Ruh Oh
His grandmother barely acknowledged him, her disinterest palpable. She held herself with the air of someone who had been forced to attend an event beneath her station. The way her gaze skimmed over him and Esther—brief, cold, dismissive—sent a flicker of irritation through him.
And then he saw it.
A sneer.
Not a full, dramatic expression—she was too polished for that—but a barely-there tightening of her lips, the faintest scrunch of her nose, like she'd just caught a whiff of something unpleasant.
Like them.
Like him.
Elijah might have been a baby, but he was violently aware of disrespect. And right now, he was being disrespected on a fundamental level. She looked at him and saw his missing arm, saw his very existence as some kind of stain.
Oh, if only he had the ability to flip her off.
God, he would have loved to. He would have given her both middle fingers, in spirit.
Instead, he settled for glaring at her. As much as a four-month-old could. His little fingers flexed against his grandfather's vest, and he tried to project every ounce of his fuck you energy into the look he shot her.
I am four months old and already loathe sharing genetics with you, you pompous, entitled, crusty old witch.
Meanwhile, she was Karen-ing the hell out of the waitstaff. It was actually impressive how effortlessly rude she was. The flick of her fingers, the passive-aggressive "I assume this is correct this time?" tone, the way she barely looked at them like they were just set dressing for her world. Textbook asshole behavior.
His grandfather, by contrast, barely touched his food. Instead, he spent the whole time holding Elijah—and then, much to Elijah's surprise, scooped up Esther too.
She remained as calm as ever, her tiny hands curling against their grandfather's suit. She was always like that when Elijah was close by, like his presence alone was enough to keep her grounded.
For the first time that night, he saw it—a real smile on his mother's face.
Not the polite, calculated smile she had wielded like a weapon earlier. A real one. A flicker of warmth, of actual love, directed toward her father.
Meanwhile, her expression toward her mother? Daggers.
Elijah fully supported this energy.
He fixed his tiny baby stare on his grandmother, squinting extra hard. Yes, Mother, let us glare at this woman together.
The meal was coming to a close, the plates nearly empty, the tension barely contained beneath the polite facade.
And then—just as everything seemed to be winding down—shit got real.
His grandmother cleared her throat, a dainty, calculated sound that rang through the private dining room like a gavel striking wood.
"It is good that you could make it," she said, smooth as silk, venom tucked neatly behind the edges of civility. "I have an announcement."
Elijah tensed.
Oh, this is going to be bad.
Not maybe bad. Not potentially bad. Guaranteed, apocalyptic-level bad.
He had spent precisely one hour in this woman's presence, and he already knew—on a primal level—that nothing good ever came out of her mouth.
"I understand you plan to leave Earth," she continued, the casualness of her tone making it sound like she was discussing the weather.
His mother's response was immediate. Cold. Final. "That is correct."
His grandmother smiled.
Not a pleasant smile. Not even a polite one.
A predator's smile.
It wasn't in the sharpness of her teeth or the way her lips curved—it was in the control. The deliberate, knowing amusement, the quiet certainty of someone who believed they were about to win.
Elijah's skin prickled. His instincts screamed. He had no logical reason to react this strongly—she hadn't said anything terrible yet—but his gut knew.
Something was wrong.
His grandmother took her time, lifting her glass, swirling the liquid inside like she was savoring the moment. Then, with the grace of a queen bestowing a royal decree, she spoke.
"I have applied for the Emperor's goodwill. Clemency is an option. You only need to marry—"
"No."
His mother's voice cut through the air like a blade.
Sharp. Unyielding. The kind of no that didn't allow for arguments, discussions, or second chances.
His grandmother's expression didn't falter, but Elijah swore he saw the slightest flicker of irritation at being shut down so quickly.
But it was his grandfather's reaction that caught his attention.
The man frowned.
Not in disappointment. Not in disapproval. In confusion.
He had no idea.
The realization hit like a hammer. Whatever scheme his grandmother had been weaving, she had done it alone.
For the first time that evening, the tension at the table wasn't just between mother and daughter.
It had cracked open something much bigger.
His grandmother smiled.
Not the polite, measured kind of smile that masked cruelty behind civility—no, this was something else. Something gloating. A smile of victory.
Damn, she's a viper, Elijah thought, watching her closely.
"I thought you might resist," she said, tapping a manicured nail against her glass. "But you leave me no choice."
His mother's expression hardened instantly, her whole posture shifting. A battle stance without the battle.
"Mother, he is a bastard. I refuse. He is a bastard. My husband—"
"Your dead husband," his grandmother cut in smoothly, never raising her voice, never breaking her rhythm.
A perfect strike. A dagger slipped right between the ribs.
Oh, shit.
Elijah felt it before he saw it.
Power.
His mother's cultivation flared, not wildly but with precision—controlled, deliberate. It coiled around her like an unseen force, humming in the air like a storm gathering on the horizon.
Esther, feeling the shift, let out a wail, her tiny body trembling. Their grandfather adjusted his grip, trying to soothe her, but she was too overwhelmed.
Elijah?
He didn't cry.
Didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. He just… watched.
He was enthralled.
His mother's fury was a spectacle, a force that demanded attention. It wasn't just anger—it was a warning.
And his grandfather, the only one paying attention to Elijah, noticed he didn't flinch.
He glanced down, brow furrowing ever so slightly. A baby, no more than four months old, should have been wailing like his sister when his mother released her cultivation. But Elijah sat completely still.
Unnatural. Calculating. Watching.
Meanwhile, Abel, ever the composed shadow, grimaced.
His hand twitched at his side, like he was restraining himself from stepping forward. His mother's anger didn't unsettle him—this did.
Then, the doors to their private room swung open.
It was calculated timing.
A man stepped inside, his presence effortlessly commanding.
He didn't rush. Didn't hesitate.
He walked like the ground itself welcomed him.
Slicked-back black hair, sharp hazel eyes, chiseled features. A face sculpted by generations of perfect breeding. He wasn't just handsome—he was crafted. A man whose entire existence had been shaped for power, for control, for status.
And he carried himself like it.
Like he belonged everywhere.
Like the world would bend to accommodate him.
"Who is a bastard?" he asked coolly, voice smooth, effortless, the new comer said elegantly.
His mother's lips pressed into a thin line.
His grandmother smiled wider.
And Elijah felt it—his grandfather tensed.
Not subtly. Not in a way only an expert could notice.
Visibly.
His grip on Elijah and Esther remained steady, but there was rigidity in his stance now. Like a soldier bracing for an incoming strike.
Esther continued to cry, her small body wracked with soft hiccups.
Elijah?
He just stared.
Not just at the man.
At all of them.
Because something about this—all of it—felt like the tipping point.
Something irreversible had just been set into motion.
And whatever happened next?
This was the moment everything changed.
And Elijah?
He nestled into his grandfather's hold, staring up at his grandmother with wide, innocent baby eyes—because that was all he could do.