CHAPTER 124: CHAPTER 123. THE COLOR OF HER EYES

Morwenna entered the room with the smile of a mother plastered on her face; she walked softly to Vivianne, feeling proud and understanding toward her daughter-in-law. In her arms, wrapped in a soft white blanket trimmed with gold, is the smallest and brightest miracle the Empire had ever hoped for.

The newborn is clean now, with no trace of blood remaining, her skin flushed a gentle rose. The midwives had already cut and tended the umbilical cord, sealing it carefully with a salve of warmed resin and healing herbs. A faint, sweet scent followed her—new life, warm milk, and the lingering touch of Undine’s blessing still sparkling faintly against her skin.

Morwenna stepped toward the bed. "She’s ready," she said softly, her voice thick with pride she didn’t bother to hide. "Your daughter is strong."

Roxanne turned first, her breath catching the moment she saw the baby’s face clearly for the first time. The child’s hair, still damp but unmistakable, gleamed a pale, luminous silver, the same rare shade Vivianne carried like a birthright.

Earlier, beneath blood and afterbirth, no one could see its true color. But now, revealed clean and soft, it shimmered like moonlight woven into strands.

Vivianne’s eyes filled instantly, her breath trembling, her hands already lifting despite how weak she still was. "Let me..." Her voice cracked, thin and aching with longing.

Morwenna smiled and lowered the newborn into her arms. Vivianne gathered the tiny bundle to her chest with a tenderness that made even the seasoned midwives silently avert their eyes, as if witnessing something too sacred to stare at directly.

The baby let out a small, questioning sound, more of a chirp than a cry, and Vivianne’s body reacted instinctively, shifting, angling, and guiding. Her arms moved faster. "Come here, sweetheart," Vivianne whispered, her voice tremor-soft. She guided the newborn gently, positioning her small head near her breast.

The baby rooted clumsily at first, her tiny mouth opening, searching. Roxanne reached out instinctively, steadying both her wife and their child with careful, trembling hands. When the baby finally latched with a soft, delicate pull, Vivianne gasped in overwhelming emotion.

Her head fell back against the pillows, exhaustion softening every edge of her expression as tears slipped quietly down her cheeks. "She’s real," she whispered—fragile, trembling, almost disbelieving. "Roxanne... she’s really here."

Roxanne tightened her hold around both mother and child, her breath catching as she watched Vivianne cradle their daughter as if she were made of starlight and glass.

Vivianne’s chest rose in an unsteady rhythm, each breath a mix of relief, awe, and overwhelming love. She’s a mother now, truly, irrevocably. A wife. An omega who belonged to only one alpha in this lifetime, by choice and by bond, not by fear.

Safe.

Her thumb brushed the newborn’s soft cheek, marveling at the warmth, the tiny breaths, and the faint cooing sounds. The baby’s silver hair—her hair—glimmered like moonlit silk against Vivianne’s arm. The sight undid her all over again.

Her second life had been rewritten, reshaped by fate’s mercy and Roxanne’s strength. The shadows of her past no longer reached her. Dietrich was dead. His madness, his cruelty, and the suffocating nightmares that once chased her through every sleeping hour held no dominion here.

No more chains, no more trembling in the dark, no more waking up to pain disguised as duty. Instead, she held her daughter, warm and breathing and perfect, wrapped in a future that did not terrify her.

Vivianne swallowed, her voice barely a thread. "She’s ours."

Roxanne pressed her forehead gently to Vivianne’s temple, her arms enveloping them both. "Yes," she murmured, her voice rough with emotion she never showed to anyone else. "She’s ours, Vivianne."

She exhaled like she had been holding her breath since the moment labor began. Her hand stroked Vivianne’s hair, then moved down to brush the baby’s tiny back. The newborn’s ears are so small, her nose a perfect dot, her fingers curling and uncurling as though grasping for the world.

Morwenna placed a steady hand on Roxanne’s shoulder, her voice warm with wonder and pride. "She looks like you, with Vivianne’s hair. I wonder how her eyes will be," she murmured, leaning closer to the tiny bundle swaddled in soft white cloth.

And as if the child understood the question, as if the universe itself decided this is the moment to answer, the baby’s eyelids fluttered, slow, delicate, and hesitant.

Then they opened slowly, and a clear, brilliant crimson spilled into the world.

The room inhaled sharply as one. Roxanne froze, breath caught, her heart stumbling in her chest. Vivianne’s lips parted in awe, her fingers trembling against the baby’s silvery hair. The newborn blinked once, twice, adjusting to the light, to her mother, and to her first moment of existence.

Crimson, unmistakable and radiant, Roxanne’s exact shade. Her demon’s blood side. "Roxanne..." Vivianne breathed, voice shaking with disbelief and overwhelming love. "She has your eyes."

Not just any eyes, but eyes born from a lineage no one on the continent could rival. Eyes that could command, could inherit, and could one day rule. But right now, they’re soft, curious, unfocused, drifting lazily between her two mothers as if trying to memorize their faces.

Roxanne reached out with a hand that trembled despite all her strength, touching her daughter’s cheek with a reverence she didn’t know she possessed. "You’re perfect," she whispered, voice cracking.

The baby made a small, breathy sound, half sigh, half humming whimper, before nestling deeper into Vivianne’s arms, tiny fingers curling instinctively around the soft fabric of her mother’s gown. She suckled with determined little pulls, drinking eagerly, her small body relaxing bit by bit as warm milk filled her belly.

Vivianne choked on a laugh that broke apart into another trembling wave of tears. She lowered her head and pressed her lips to the crown of her daughter’s soft, silver hair, inhaling deeply as though she were anchoring herself to this new life, this new beginning forged from everything she had survived. "My baby... my little girl..."

Her words cracked at the edges, fragile and overflowing with a happiness she had never dared dream of in her first life.

Morwenna watched them with softened eyes; she had witnessed births before, countless ones—but this moment, the sight of her daughter kneeling beside her wife and their newborn child, seemed to strike her with a reverence rarely spoken aloud.

"She’s strong," Morwenna murmured, her voice low but steady. "Strong, healthy... and beautiful. The ancestors will sing about this child."

-

The birth of the imperial heir spread across the continent like a fire—fast, undeniable, and impossible to ignore. By dawn, every kingdom, duchy, and clan had heard the same awe-tinged whisper: "The imperial princess is born. A daughter of silver and crimson."

Messengers galloped through trade routes still damp with early morning fog, carrying the news to the far reaches of Fenclade’s earthly mountains and through the portal to Erevalis’s magnificent obsidian fire. Even Maxim in the far north already received the messages.

A daughter, the first royal heir of the Borgia Empire, born with silver hair, the mark of a spirit bearer, and crimson eyes, the rare, living proof of demon lineage flowing from her alpha mother’s bloodline.

Two legacies woven into one tiny newborn, the future of the Empire, and a symbol powerful enough to shift the balance of the entire continent. In noble estates across the land, courtiers scrambled to prepare gifts worthy of such a child.

The Grand Duchy of Fenclade sent a sword. Forged from deep-mountain stone iron and infused with the earth spirits’ stillness and strength, it’s a blade meant to sleep until the princess grows and she can use the sword. Only then would the weapon recognize her and bind itself to her soul, becoming the heirloom of the sword.

From Erevalis, the Grand Duchy fire mages presented a cradle charm forged in molten glass and cooled in volcanic mist. Within it swirled drifting embers like trapped stars, ancient runes shimmering in molten gold, each mark layered with spells of warding, warmth, and fierce protection.

The North, rugged, cold, and proud, offered gifts shaped by the breath of the wind spirits. They wove pelts cured in glacial air, stitched with threads blessed in wind-born rituals. These pelts are said to carry the power to guard a newborn from illness, nightmares, and wandering spirits.

Even the minor territories, ones that once feared Erengard’s rule, now eagerly prepared tributes: bolts of silk, enchanted toys, rare herbs, blessed stones, and stacks of silver coins engraved with the imperial crest.

The palace halls began to fill with crates and carriages bearing emblems from every land. For the first time in generations, nobles didn’t fight for favor through violence or schemes; they waited, humbled and hopeful, for the moment the Emperor and Empress would present their heir.

And in the center of the empire, inside the softly lit chamber where Vivianne rested with her newborn daughter tucked to her chest, none of that noise mattered. All that mattered was the gentle rise and fall of a tiny breath.

Everything else, including everyone and the continent, could wait.