The cries of a newborn pierced the still air of the noble estate.
Servants rushed through the halls, candles flickered with excitement, and joy rippled through the marble corridors of House Talas, one of the oldest noble families in the Kingdom of Draconia.
In the birthing chamber, under silken sheets and the careful hands of skilled midwives, a child had just been born.
"It's a boy!" one of them announced, her voice bright with relief.
The mother, Lady Elira Talas, lay weak but smiling, her face radiant with the glow of new life. Beside her stood her husband, Count Elon Talas, tall and proud, his eyes glistening with awe.
He stepped forward, carefully cradling the tiny bundle of cloth handed to him.
"He's perfect..." Elon whispered.
The baby's skin was fair, but warm, and his hair already held a strange silvery sheen—rare for a newborn. Yet it was the eyes that captured them all: golden, luminous, as if reflecting light from within.
For a brief second, the infant opened those strange eyes and locked his gaze with his father's.
It felt like the world stopped.
"Elira," Elon said softly. "I want to name him... Eldarion."
She blinked. "That's... not a Draconian name."
"No," he agreed. "It came to me in a dream. It felt right. As if the name chose him."
Elira, gazing at the child now nestled against her, smiled faintly. "Then Eldarion he shall be."
🏰 In the days that followed...
The estate buzzed with celebration. Nobles and retainers visited to offer gifts and congratulations. A child born under a full twin-moon was already seen as auspicious. A child born with dragon-gold eyes?
Whispers began to spread.
Some said it was a sign from the dragons. Others murmured about the ancient prophecies, long buried in temple records. A few dared suggest the child might carry a divine spark.
But Count Elon silenced the rumors with nobility and tact. He only saw his son—a legacy to be raised with strength, honor, and dignity.
👶 But within Eldarion...
Though he could not speak or move as an adult, something deep within him stirred—awareness.
He knew he was reborn.
His thoughts were fragmented, infantile, but the memories of the dragons, their voices, and their power, still echoed faintly in his core.
He felt the warmth of Aetherius like sunlight on his skin.
He dreamed of wings, fire, and starlight.
And when his tiny hand reached out, fireflies that weren't there a moment ago began to swirl in the air.
The nursemaid gasped.
"Did... did you see that?"
But it faded quickly. A trick of the light, she told herself. A coincidence. Magic sometimes clung to noble bloodlines, after all.
Yet, as the baby drifted to sleep, Eldarion thought—no, knew:
"This time... I will live with purpose.""This life will not be wasted.""I will become the flame that the darkness fears."
And so the world turned.
The boy with the eyes of dragons slept soundly in his cradle of silk, unaware that fate had already begun its march.