The air in the tent was thick with the scent of damp earth and unwashed cloth. He held the child, a warm, feathery weight in his arms. The baby's clear blue eyes were wide open, staring right at him. Valerian felt a jolt of recognition; it wasn't the blank innocence of a newborn, but a profound, almost sorrowful concern. A fragile smile touched his lips, and he rocked the boy gently. "You worried about me, little one?" he murmured as he held the boy close to his chest "Don't be. We're going to be okay."

  He shifted the baby to his other arm, his gaze sweeping over his wife. She lay on a pile of furs, a listless silhouette barely visible in the dim light. Her black hair, usually a vibrant cascade, was a matted tangle, like a shadow cast over her. His fear for her soul was a far more consuming worry than her physical wounds.

  Valerian knelt and carefully lowered the baby beside her, turning the boy to face his mother. The child's soft gurgles were the only sound. He reached out a hesitant hand, his fingers stiff with exhaustion, and gently brushed the strands of hair from her face. The look in her eyes was like a physical blow—she was utterly broken. He didn't speak. He simply placed his palm against her swollen, tear-streaked cheek.

  She was still for a long time, a statue of grief. Then, so slowly he almost missed it, her eyelids flickered. Her focus shifted from the tent's roof to his face. She saw the tattered tunic, the disheveled hair, the deep, weary lines etched around his eyes—the cruel evidence of their long, brutal journey. A fresh wave of sorrow washed over her. He was still the mighty Valerian she adored, but his brave smile, worn to calm her heart, was so thin it hurt to look at.

  Tears welled again, thinking of what she had done, of the terrible cost. Her hand moved, shaking as it reached for his. She held his palm, a fragile anchor. "I'm so sorry, Valerian," she rasped, her voice dry. "All of this... it's because of me. If I'd just kept my head..."

  He shook his head, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. "Hey, none of that," he said, his voice a gentle rebuke. "You think I wouldn't have done the same thing? You just beat me to it." He leaned in to pull her into his arms, but the small, silent body between them stopped him. The baby lay there, his gaze moving between their faces with an innocent curiosity. They remained in that position, suspended in a moment of shared grief, neither speaking.

  It was Valerian who broke the silence. "You haven't fed our child, Anthy," he said, his voice quiet. "A child needs his mother. You haven't even held him... not since that day."

  A long pause stretched between them, punctuated only by the baby's soft breathing. Antheros finally spoke, her voice thin. "You... you know, don't you? That he's not our son?"

  "I know," Valerian said simply.

  Antheros looked at him, and a raw mix of surprise and self-loathing suddenly joined her brokenness.

  Valerian's own throat tightened. This was the hardest thing he had ever had to say. He clenched his fists, stifling the tears that threatened to rise. "I know our son is dead. He died with the star."

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  The word 'dead' was a final, shattering blow. It was the word she had refused to even think, the one truth she had hidden from, and hearing it from his lips was like the sky itself had fallen. She shuddered, a full-body tremor. But then, a flicker of thought cut through the despair. Why isn't he angry with me? Why isn't he blaming me? The questions spun through her mind. She tried to ask, "Then—" but his voice cut her off.

  "Our son was born from our love and died because of others’ greed," Valerian said, his voice gaining a faint, fragile determination. "But he..." He looked at the boy, his gaze softening as he gently pulled the child close. He turned the baby's face toward Antheros. "He's not so different, Anthy. He was born from our very essence—from you, from me, from everyone we love. He's a product of our love, too. So he's our son. Maybe our second son, but he's here now, and he's ours. I want him to be my son, and I want you to feel that way, too."

  He gently nudged the child forward. The baby was now just inches from her face, his curious blue eyes meeting hers. Antheros inched closer, her hand slowly rising to touch him. But the baby moved first. He lifted a tiny hand, a small, pink palm, and touched her cheek, his little fingers clumsily trying to wipe away her tears.

  That was it. The last of her control shattered. A deep, raw sob tore from her chest as she pulled the boy to her, holding him so tightly it hurt, burying her face in the soft curve of his neck. "You are my son," she cried. She had him there for what felt like hours, a storm of grief and love washing over her.

  Valerian watched for a time, then quietly left them. Anya was waiting just outside with a bowl of stew. He took it, eating in silence before asking, "What's the status?"

  Anya sighed. "We're stuck without Anthy's power. She's the only one who can get us through the valley."

  "Remind me again why she's the only one," Valerian said, his tone flat. He'd heard it before, but his mind was too tired to process it.

  "Back at the Twin Peaks, she found that huge waterfall," Anya explained, her voice tinged with dejection. "She had a feeling there was a passage behind it, but..."

  "A passage through a waterfall?" Valerian frowned, turning the idea over in his mind. "How'd she figure that out? And what about your own power?"

  Anya shook her head. "I can, my lord, but no one's powerful enough to do it alone except her."

  Valerian's frown deepened. "Do you not know her condition?" He stopped himself, hearing a soft voice from inside the tent.

  "Darling, can you come in for a moment?" Antheros called.

  He returned to the tent, finding both mother and child curled up together. Valerian lay down on the other side of the baby and closed his own eyes.

  He was in that half-asleep state when he heard his wife's whisper. "What should we call our little king?"

  Antheros looked at the baby's lovely blue eyes, filled with an unconditional love that had soothed her soul. "He is the start of our new journey," she said, holding him close and kissing his head. "We will call him Azuma."

  The boy, sleeping against her, stirred. He hadn't understood much of what was said, but he recognised the name. It was the only thing he remembered from his past. He felt a jolt of recognition. Only time would tell if this was a coincidence or part of a larger plan.

  Thank you for reading and for staying with this story until the end of the prologue.

  Your time, patience, and curiosity truly mean a great deal to me.

  Arc I begins on the 10th. From there onward, the story will update four chapters per week—Saturday, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

  From here, the Cursed Lands take center stage, where survival is no longer promised and every step forward carries weight. Does the name Azuma feel like an ending… or the beginning of something new?