Nox Sillon (1)

23 Years Ago

The Sillon estate stood in eerie silence beneath the pale glow of the crescent moon.

Nestled deep within the remote countryside of Magentano, it lacked the opulent grandeur of noble courts, yet its towering stone walls and vast, sprawling lands carried an air of quiet, unwavering dignity.

But tonight, that dignity had been stripped away.

The estate, usually a haven of solitude, was suffused with an unsettling stillness—one that did not stem from peace, but from the kind of silence that settled after something had gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.

Shadows stretched unnaturally long across the cobblestone paths, cast by flickering lanterns that swayed in the wind, their light barely holding against the encroaching darkness.

Inside, the corridors lay abandoned, yet the emptiness was deceptive.

The air itself felt crowded—as if unseen eyes lingered within the shadows, as if something formless and waiting had curled itself into the very bones of the estate.

A chill seeped into the stone walls, not of winter's making, but of something far older, far more insidious.

Then—footsteps.

Measured.

Unhurried.

A steady rhythm that rang out against the marble floors, each step a deliberate intrusion into the silence.

They came from the great hall, their presence cutting through the suffocating stillness like a blade sliding against flesh.

It was neither the hurried scurry of a servant nor the weary tread of a weary noble returning home.

No, this was something else entirely. A presence that did not belong, yet moved as though it did.

The shadows flickered.

The lanterns dimmed.

And still, the footsteps drew closer.

Inside the dimly lit master chamber, Lady Seraphina Sillon lay trembling, her fragile form wracked with relentless agony.

The once-proud lady of the estate, known for her grace and quiet strength, was now reduced to a figure of suffering—her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, her body slick with sweat as wave after wave of pain tore through her.

The chamber, adorned with heavy velvet drapes and dark wooden furnishings, felt oppressively small, suffused with the cloying scent of lavender and burning herbs.

Superstitious hands had scattered talismans and muttered hushed prayers, warding against unseen evils.

Yet none of it could banish the unease that clung to the air like an unshakable curse.

A sharp, desperate cry tore from her lips, raw and broken.

The midwives exchanged nervous glances, their faces pale and drawn.

This was no ordinary childbirth.

The way the candles flickered without wind, the way the shadows stretched unnaturally in the corners of the room—it was as if something unseen lurked just beyond the reach of the dim light, watching.

Waiting.

Another scream.

This one more guttural, more inhuman.

And then, for just a moment, the air itself seemed to still.

"Hold on, my Lady! Just a little more!"

The desperate cry of the midwife rang through the chamber, her trembling hands slick with blood.

She had assisted in many births before—had witnessed both joy and tragedy unfold in rooms like this—but this… this was different.

Seraphina barely had the strength to respond.

Her lips parted, but no words came, only shallow, uneven breaths.

The pain was no longer just physical.

It was wrong.

Something unnatural coiled deep within her, writhing and twisting like an unseen force clawing at her insides.

Every contraction felt like something was fighting back, resisting its entry into the world, as if reality itself strained under its presence.

The chamber was suffocating, the air thick with the mingling scents of lavender, burning herbs, and blood.

The flickering candlelight cast warped shadows upon the walls—shadows that seemed to move, to breathe, independent of their sources.

Beyond the heavy wooden door, in the dimly lit corridor, Lord Aldric Sillon paced with slow, measured steps—an illusion of control masking the storm raging within him.

His fingers curled tightly around the hilt of his sword, knuckles white from the force of his grip.

Not out of battle-readiness.

Not out of instinct.

But out of sheer, mounting tension.

The unnatural cries from within the chamber sent ice down his spine.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

The servants lingered in the dimly lit corridor, watching from the shadows, their whispers barely more than a breath against the cold stone walls.

None dared approach Lord Aldric Sillon, not when his tension radiated like a drawn blade, sharp and unyielding.

Then—the doors creaked open.

A hush fell over the corridor as Madame Isolde, the head midwife, stepped out.

Her once-pristine apron was stained crimson, the fabric clinging damply to her trembling hands.

She was a woman of iron resolve, one who had witnessed the full spectrum of life and death without flinching.

Yet now, she hesitated, her sharp features set in an uneasy grimace, her gaze flickering downward for the briefest moment before meeting Aldric's.

Aldric stilled.

His fingers, still wrapped around the hilt of his sword, tightened imperceptibly.

"Speak."

His voice was steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

For the first time in her long career, Madame Isolde hesitated.

And that, more than anything, filled the lord's chest with a cold, suffocating dread.

Aldric immediately turned.

"How is she?"

Lord Aldric's voice cut through the thick air like a blade.

Madame Isolde hesitated.

A rare thing for a woman who had delivered more noble heirs than she cared to count—who had stood firm in the face of grief, joy, and even death without wavering.

But tonight… tonight was different.

She straightened, gathering herself.

"She is strong, my Lord, but—"

She faltered, her voice lowering as if afraid the very walls might hear,

"The child feels… abnormal."

Aldric's brows knitted together, his grip on his sword tightening.

"What do you mean, abnormal?"

A pause.

Madame Isolde's lips pressed into a thin line, as if weighing her words carefully.

Finally, she spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

"It does not cry."

Silence stretched between them.

The distant flicker of torchlight cast long, uneasy shadows across the stone floor.

Aldric's breath slowed.

A child that does not cry?

Even in the stillness of night, a newborn's wail should have echoed through the halls, a declaration of life, of survival.

But the air remained heavy with silence.

The midwife swallowed, glancing toward the chamber door.

"And its eyes, my Lord… they opened the moment it entered this world."

Aldric's heart sank.

Newborns did not open their eyes so soon.

Something in his chest twisted—a nameless dread creeping along his spine.

The midwife's grip on her apron tightened, knuckles whitening as she struggled to steady herself.

Her voice dropped even lower, almost as if she feared speaking the words aloud might give them power.

"There is something… unnatural about this birth. The air feels strange. The child is—"

A sharp, piercing cry rang through the chamber.

Not the frail, helpless wail of a newborn.

But something sharper, something that cut through the very air like a jagged blade.

Aldric stiffened.

The servants flinched, some taking an instinctive step back, their hands clasped in silent prayer.

Even Madame Isolde, a woman who had long since hardened herself against the horrors of childbirth, went pale.

For a moment, all was still.

Then—the torches lining the corridor flickered wildly, their flames stretching unnaturally high before snuffing out in unison.

Darkness swallowed the hall.

And from within the chamber, the cry did not fade.

Then—silence.

Not the silence of relief, but of something unnatural.

A stillness so complete it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

Aldric didn't wait.

With a sharp movement, he pushed past Madame Isolde and stepped into the chamber.

The air inside was thick—too thick—clinging to his skin like damp fog.

The candle flames flickered erratically, their glow weak, struggling against some unseen force.

Shadows danced across the stone walls, twisting in ways they shouldn't.

On the grand bed, Seraphina lay still, her chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths.

She was barely clinging to consciousness.

Her once-radiant skin was now pallid, slick with sweat, her golden hair matted against her fevered brow.

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came—only a faint, ragged breath.

And then Aldric's gaze fell upon the child.

His breath caught.

It lay swathed in fine silk, cradled in the trembling hands of a midwife, but it did not squirm or wail like a newborn should.

Its crimson eyes were open.

And they were staring directly at him.

And in Madame Isolde's trembling hands was the newborn child, wrapped in linen.

His skin was pale, his limbs unnervingly still. But what unsettled them the most—what froze the midwives in place—were his eyes.

Not blue.

Not green.

Not even the warm crimson of noble bloodlines.

No.

They were deep red, like the abyss itself.

Not the red of fire, nor the red of life—but the red of something ancient. Something that had no place in this world.

The young midwife holding the child recoiled slightly.

"Why… why isn't he crying?"

Another midwife shuddered.

"H-he just opened his eyes and..."

Seraphina, with the last of her strength, weakly reached out.

"Let me see him."

Madame Isolde hesitated before stepping forward, placing the newborn into his mother's arms.

As soon as Seraphina touched him, a gust of cold air swept through the room, making the candle flames shudder violently.

The women exchanged uneasy glances.

Aldric's eyes were locked onto his son's face, his hand unconsciously tightening around his sword hilt.

A newborn child was supposed to cry upon birth.

It was the first sign of life, of breath, of existence.

But this child...

He simply stared.

Seraphina, despite her weakness, gazed at him with a mixture of love and deep, aching fear.

She traced his tiny cheek with a trembling finger.

"His name..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She hesitated.

A name had power.

A name could shape destiny.

And somehow, she knew—deep in her bones—that this child's fate would be unlike any other.

Finally, she exhaled softly.

"Nox... Nox Sillon."

At that moment, every candle in the room went out.

The chamber was swallowed by darkness.

Aldric's breath hitched.

The midwives gasped in terror.

A sudden whisper echoed through the air, something unintelligible, something that didn't belong in this world.

The shadows in the corners of the room moved.

Aldric drew his sword instantly, the steel singing as it left its scabbard.

His instincts screamed at him—something was here.

Watching.

Waiting.

Seraphina's breath came in weak, slow gasps.

The newborn in her arms, little Nox, simply continued staring—his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the pitch-black room.

The last thing Aldric saw before the candles reignited on their own…

Was his son staring directly at him.

And for the first time in his life, Aldric Sillon felt true fear.