as he took the squalling infant, the boy's tiny fists waving in protest against the vastness of his new world. Elowen's gaze softened as her eyes met the baby's. Exhaustion etched every line of her face, but her smile was luminous. As she gazed at her son, her voice, though faint with fatigue, carried the weight of her love and devotion.

"Aaron"

 ***

In the opulent confines of the Wilson estate, the air shimmered with energy. The sigil of the Wilson family glowed faintly on the walls, resonating with the rhythmic hum of magic coursing through the room. Latha lay on the grand birthing bed, her face pale but resolute. Around her, the finest awakened physicians and healers worked in synchronized precision, their hands aglow with power as they guided her through the crucible of childbirth.

The tension in the room was palpable, a symphony of whispered incantations and soft encouragements. Latha's cries pierced the air, sharp and fierce, carrying with them the weight of creation. Then, as if the world itself held its breath, the sound of a newborn's cry shattered the stillness.

A son. Ragna Wilson, his usually stoic demeanor replaced by a rare blend of awe and pride, stepped forward. His hands trembled slightly as he took the squalling infant, the boy's tiny fists waving in protest against the vastness of his new world.

Latha's gaze softened as her eyes met the baby's. Exhaustion etched every line of her face, but her smile was luminous. As she gazed at her son, her voice, though faint with fatigue, carried the weight of her love and devotion.

"Adrian Wilson"

she whispered, the name slipping from her lips as if it had always been destined for him. The child's cries quieted, as though sensing the bond that now tethered him to his mother. The room exhaled, the glow of the sigil dimming as calm returned to the palace.

***

In a vast, bustling hall, a young man in his mid-twenties staggered and collapsed. His body convulsed, sweat pouring from his skin as his eyes turned into hollow white voids. His shuddering figure drew a stunned silence from those nearby, their faces a mixture of fear and uncertainty. A few hesitated, stepping forward only to retreat, their instincts torn between helping and preserving their own safety.

One man, older and clad in the confidence of an S-ranker, stepped forward. He reached for the fallen figure, his hand extended in careful determination. As his fingers brushed the convulsing man, an invisible force erupted, sending him hurtling back. The blast threw him with a violence that defied his formidable strength, leaving the crowd more frozen than before.

Time dragged on. Five minutes stretched to ten, then twenty. The man's body trembled without pause, the rhythmic spasms relentless.

At last, after forty-five agonizing minutes, the shuddering ceased. His hollow eyes blinked, their milky white retreating to reveal bloodshot clarity. Crimson streaks dripped from the corners of his eyes, and his skin, once smooth, bore fresh cracks.

The seer's body sagged as though held together by willpower alone. A woman broke the paralysis of the crowd, rushing forward to press a healing potion to his lips. The liquid shimmered, but its magic faltered, unable to mend the damage.

The SS rank seer struggled to sit upright, his breath shallow and ragged. His mind grappled with fragments of memory, shadows of a vision he could not fully grasp. He closed his eyes, reaching inward, but the images eluded him, slipping like smoke through his fingers.

It was an affront to his power, his status, his very identity as a seer of his caliber. A ringing interrupted his thoughts. A call. As he answered, the words from the other end sent a cold wave of dread through him.

"A S+ rank seer has died," the voice said, each syllable deliberate, heavy.

"Before he passed, his final words were: 'Birth of salvation.'"

The seer's breath hitched. His body, already broken, seemed to recoil further, his mind ablaze with fragments that suddenly snapped into focus. A child. A birth. The faint, overwhelming impression of a destiny too immense to bear. The phrase echoed in his thoughts, a harbinger of both hope and terror: "Birth of salvation."

***

Cillian tried every type of healing potion he could find, but his body refused to mend. As an SS rank awakener, his innate regenerative abilities should have easily surpassed the effects of even the most advanced potions. Yet, an hour had passed, and his condition showed no signs of improvement. His skin remained cracked, his blood seeped from his wounds, and each shallow breath felt like dragging a blade through his chest.

He knew his time was short minutes, perhaps hours. Every second carried the weight of impending failure. His mind burned with a singular focus: unravel the meaning of the divination that had ravaged his body. He pushed himself to remember, his breathing rasping like splintered glass.

The effort sent waves of pain through his already shattered frame. His vision blurred, his thoughts fragmented, but one truth emerged from the chaos: a child had been born today, a child destined to save humanity. With what little strength he had left, he summoned his team. His voice, though weak, carried an urgency that silenced their protests.

"Deliver this message to the United House,"

he rasped, each word costing him precious breaths.

"A child has been born 'the salvation of humanity'. This must stay hidden. Tell no one beyond those who need to know."

His commands were given, and Cillian slumped back, his body betraying him at last. The moments that followed were heavy with sorrow. A vision he couldn't decipher, a fate he couldn't alter, and now a death he couldn't escape. As a seer, his life had been dedicated to guiding humanity through the perils of the unknown. As a man, his final thoughts were a dirge of regret

I failed.