The midwife's chambers lay at the end of a corridor that had never felt so long.
Giovanni stood with his back against the cold stone wall, his arms crossed over his chest, watching his uncle. Lord Cassius hadn't moved in hours. Not a shift of weight. Not a flex of his fingers. He was a statue carved from grief—pale, hollow-eyed, his hands clasped behind his back to hide the trembling that Giovanni could see anyway.
The estate had gone quiet. Not the peaceful quiet of early morning, but the suffocating quiet of held breath. Servants spoke in whispers, their footsteps soft against the stone floors. No one walked past the corridor unless absolutely necessary. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing.
Giovanni had never seen his uncle like this. Lord Cassius had always been tired—always a little sad, always carrying some invisible weight—but *present*. He'd ruffle Giovanni's hair when he passed. He'd ask about his training. He'd smile, even when the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
Now he looked like a man who'd already lost something. Like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall.
*He loves her*, Elizabeth's voice whispered in Giovanni's mind. *Really loves her.*
Giovanni didn't respond. He didn't know what to say. He'd never seen love like this—the kind that made a man stand outside a door for hours, unable to sit, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but wait.
From inside the chamber came Aunt Elara's cries. Sharp. Pained. Then silence. Then more cries. The cycle repeated, each round lasting longer than the last.
Then—
A different sound. High. Thin. Alive.
A baby's wail.
Lord Cassius's shoulders dropped. He exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for years, like something inside him had finally unlocked. For one moment—just one—his face softened. Hope flickered in those hollow eyes.
The door opened. The midwife stepped out, her apron stained, her face flushed with exertion. But she was smiling. "Congratulations, my lord. A healthy baby girl. Mother and daughter are both—"
She stopped.
Her smile faltered.
Lord Cassius noticed. Of course he noticed. "What is it? What's wrong?"
The midwife's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "The mother... there were complications. She's bleeding. We're doing everything we can, but..."
She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
Lord Cassius didn't wait. He pushed past her into the room, the door swinging shut behind him with a heavy thud.
Giovanni remained in the corridor. Alone. The baby's cries continued from inside—steady, insistent, demanding attention. He stared at the closed door, his heart pounding in his chest, a cold dread settling into his bones.
Elizabeth materialized beside him. She didn't speak. She didn't touch him. She just stood there, present, solid, as the afternoon light bled into evening and the world changed around them.
---
The room smelled of blood and sweat and something metallic—something wrong. Aunt Elara lay in the bed, propped against pillows that had once been white and were now stained red. Her skin was pale. Too pale. Almost gray.
Lord Cassius knelt beside her, her hand clutched in both of his. "Elara. Elara, stay with me."
Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, they were unfocused, lost. Then they found him, and she smiled. Weak. Beautiful. "Cassius... did you see her? Did you see our daughter?"
"I did. She's perfect. She's beautiful. She has your eyes."
"No... she has your stubbornness. I can already tell." She laughed, then winced. The laugh turned into a cough, and when she pulled her hand away from her mouth, there was blood on her fingers.
"Don't. Don't talk. Save your strength." His voice cracked. The great Lord Cassius, who had never shown weakness in his life, was breaking before Giovanni's eyes.
"I don't have strength left to save, my love." She squeezed his hand. Her grip was weak, her fingers cold. "Promise me... promise me you'll love her. Even when it hurts. Even when you can't look at her because she reminds you of me. Promise me."
"I promise. I promise, Elara. Just stay. Please."
She didn't answer.
Her eyes drifted across the room—past Cassius, past the midwife, past the servants who stood frozen in the corners—until they found the corner where Giovanni stood.
He didn't remember entering. He didn't remember moving. But he was there, standing in the doorway, his small body rigid, his hands clenched at his sides.
"Little star..." Her voice was barely a whisper, a breath carried on the wind. "Come here."
His legs moved without his permission. They felt like they belonged to someone else—some other boy, some luckier boy who didn't have to watch his aunt die. He walked to her bedside, each step heavier than the last.
She took his hand. Her grip was weak, but warm. Still warm.
"You'll look after her, won't you? Your little cousin."
Giovanni swallowed. His throat felt like it was full of sand. "...I will."
"I know you will. You're so strong, Giovanni. Stronger than you should have to be." She reached up, her fingers brushing his cheek. Her hand was cold now. So cold. "But you're still just a boy. Don't forget that. Don't let them make you forget."
"Aunt Elara—"
"Amara." Her eyes found Lord Cassius again. "If it's a girl... we agreed. Amara. After my mother."
Lord Cassius nodded, tears streaming down his face. He didn't wipe them away. He didn't even seem to notice them. "Amara. Yes. Amara."
Aunt Elara smiled one last time. It was a peaceful smile, a contented smile. The smile of someone who had done what she needed to do. "Good. That's... good."
Her eyes closed.
Her hand went limp in Giovanni's grip.
The room was silent. The baby—Amara—had stopped crying. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.
Then Lord Cassius screamed.
---
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time had stopped meaning anything.
The baby was crying again, wrapped in a blanket and held by a servant who looked as lost as everyone else. Lord Cassius was still on his knees beside the bed, still holding Aunt Elara's hand. He hadn't moved. He hadn't blinked. He was staring at her face like he could will her back to life—like if he just believed hard enough, she would open her eyes and smile at him again.
The midwife approached Giovanni. Her hands were shaking. In them, she held a ledger—thick, leather-bound, official. "Young master... the child needs a name. For the records."
Giovanni looked at Lord Cassius. His uncle didn't respond. Didn't move. Didn't blink.
"Lord Cassius?" The midwife tried again, her voice trembling. "The name?"
Nothing.
Then Lord Cassius stood. Slowly. Mechanically. Like a puppet whose strings were being pulled by an unsteady hand. He turned to look at the baby—his daughter—and something in his eyes *closed*. Like a door shutting. Like a light going out.
He walked out of the room. He didn't look back.
The midwife turned to Giovanni, her expression helpless. "Young master... what should I write?"
Giovanni remembered. Aunt Elara's voice, barely a whisper. *Amara.*
"Amara," he said. His voice was steady. His hands were not. He clenched them at his sides, forcing them to be still. "Her name is Amara Rosenthal."
The midwife nodded and wrote it down. The scratch of the quill against parchment was the only sound in the room.
Elizabeth materialized beside him. She didn't say anything. She just stood there—present, solid. Her hand rested on his shoulder.
He didn't shrug it off.
---
Three days later, the sky was overcast.
The clouds hung heavy and gray, pressing down on the world like a lid on a pot. It didn't rain. It was worse than rain—it was the *threat* of rain. The held breath before a storm that never came. The promise of tears that refused to fall.
The Rosenthal estate cemetery was small, as far as noble cemeteries went. Aunt Elara hadn't been royalty—she was a noble's wife, nothing more. But she was loved. Servants wept openly, not even trying to hide their tears. Neighbors from nearby estates attended, their faces solemn. The Viscount of Greystone sent his regards but didn't come himself. Too busy. Too important.
Giovanni stood at the front of the crowd, dressed in black. His back was straight. His face was blank. Elizabeth stood beside him, invisible to everyone else, her hand still resting on his shoulder.
Lord Cassius was not there.
The priest spoke. Words about the departed. Words about peace. Words about the next life. Giovanni didn't hear them. He was thinking about Aunt Elara's laugh. The way she called him "little star." The way she made him promise not to train until he collapsed. The way she looked at him like he was still just a child—like he didn't have to be anything more than that.
The coffin was lowered into the ground. Servants threw flowers. Someone sobbed.
Giovanni didn't cry.
He wanted to. He felt it—a pressure behind his eyes, a tightness in his chest. But the tears didn't come. They wouldn't come. He didn't know how to let them.
Elizabeth's voice was soft in his mind: *It's okay. You don't have to cry. Not now. Not ever, if you don't want to.*
He didn't respond. But he leaned—just slightly—into her touch.
---
The days following the funeral were quiet. Too quiet.
Lord Cassius hadn't attended the funeral. He was in his chambers. Drinking.
He hadn't left his chambers since.
Servants whispered in the corridors, their voices hushed with scandal and worry. They brought him meals. He didn't eat. They brought him wine. He drank. They brought him women. He didn't send them away.
The estate fell into chaos. No one was giving orders. No one was managing the affairs. The steward tried—Bernard was his name, an older man who had served House Rosenthal for forty years—but he wasn't a Rosenthal. He didn't have the authority. The servants didn't listen to him. The other nobles didn't respect him.
Giovanni watched all of this. From the shadows. From the corners. From the hallways where no one noticed him. He was four years old, and he saw everything.
He was angry. More than angry. He was *furious*.
Aunt Elara was dead. His cousin was an orphan. And Lord Cassius—the man who was supposed to be his guardian, his family—was drowning himself in wine and mistresses.
Elizabeth's voice was sharp: *He's a coward.*
Giovanni didn't disagree.
---
The nursery was in the east wing of the estate. It was a quiet room, filled with soft light and the smell of milk and clean linen. A cradle sat in the corner, carved from dark wood, lined with blankets that had been embroidered by Aunt Elara herself before she died.
Giovanni visited every day. He'd been visiting since the funeral. The wet nurse—a kind woman named Marta with gentle hands and tired eyes—had been caring for Amara. Giovanni had arranged it. He'd found her himself. He'd interviewed her himself. He'd made sure she was paid from his own allowance.
Amara was three months old now. She was small, with a tuft of blonde hair—the same shade as Uncle cassius'—and black eyes reminiscent of aunt Elara .
Giovanni stood by the crib. He didn't touch her. He was afraid to. She was so small. So fragile. Like a porcelain doll that could shatter if he breathed wrong.
"How is she?" he asked Marta.
"Healthy, young master. She's feeding well. Sleeping well. She's a quiet baby. Very calm."
"Is she... is she in any pain? Any discomfort?"
"No, young master. She's perfectly fine."
Giovanni nodded. He watched Amara sleep. Her tiny chest rose and fell. Her fist was curled against her cheek. She looked peaceful. Content.
He thought about Aunt Elara. The way she'd held Amara in those first moments. The way she'd smiled. The way she'd named her.
"Take care of her," he said. "Whatever you need—whatever she needs—tell me. I'll arrange it."
"Of course, young master."
He turned to leave. Then stopped. Looked back.
"Marta... if Lord Cassius ever comes here... if he ever tries to take her... tell me. Immediately."
Marta didn't ask why. She just nodded. "I will, young master."
Giovanni left. Elizabeth followed.
*You're going to raise her yourself, aren't you?* she asked.
Giovanni didn't break stride. "Someone has to."
---
The study was a large room, filled with ledgers and maps and correspondence and the weight of generations. The desk was massive—carved from oak, scarred by decades of use. The chair behind it was too big for Giovanni. His feet didn't touch the floor.
He didn't care.
The steward—Bernard—stood before him, wringing his hands. He was nervous. He didn't know what to make of this child who spoke like a man.
"Young master... with Lord Cassius indisposed... someone must manage the estate. But you're only—"
"I'm aware of my age, Bernard."
"Forgive me, young master. I meant no offense."
"You didn't give any. You're right. I'm four. I shouldn't have to do this. But I am. So we will proceed."
Bernard blinked. Then nodded. "As you wish, young master."
They spent the next hours going through accounts. Expenses. Taxes. Alliances. Obligations. Giovanni absorbed it all. He asked questions—sharp, precise questions. Bernard answered. He was surprised—and impressed—by how quickly the boy understood.
Elizabeth watched from the corner. She didn't interrupt. She just observed.
And worried.
*You're going to burn out*, she said later, when they were alone.
Giovanni didn't look up from the ledger. "I don't have that luxury."
---
**Year One:**
Giovanni learned the estate. He learned the people. He learned the politics. He promoted loyal servants. He dismissed corrupt ones. He cut expenses. He increased revenues.
The Rosenthal estate—neglected under Lord Cassius's grief—began to recover.
**Year Two:**
Giovanni expanded his reach. He met with neighboring nobles. He negotiated trade agreements. He settled disputes. He was known now—the child lord of Rosenthal. Some mocked him. Some respected him.
All underestimated him.
**Year Three:**
Giovanni was seven. He was tall for his age, with lean muscle built from years of training. Still quiet. Still cold. But there was something about him that made people listen. Something that made them *afraid*.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
Amara grew. She said her first word—"Gio"—and Giovanni pretended it didn't affect him.
It did.
Lord Cassius remained a ghost. Drinking. Whoring. Occasionally appearing in the halls, disheveled and empty-eyed. He didn't speak to Giovanni. He didn't speak to Amara. He didn't speak at all, really. Not to anyone who mattered.
Giovanni didn't give up on him. He kept him informed. Sent him reports. Left letters on his desk.
There was no point. But he did it anyway.
---
The morning was cold. Winter had settled over the estate like a blanket of frost, and Giovanni sat in the study, reviewing ledgers by candlelight. He was seven years old, and he had already learned that warmth was a luxury he couldn't always afford.
A knock at the door.
"Enter."
A messenger stepped inside, his face flushed from the cold. He carried a scroll sealed with the royal crest—a diamond surrounded by four leaves.
Giovanni broke the seal. Read.
His expression didn't change.
The message was simple: The Diamond Kingdom was mobilizing. Border skirmishes with the Clover Kingdom had escalated. Each Great Noble House was required to send a representative—and a contingent of mages—to the front lines.
House Rosenthal must comply.
Giovanni read it twice. Then he set it down.
Elizabeth read over his shoulder. *They're sending children to war?*
"They're sending mages. Age is irrelevant."
*Giovanni... you're seven.*
"I'm aware."
*You can't—*
"I can. And I will."
He stood. Walked to the window. Looked out at the estate—at the gardens where Aunt Elara had walked, at the fountain where her water had broken, at the cemetery where she was buried.
"Lord Cassius won't go. He can't. He's not... he's not there anymore."
*So you'll go instead?*
"Someone has to. And I'm the only one left."
He turned. His face was calm. His eyes were not.
"Besides... I've been training for this. I've been preparing for the day I'd have to fight. I just didn't think it would come so soon."
Elizabeth didn't argue. She wanted to. But she didn't.
Instead, she asked: *What about Amara?*
"Marta will care for her. Bernard will manage the estate. I'll leave instructions." He paused. "I'll write to Uncle. He might not read it. But I'll write it anyway."
*You're hoping he'll wake up.*
"I'm hoping he'll remember he has a daughter. That's all."
---
That night, Giovanni sat at the desk. A single candle burned beside him, its flame flickering in the draft. He wrote slowly, carefully, his handwriting small and precise and elegant.
*Uncle—*
*By the time you read this, I will be gone. The royal decree requires House Rosenthal to send a representative to the front. I have volunteered in your stead.*
*I do not do this out of anger. I do not do this out of spite. I do this because someone must. And because Aunt Elara would have wanted me to protect what remains of this family.*
*Amara is healthy. She is growing. She looks like Aunt Elara. She has your eyes. She deserves a father. Not a ghost.*
*I hope, by the time I return, you will have found your way back to her. If not for yourself... then for Elara. For Amara. For me.*
*—Giovanni*
He sealed the letter. Set it on the desk.
Then he stood. Walked to the nursery.
Amara was three now. She was sleeping, her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her black eyes closed. She looked peaceful. Safe.
He touched her hair. Just once. Just briefly.
"I'll be back," he whispered. "I promise."
Elizabeth watched from the doorway. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.
He left the nursery. The candle in the study flickered.
Then went out.
---
The royal encampment was chaos.
Tents stretched in every direction, soldiers and mages moving between them like ants in a disturbed nest. The smell of smoke and steel hung heavy in the air. Somewhere in the distance, someone was shouting orders.
Giovanni walked through it all, his formal robes marking him as a noble, his grimoire at his hip. Elizabeth was inside it—silent, watchful.
He entered the command tent.
A general sat behind a table covered in maps. He was an old man, scarred and tired, with eyes that had seen too much. He looked up when Giovanni entered.
He didn't blink at Giovanni's age. He'd seen stranger things.
"You are the representative of House Rosenthal?"
"I am."
"You're a child."
"I'm a mage."
The general studied him. Then nodded. "So be it. The Kingdom doesn't care about age. Only power. And your house is known for spatial magic."
"We are."
"Good. We need mages who can manipulate the battlefield. Cut off enemy retreats. Reinforce our lines. You'll be assigned to the 7th Company. They're short on officers."
"What is my position?"
The general smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Deputy Commander."
Giovanni didn't react. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He just nodded.
"Understood."
The general slid a piece of parchment across the table. "Your orders. You ship out tomorrow. Dismissed."
Giovanni took the parchment. Turned. Walked out of the tent.
The sun was setting. The sky was red. Like fire. Like blood.
*Giovanni...* Elizabeth's voice was quiet.
"I know."
*This is war.*
"I know."
*You're seven.*
"I know."
He looked at the horizon. The Clover Kingdom was out there. Somewhere. Along with Asta. Along with Yuno. Along with everyone Elizabeth had told him about.
"Elizabeth."
*Yeah?*
"Do you think the dream meant something? The fire. The ash. The throne."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: *I think... I think dreams are just dreams. But I also think we make them real by believing them.*
He nodded. "Then I'll prove it wrong."
*How?*
He looked at her. For the first time since Aunt Elara's death, something flickered in his eyes. Not hope. Not fear.
Something harder. Something sharper.
"By surviving. By rising. By changing everything."
He turned. Walked toward his tent. The 7th Company awaited.
The sun set behind him, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold. His shadow stretched long across the ground—small, straight, resolute.
Then the light faded.
And there was only darkness.
---
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