Chapter: 4 Seeds of rivalry

A gentle hush lingered in the room, where soft light poured through sheer curtains and settled over everything like a warm blanket. The walls were painted in calming tones, the air still, filled only with the faint sound of birds outside. It was the kind of peace that felt untouched - like a moment held in time.

By the window, a women sat quietly, her hands resting softly on her lap. Her posture was poised, regal without effort. She gazed out, not at anything in particular, but with a thoughtful of look - as if her mind was somewhere far away, walking through memories she had not spoken of in years.

Besides her, in a cradle made of smoth, dark wood, lay a child - no older than six months. The baby slept soundly, undisturbed. His tiny breaths rising and falling in perfect rhythm. The sunlight touched his cheeks, adding a gentle glow to the innocence on his face.

Then, the door opened with barely a sound. A maid stepped into the room, dressed in traditional clothing that whispered of humility and tradition. Her presence was quiet, her movements precise. She bowed low, her head lowered, and spoke softly.

" My lady, the child has been born. It's a boy."

The woman turned her head slightly toward the voice. She didn't speak right away. Her face remained calm, untouched by surprise, but there was something different in her eyes now - a softness, a flicker of something unspoken. A small smile appeared,faint but real, as though her heart had whispered something only she could hear.

She gave a slow nod. No words. Only silence, and that lingering smile.

Her gaze returned to the window, though it now seemed to see a little more than before. The light had shifted, too. It touched the cradle and her shoulders with golden fingers, making the room feels even warmer. Still, there was something distant in her eyes - a quiet joy,yes, but also a hidden longing, buried deep where no one else could reach.

The woman's face came into full view as the light touched her cheek. Her long, flowing purple hair shimmered faintly in the soft sunlight, and her emerald green eyes glinted with quiet sharpness.

Though her attire - a traditional kimono - marked her as a woman of tenshogai, there was something in her presence that hinted otherwise. She didn't belong entirely to this land. She sat gracefully beside the cradle, her expression calm, yet layered with an emotion not easily deciphered.

She watched her child sleep - his features soft and innocent, untouched by the burdens of the world. His hair, dark as the night sky, reminded him so much of his father, kiryuu Hanzou. But his eyes remained closed.

The woman's lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile. Her fingers gently brushed the edge of the cradle, but her eyes remained distant - as if looking not at her son, but the years ahead. "My son, Renjiro," she whispered, her voice soft and melodic, yet carrying the weight of something ominous.

" Your rival has been born ."

Her gaze lingered, unwavering, as though the words she spoke were not just thoughts but prophecy.

" Though he may be an illegitimate child...he still your rival. He is your younger stepbrother."

The room remained bathed in the gentle light, but the warmth felt heavier now - tiged with something colder. The peaceful rhythm of her child renjiro's breath continued, unaware of the invisible thread that had just been tied between him and another.

Outside, the world moved as usual. Inside, something had shifted.

The mother watched him sleep a moment longer, her smile never quiet fading. It wasn't love that glinted in her eyes - it was foresight.

The maid had remained silent, her hands gently folding the silken sheets, but her ears hadn't missed a single word the queen had uttered.

She lowered her head slightly, her gaze flickering toward the crib where the newborn slept peacefully. Unaware of the weight now tied to his fate.

(Inner monologue)

" To think...her highness Reina has already tied the threads of destiny around first prince Renjiro, even before his eyes have opened fully to this world."

A faint breath escaped her lips, a mix of awe and apprehension.

(Soft whisper under breath):

" My dear highness Reina...to bless the first prince so silently, so solemnly - should I call it your love, or your sorrow hidden behind grace?"

She then bowed respectfully, her voice steady, laced with deep reverence.

" As expected of first Queen Reina, the mother of the nation's light."

Reina turned her gaze toward the maid, her expression unreadable. The flicker of an arched eyebrow broke the silence, casting a chill across the sunlight corridor. She didn't shout, didn't frown - yet the weight of her presence was suffocating.

Her voice, smooth as silk yet sharp as a blade, slipped through the air.

" What name did my husband and that lowly servant choose for their child?"

The maid lowered her eyes, hands trembling slightly against the silver tray she held. She dared not meet the queen's gaze. The air seemed to still, as if the palace itself was holding it's breath.

Reina's gaze sharpened, the tension in the air thick enough to cut.

The maid, standing just a few paces away, bowed slightly - her posture respectful but cautious, as though aware of the storm her words might stir.

" The child's name is kiryuu Ryouma, your highness."she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

For a moment, silence swallowed the room. Even the flicker of candlelight seemed to hesitate.

Reina's lips curved into a smile- cold. Calculated, and laced with a hidden flame. She turned her gaze toward the crib where her own son, Renjiro,lay peacefully unaware of the storm outside his dreams.

Her violet eyes gleamed - not with maternal warmth. But with iron - clad resolve.

" My hero Renjiro," she whispered,her voice smooth like velvet hiding steel, " Prepare yourself."

For in that moment, a mother did not simply name her son. She declared war.

Meanwhile, deep within the jungle near a makeshift campsite -

The crackle of fire and rustle of leaves surrounded the clearing, but all focus was drawn to the woman crouched by a rough - hewn log.

The panel framed her from the waist down - powerful legs firmly planted on the earth, her stance steady, like a predator used to the hunt.

She worked with precise, practiced motion, slicing into the boar meat with a handmade blade, the muscles in her thighs flexing with each movement.

A close- up revealed her mouth - lips parting, teeth sinking into a strip of still - steaming meat.

Juice dribbled down her chin ignored.

No elegance. No ceremony. Just instinct. Survival.

Around her, smoke drifted lazily upward from the firepit. In the background, other figures moved - some sharpening weapons, others tending wounds or fixing gear - but she remained focused, carving, chewing, eyes unseen.

This was not the life of a noble.

This was the life of a beast that chose to live.