Part I: The Night of Birth
The night Caelan took his first breath
Grayfia Lucifuge had never prayed before.
Not truly.
Devils didn't pray—not to the dead God, not to the new system, not to anyone. Prayer was weakness. Faith was for those who lacked power.
But tonight, alone in the dim light of the birthing chamber while Sirzechs slept in the adjacent room and the physicians had finally left after declaring there was nothing more they could do—
Tonight, Grayfia prayed.
"Please."
Her voice cracked on the word, barely a whisper in the darkness.
She sat beside the small bassinet where Caelan lay. Still. Silent. His tiny chest moving so slightly it was almost imperceptible. The deathly pale color of his skin hadn't improved. The physicians' final words echoed in her mind:
"He won't survive the night, Lady Grayfia. I'm sorry. His body is simply too weak. You should... prepare yourself."
Prepare herself.
For what?
To bury her son before he'd even lived a day?
To tell her husband that one of their twins was dead?
To look at Lucien—perfect, powerful, glowing Lucien—and know that his brother had died in the same room where he'd been celebrated?
"Please," she whispered again, and this time tears fell.
Grayfia Lucifuge, the Strongest Queen, the woman who'd fought in the Devil Civil War without flinching, who'd faced armies and never shown fear—
Broke.
She reached into the bassinet with trembling hands and lifted the tiny, dying infant. So light. So fragile. Like he might dissolve into nothing if she held him too tightly.
His eyes were closed. His breathing so shallow.
"You have to live," she told him, her voice breaking completely now. "You have to. I don't care about power. I don't care about magic. I just need you to breathe."
The tears came faster now, hot against her cold cheeks.
She was the Lucifuge heir. Trained from childhood to suppress emotion, to maintain perfect composure, to never show weakness.
But this wasn't weakness.
This was agony.
"I'll protect you," she promised, pulling him close to her chest. "I swear it. Whatever you need. However long it takes. You're my son. My son. And I will not let you go."
Her ice magic flickered unconsciously, trying to do something—heal, preserve, save—but it was useless. Magic couldn't fix whatever was wrong with him.
She rocked him gently, the way her own mother had rocked her centuries ago, and sang.
An old Lucifuge lullaby.
Words in ancient devil tongue about shadows and moonlight and children of winter.
Her voice was terrible—cracking, sobbing—but she sang anyway.
Because what else could she do?
Hours passed.
The night deepened.
And Grayfia held her dying son and prayed to gods she didn't believe in, making promises she didn't know how to keep.
"Please don't leave me. Please. I'll be better. I'll be the mother you need. Just live."
Then—
A breath.
Stronger than before.
Grayfia's song stopped mid-word.
She looked down.
Caelan's chest rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
His tiny fingers—so pale, so delicate—twitched.
And his eyes opened.
Silver. Like hers.
For just a moment, they focused on her face. Unfocused, barely aware, but there.
Alive.
"Oh thank—" She couldn't even finish the sentence.
She clutched him tighter, careful not to hurt him, and sobbed into his tiny body.
Relief so overwhelming it felt like drowning.
He was breathing.
He was alive.
"You're so strong," she whispered fiercely. "Stronger than they think. Stronger than they know. My beautiful, perfect boy."
She kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his tiny hands.
"I've got you. Mother's got you. Always."
That night, Grayfia Lucifuge made a vow.
She would protect this child.
She would fight for him.
She would give him everything he needed to survive in a world that valued power above all else.
Whatever it takes.
Part II: The Family Discussion
Three months later
The study was warm.
Magically maintained temperature, expensive furnishings, the scent of old books and aged wine.
Sirzechs sat behind his desk, his usual playful demeanor subdued. Lord Zeoticus stood by the fireplace, arms crossed. Lady Venelana occupied a chair near the window, her expression carefully neutral.
And Grayfia stood before them, holding the medical report.
"The physicians are certain?" Lord Zeoticus asked, his voice heavy.
"Yes." Grayfia's response was crisp, professional. Years of training keeping her voice steady even as something twisted in her chest. "Caelan's demonic power reserves are... significantly below normal. They've plateaued at approximately one-tenth of what a devil his age should possess."
"And his magical circuits?"
"Present but underdeveloped. Functional, but weak."
Silence.
Sirzechs leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "The physicians said there was a chance they'd develop as he grew."
"They've revised that assessment." Grayfia's fingers tightened on the report. "The consensus now is that this is likely permanent. Genetic. Something in his Lucifuge bloodline mixing poorly with Gremory traits."
"My bloodline is fine," Lord Zeoticus said sharply. "The Gremory have produced—"
"I wasn't placing blame, Father." Sirzechs' tone was tired. "Just stating facts."
Lady Venelana spoke quietly. "What does this mean for his future?"
Grayfia looked at the report, though she'd memorized every word.
"He'll never match Lucien's power. Or achieve high-class status through strength alone. Rating Games would be... inadvisable. His best path would be administrative—research, perhaps. Magical theory. Something that relies on intellect rather than raw power."
The words tasted like ash.
This is my son I'm discussing like a failed experiment.
"He's only three months old," Lady Venelana offered gently. "Perhaps we shouldn't make such determinations yet."
"The physicians were quite clear, Mother," Sirzechs said. "We need to be realistic about his limitations."
"Realistic," Grayfia repeated, her voice perfectly controlled.
"Yes." Sirzechs met her eyes. "I know this is difficult, but we have to think about the family's future. Lucien is already showing extraordinary promise. He'll need extensive training, resources, attention. And with your duties as my Queen, and my responsibilities as Lucifer—"
"Are you suggesting we neglect our other son?"
The words came out sharper than intended.
Sirzechs blinked, surprised. "Of course not. But we need to be practical about resource allocation. Lucien's potential is immense. Caelan's is... limited. It's not cruel to acknowledge that."
"He's three months old."
"Yes. And in three months, Lucien has already manifested the Power of Destruction. Caelan can barely generate warmth."
Lord Zeoticus interjected. "No one is suggesting abandonment. The boy will be cared for, educated, provided for. But Sirzechs is right—we must be practical. The Gremory legacy rests on Lucien's shoulders now."
"And Caelan?" Grayfia's voice remained level, but something cold crept into it.
"Will have his own path. A quieter one, perhaps. But dignified."
Quieter.
Lesser.
Forgotten.
Grayfia looked at each of them.
Her husband, already mentally allocating attention away from his weaker son.
Her father-in-law, already writing off his grandson as irrelevant to the family legacy.
Her mother-in-law, sympathetic but silent.
She thought of that night three months ago.
Holding Caelan while he fought for every breath.
Promising him protection.
"I understand," she said finally, her tone professionally neutral once more. "I'll adjust my schedule to accommodate both children appropriately."
"Thank you, Grayfia." Sirzechs smiled, relieved. "I knew you'd understand. This isn't about favoritism—it's about maximizing our family's potential."
She nodded.
Said nothing.
Because what could she say?
That she'd made a promise?
That she'd sworn to protect her son?
Promises meant nothing against practical reality.
Against political necessity.
Against the simple, brutal truth that the Underworld valued power, and Caelan had none.
The meeting ended.
Grayfia returned to the nursery where both twins slept.
Lucien in his ornate crib, already larger and healthier.
Caelan in his simpler bassinet, tiny and pale.
She stood between them for a long time.
Then—hating herself—she picked up Lucien.
Held him.
Checked his magical development.
Spent twenty minutes ensuring he was progressing perfectly.
Caelan woke briefly during this, his silver eyes opening.
Looking at her.
She glanced over.
"Go back to sleep," she said gently.
Then returned her attention to Lucien.
I'll come back to you, she told herself. After I finish with your brother. I'll come back.
She didn't.
Lucien needed feeding, then changing, then soothing back to sleep.
By the time she finished, Caelan had already fallen back asleep on his own.
Quiet.
Undemanding.
Easy to forget.
Just this once, Grayfia told herself. Tomorrow I'll give them equal time.
But tomorrow, Lucien would need attention again.
And the day after.
And the day after that.
And Caelan—sweet, silent, undemanding Caelan—would learn to soothe himself.
To need nothing.
To disappear.
The first crack in her promise formed that night.
So small she barely noticed.
Part III: The Night of the Tugging
Four years later - The evening after the engagement meeting
Grayfia stood in her private chambers, staring at her reflection.
The meeting had gone well.
The young lady from the visiting family had been charming, well-educated, politically astute. A perfect match for Lucien. The engagement negotiations would proceed smoothly.
Everything had gone according to plan.
Except—
"Why weren't you here for Lord Lucien? The engagement discussions concern him, not... others."
Her own words echoed in her mind.
Others.
She'd called her own son others.
Grayfia sat on the edge of her bed, her perfect composure finally cracking now that she was alone.
What had she done?
Caelan had been standing right there. Had tugged her skirt—such a small gesture, a child seeking attention—and she'd dismissed him like a servant.
Worse than a servant.
Servants at least got acknowledged.
She'd called him others.
As though he were furniture.
As though he weren't her son.
Her hands trembled.
When had it become so easy?
When had the distance become so vast that she could look at her own child and see nothing?
She tried to remember the last time she'd really looked at him.
Not a glance in passing, not a clinical assessment during meal deliveries, but actually seen him.
Weeks ago? Months?
Years?
I promised, she thought, and the memory of that desperate night nine years ago crashed over her.
"I'll protect you. I'll be the mother you need."
What a lie that had been.
She hadn't protected him.
She'd abandoned him.
Not through cruelty—she'd never been cruel to him.
But through something worse: indifference.
Systematic, thorough, complete indifference.
A knock on her door.
"Come in."
Sirzechs entered, still in his formal attire from the meeting. He looked pleased.
"That went well, don't you think? Lady Serafall was quite impressed with Lucien's manners."
"Yes. It went well."
He noticed her tone. "What's wrong?"
"Caelan was there today."
"Was he?" Sirzechs frowned, trying to remember. "I didn't see him."
"He approached us. During the meeting."
"Oh." A pause. "What did he want?"
Grayfia's throat felt tight. "I don't know. I sent him away before he could speak."
"Probably for the best. The engagement discussions weren't relevant to him anyway."
Weren't relevant to him.
Their son.
Not relevant.
"Sirzechs..." She stopped, unsure how to continue.
"Yes?"
"Do you ever think about him? Really think about him?"
Her husband looked genuinely puzzled. "Who?"
"Caelan."
"Oh." Sirzechs sat beside her. "Sometimes. Why?"
"What do you think about?"
He was quiet for a moment. "I think... that he's better off without pressure. That the lack of expectations is probably a kindness. He can live quietly, study what interests him, not be burdened by the weight of legacy."
"Is that what we tell ourselves?"
"It's the truth." Sirzechs took her hand. "Grayfia, I know you worry. You're his mother. But we've provided for him. He has food, shelter, education, safety. What more can we do?"
"We could see him."
"We do see him."
"When was the last time you spoke to him?"
Sirzechs opened his mouth, then closed it.
Thought.
His expression shifted to something uncomfortable.
"I... don't remember."
"Neither do I."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Sirzechs stood. "What do you want me to say? That I've failed as a father? I have responsibilities. The Underworld to govern, Lucien to train, political alliances to maintain. I can't—"
"He's your son."
"And I have another son who needs me more!"
The words hung in the air.
Sirzechs looked horrified the moment they left his mouth.
"I didn't mean—"
"You did." Grayfia's voice was hollow. "You meant exactly that."
He ran his hand through his crimson hair. "This isn't fair. You're asking me to choose—"
"I'm not. I'm just asking you to remember that Caelan exists."
"I know he exists, Grayfia! But what do you want me to do? Force attention on a child who clearly prefers solitude? Pretend he has the same potential as Lucien when we both know that's not true? I'm trying to be realistic!"
"You're being cruel."
"I'm being practical!" His voice rose, frustration bleeding through. "Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I want to have a son I barely know? But the alternative is neglecting Lucien, and I won't do that. I can't do that. He's the future of this family."
"And Caelan?"
"Is also the future. A different future. A quieter one."
Quieter.
That word again.
The polite euphemism for forgotten.
Grayfia stood, her composure returning like ice forming over water.
"You're right, of course. Lucien needs attention. I'll ensure both children receive appropriate care."
"Grayfia—"
"I'm tired, Sirzechs. It's been a long day."
He looked at her for a moment, then nodded.
"Get some rest."
He left.
And Grayfia stood alone in her chambers, staring at nothing.
She thought of walking to Caelan's room.
Knocking on his door.
Apologizing.
Explaining.
Something.
But what would she say?
I'm sorry I called you 'others'?
I'm sorry I've forgotten you exist?
I'm sorry I broke every promise I made the night you were born?
Words felt insufficient.
And besides—
Lucien had mentioned wanting extra training tomorrow. Early morning session. She'd need to prepare, review the techniques, ensure everything was perfect for him.
She'd check on Caelan... later.
When there was time.
Tomorrow, she promised herself.
But tomorrow never came.
Part IV: The Cold Body
Age 9 - The morning after Caelan achieved zero degrees
Grayfia woke at precisely 6 AM, as she did every morning.
Her routine was immaculate:
Rise. Bathe. Dress in her maid uniform. Review the day's schedule. Check on the household.
This morning, something felt wrong.
The air in the mansion was cold.
Not winter cold—the Underworld didn't have seasons like the human world.
This was different.
Magical cold.
She frowned, extending her senses.
There—in the eastern wing.
A pocket of temperature so low it was actually affecting the estate's climate control enchantments.
A malfunction?
She walked toward the source, her maid's heels clicking against marble.
The cold intensified as she approached.
Frost formed on the walls.
Her breath misted.
And then she realized where it was coming from.
Caelan's room.
She paused outside his door.
When was the last time she'd been in there?
Years.
Literally years.
Servants delivered his meals. Cleaned when he was in the library. But Grayfia herself hadn't entered this space since... since he was a small child.
She opened the door.
The temperature hit her like a physical force.
Negative ten degrees.
At least.
The entire room was coated in frost. The windows were frozen solid. Icicles hung from the ceiling.
And in the center of it all, sitting on his bed with a book in his lap—
Caelan.
He looked up as she entered, silver eyes meeting hers.
Nine years old.
When had he grown so much?
He was small for his age, delicate, but the childishness was gone from his features. He looked like a miniature adult.
"Mother." His voice was quiet. Polite. Emotionless.
Not hostile.
Just... empty.
"The temperature," Grayfia said, her professionalism kicking in. "What happened?"
"I'm practicing ice magic. It's under control."
"It's affecting the entire eastern wing."
"I'll suppress it."
He didn't move. Didn't gesture. But the temperature began to rise—slowly, deliberately.
The frost on the walls started melting.
He did that with thought alone?
Grayfia's analytical mind assessed what she was seeing.
Control like that required immense precision. Most devils his age couldn't regulate environmental effects so smoothly.
"Where did you learn this technique?"
"Books. Experimentation."
"Self-taught?"
"Yes."
She should praise him.
Should acknowledge the achievement.
Should ask about his progress, his methods, his theories.
Instead, she said: "Please be more mindful of the estate's enchantments. The servants were concerned."
"Of course. Apologies."
He returned his attention to his book.
Dismissed.
Grayfia stood there, suddenly uncertain.
She looked at her son—really looked at him—for the first time in years.
The blue streak in his silver hair.
The way frost lingered on his fingertips even as the room warmed.
The complete lack of expression on his face.
When did he become this?
"Caelan—"
"Was there something else, Mother?"
The title felt wrong in his mouth.
Formal.
Distant.
Mother, not Mom or Mama.
As though she were a superior officer rather than his parent.
"No. Just... keep practicing. But carefully."
"I will."
She left.
Closed the door behind her.
Stood in the hallway, breathing heavily despite her perfect conditioning.
Something was deeply, fundamentally wrong.
Her nine-year-old son had just demonstrated magical control that would impress mid-class devils.
Had created an environmental effect powerful enough to affect an entire wing of the estate.
Had done it completely alone, with no training, no guidance.
And she'd responded with a reprimand about the servants.
What is wrong with me?
But she knew the answer.
She'd gotten so used to ignoring him that even when he did something extraordinary, her first instinct was to... ignore it.
To treat it as an inconvenience rather than an achievement.
Grayfia walked back toward the main family quarters.
She should tell Sirzechs.
Should mention that their son was developing unique magical techniques.
Should suggest formal training, proper guidance.
She passed Lucien in the hallway.
"Good morning, Mother!" Her eldest beamed at her. "Ready for training?"
"Of course. Let me just—"
"I've been working on a new Destruction technique! Want to see?"
His enthusiasm was infectious.
She smiled—genuinely smiled—and let him pull her toward the training room.
The report about Caelan's abilities faded from her mind.
I'll mention it later, she told herself.
After Lucien's session.
She didn't.
Part V: The Morning Before Evil Pieces
Age 10 - Walking to Caelan's room with Rias
"Why do I have to come?" Rias whined, her small hand in Grayfia's.
They were walking through the eastern wing—a part of the estate Rias rarely visited.
"Because we're collecting both boys for the trip to Lord Ajuka's laboratory."
"But why do I need to come to get him? Can't a servant do it?"
Grayfia's grip tightened slightly.
Good question.
Why was she doing this herself instead of sending a servant?
Was it guilt?
Some last vestige of maternal instinct screaming that she should at least speak to her son before taking him for such an important milestone?
"It's proper for family to collect family," she said instead.
Rias didn't look convinced, but she was only nine. She went along.
They reached Caelan's door.
Grayfia knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again.
Still nothing.
"Maybe he's not here?" Rias suggested hopefully.
Grayfia opened the door anyway.
The cold hit them immediately.
Rias gasped, her breath misting. "It's freezing!"
Grayfia's eyes adjusted to the dim room—Caelan never seemed to use the magical lighting.
There.
On the bed.
Caelan lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling.
Awake but motionless.
"Caelan." Grayfia's voice was professional. "We're leaving for Lord Ajuka's laboratory in twenty minutes. Get dressed."
He didn't move for several seconds.
Then, slowly, he sat up.
His silver-blue hair was disheveled. His eyes were distant.
He looked at Grayfia.
Then at Rias.
Rias squirmed under the gaze, pressing closer to Grayfia's leg.
"Who's that?" she whispered.
Grayfia felt something cold settle in her stomach.
Her daughter didn't know her nephew.
Didn't recognize him.
Had probably only seen him a handful of times in her entire life.
"No one important, dear," she heard herself say.
The words came out automatically.
Professionally.
And she watched—watched—as something flickered in Caelan's eyes.
Not hurt.
Not anger.
Just... confirmation.
As though she'd just verified something he'd already known.
"I'll be ready in fifteen minutes," he said quietly.
"See that you are."
Grayfia turned to leave, pulling Rias with her.
As they walked back down the corridor, Rias chattered about excitement over getting her own Evil Pieces someday.
And Grayfia said nothing.
Because what could she say?
That she'd just called her son "no one important" to his face?
That she'd seen that flicker of... something... in his eyes and done nothing?
That even now, even knowing she'd hurt him, she was thinking about Lucien's fitting instead of Caelan's feelings?
I'm a monster, she thought distantly.
No.
Monsters are cruel with purpose.
I'm worse.
I'm cruel through indifference.
The walk back felt like miles.
Part VI: The Night of the Broken King
That evening - Family discussion
The dining room was warm.
Dinner had just finished—a celebration of Lucien receiving his own Evil Pieces.
Three Mutation Pieces.
Exceptional.
The family was gathered: Sirzechs, Grayfia, Lord Zeoticus, Lady Venelana, Lucien, and Rias.
The conversation was light, happy.
Until Lord Zeoticus brought it up.
"So the other boy received a... broken piece?" He made it sound like discussing a failed shipment of goods.
Sirzechs sighed. "Yes. Ajuka said it was due to magical instability. The system couldn't properly generate a full set."
"Couldn't generate, or wouldn't waste resources?" Zeoticus snorted. "The Evil Piece system is designed for those with potential. His magical signature is so weak the system probably rejected him."
"Father—" Sirzechs began.
"It's true, isn't it? One broken King piece. Not even a proper set. What's he supposed to do with that?"
"Nothing, probably," Lady Venelana said quietly. "A broken piece can't be used for reincarnation. It's essentially worthless."
"Then why did Ajuka bother giving it to him at all?"
"Protocol. All high-class devils receive pieces upon maturity—"
"He's not high-class!" Lord Zeoticus' voice rose. "He's barely low-class! This entire thing was a waste of time and resources."
Grayfia sat silently, her hands folded in her lap.
She should defend him.
Should point out that Caelan was still their family, still deserving of respect.
Should do something.
"It's unfortunate," Sirzechs said diplomatically. "But not unexpected. His magical limitations were always going to affect the piece generation."
"Unfortunate," Lucien repeated, sounding genuinely sympathetic. "I can't imagine getting a broken piece. That must be... disappointing."
He meant it kindly.
Lucien had always been kind, even when oblivious.
Rias, not understanding the full implications, asked: "What happens to broken pieces? Can they be fixed?"
"Theoretically," Sirzechs explained. "But it would require immense magical power to reconstruct. More power than—"
"More power than the boy possesses," Lord Zeoticus finished. "So it's permanently useless. Just like—"
He stopped himself.
But everyone knew what he'd been about to say.
Just like him.
Silence fell over the table.
Lady Venelana cleared her throat. "Perhaps we should discuss Lucien's pieces instead? Three Mutation Pawns are quite—"
"Yes!" Rias brightened immediately. "Can I see Lucien's again?!"
The conversation shifted.
Excitement returned.
And no one mentioned Caelan again.
Grayfia excused herself early.
"Headache," she explained.
No one questioned it.
She stood in the hallway outside the dining room, listening to their laughter.
Her family.
Happy.
Complete.
Without him.
She thought of walking to Caelan's room.
Knocking.
Apologizing for the family's dismissal.
Explaining that they weren't cruel, just... practical.
Lying, her mind supplied.
You'd be lying.
They are cruel.
And so are you.
Grayfia pressed her hand against the wall, feeling the cool stone.
Somewhere in this mansion, her son sat alone with a broken piece.
A physical representation of how thoroughly his family had failed him.
And she—his mother, who'd promised to protect him—had sat silent while they discussed his worthlessness like reviewing a failed investment.
I should go to him.
But her feet didn't move.
Because what would she say?
What words could possibly bridge the chasm that had opened between them?
How could she explain nine years of systematic neglect?
How could she justify calling him "no one important" just this morning?
I can't.
So she didn't.
She returned to her chambers.
Alone.
And told herself that tomorrow—tomorrow—she would try to fix this.
Knowing, even as she thought it, that tomorrow would be the same as today.
And the day after.
And the day after that.
Until her son disappeared entirely.
End of Side Story 1