The world outside stirred with the quiet hush of dawn.
Soft rays spilled through the old cathedral windows, painting golden bars upon stone and crib alike. Dust hung in the air like a thousand sleeping stars, and in that stillness, in that sacred hush between heartbeats and heaven — the Saintess stirred.
Her eyes, rimmed red from tears long since dried, opened to the warmth of light grazing her cheek. Her first breath caught in her throat — for the pain of yesterday had not yet faded. Not truly. It clung to her bones like frost, buried beneath duty and hope.
But then… she turned.
And there he was.
Alucard.
Still asleep in his cradle — a cradle of woven silver and blessed wood, nestled beside her bed as if to remind her that even miracles must begin small.
His breath was steady. His face... so impossibly soft. So impossibly human.
No crown upon his brow. No sword in his hand.
Just a boy.
A child born beneath prophecy's shadow, destined to carry the weight of salvation.
And yet, in that moment, he was just a baby — stretching a tiny hand toward the ceiling as if to catch the morning sun. His lips curled into the faintest smile. And then, without a sound, his eyes opened.
And he looked at her.
Not as a savior. Not as the Saintess.
But simply… her.
She smiled — slowly at first, as if afraid it might break her. Then fuller, like spring after a long, bitter winter. "Good morning, little one," she whispered, her voice cracking like old parchment kissed by fire.
He reached for her.
She did not hesitate.
Her arms scooped him into her chest, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, she laughed — a small, broken thing, but real. She spun gently, dancing barefoot across the marble floor, robes swaying around her like golden petals.
Alucard giggled.
A sound so pure it seemed to cleanse the room itself.
As if, for a moment, the future had no teeth.
As if the weight of prophecy had forgotten his name.
As if fate itself had paused... just to let a child laugh.
His stomach growled.
She froze, then laughed again, wiping tears from her cheeks. "You must be starving, my sunshine," she said softly, kissing his brow. "Alright then. Let's feed you."
She moved through the old stone halls of the sanctuary with steps like silk, whispering prayers under her breath not to the heavens — but to him.
"Let him keep laughing."
"Let him grow strong… and gentle."
"Let him never know the grief his brother will."
She entered the small kitchen tucked behind the ancient chapel — a place most had forgotten, save for her and the quiet ghosts of peace. Upon the table, still warm from morning enchantments, a bottle of milk waited.
She smiled at the little miracle of it.
Sometimes, the gods still listened.
She warmed it in her hands, then settled onto a nearby chair, cradling Alucard in her arms as he drank. His eyes blinked slow, content, innocent.
Then — they caught on something.
A rapier.
Hung high on the far wall, above a mantle of sunstone and scripture.
Its hilt was old, yet polished with reverence. Its blade thin as truth. Once wielded by one of the Five — the first heroes to cross the Endless Sea and unite the broken lands into a single continent.
Founders of this world.
Keepers of its peace.
And there it rested — not in a war chamber, not behind lock and shrine — but here, in her kitchen.
As if to remind her: strength should serve, not rule.
Alucard stared at it. His little brow furrowed. Then he looked up at her.
She smiled, brushing a thumb across his cheek. "That?" she whispered. "That's a weapon, love. A noble one, yes. But not for today."
"Today… you are only a child."
He cooed in reply, drifting into sleep once more.
And as the Saintess held him to her heart, she whispered:
"May your hands never know blood…"
"…unless it is to protect the ones you love and cherish."
And outside, the sky turned gold.
For the world, just for that moment, was at peace.