The sound of Alexander's footsteps echoed across the solid wooden floor, each strike resounding as if hitting a void, followed by the steady steps of the elders behind him. He paid no attention to the sound reverberating between the walls, lost deep in thought, his eyes wandering without focus. The wood beneath his feet seemed to vanish with each step, as if the floor had become merely a path into his inner world.

Suddenly, he felt a rough hand grip his arm tightly, as though someone was pulling him back from the edge of a cliff. He turned to see the face of Elder Loukos, a sly smile etched into his wrinkled features, as if time itself had poured all its wrath upon him. Loukos sneered, "At last, Alexander! I called you several times, but you were distant, unlike yourself."

A sudden urge flared within Alexander to punch that weathered face, but his hand remained at his side as he muttered through clenched teeth, "What do you want?"

Loukos gestured to a door behind them, his eyes gleaming with implication. "You've passed your destination... It seems your thoughts have carried you farther than they should."

Alexander turned toward the door, exhaling a heavy sigh, wiping his weary forehead with a tired hand before walking forward slowly, indifferent to the elder following him with steady steps, the sly smile still fixed on his face.

In front of the door stood a servant and a maid, like statues carved from a wall of silence. Their eyes were frozen, staring straight ahead without any movement. As Alexander approached, they bowed in unison. The servant spoke first in a calm tone, his voice carrying the remnants of restrained joy: "Congratulations, my lord, on the newborns—"

Before he could finish, Alexander interrupted with a sharp glance, a look that was enough to choke the words in the man's throat, followed by a clear, short command: "Not a word, just open the door."

The servant bowed again, lowering his head in silent obedience, before moving slowly to open the door with fluidity. Alexander turned to the elders standing behind him and coldly said, "I have no need for all of you. Leave."

Without argument or comment, the elders withdrew one by one, their silence as heavy as the ground beneath their feet, leaving Alexander to step inside, followed by Loukos, who remained wordless.

In front of his ancient desk, the very desk that had witnessed the events that shaped his family's history, generation after generation, Alexander moved slowly. He pulled the chair out deliberately and sat down heavily. Resting his head on one hand, exhausted, the fingers of his other hand began tapping rapidly on the dark surface of the table.

Loukos sat across from him, his face etched with wrinkles carved by time. A quick glance toward the maid was enough for her to understand what he wanted. She bowed lightly and was about to leave to fetch him a drink when Alexander's sharp voice cut through the air: "Return to your place."

The maid froze mid-step, her body suspended between leaving and staying, her wide eyes clouded with confusion. For a moment, she hesitated, but then slowly turned and returned to her previous position. Loukos, for his part, simply gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.

As Alexander sank into silence, the only sound piercing the stillness was the continuous tapping of his fingers on the wooden table. His eyes remained fixed on his hands, as if trying to pull a lost answer from the depths of his mind. He sighed deeply, and his words escaped in a whisper, "How? Just how was the other born?"

The silence before his question hinted at a deep confusion, something far more than a casual inquiry. Loukos, in turn, paused for a moment before responding in a calm voice, "When twins are born, they come with a curse, followed by a gift."

"Remarkable, thank you for explaining the obvious. Do you think I was born yesterday?" Alexander snapped in anger.

But Loukos showed no sign of retreat or irritation. Instead, he continued with his usual patience, "The curse in this case is clear... the second child was born without aura veins."

Loukos slowly rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowing gradually as if recalling that strange moment that had never left his mind. As the memories passed through him, a small smile crept onto his lips, tinged with renewed wonder. When he spoke again, his tone was filled with deep admiration: "The firstborn's aura veins... they branched through his body like an intricate network, pulsing through every inch of him. I've never seen anything like it, not even in the fiercest knights of the Empire. Just from that alone, I dare to compare him to symbols of security and strength."

Loukos' words seemed to carry a particular weight, and something about the way he spoke caused Alexander to soften slightly. His mood began to improve gradually, and his reply came with less sharpness, carrying a hint of sarcasm: "Don't exaggerate, old man."

Loukos responded with unwavering confidence, "I'm entirely serious, Alexander." Then he added, "Oh, Alexander, it seems your shock has made you forget to name your children."

Alexander straightened in his chair, taking a moment to think before he said, "One is a miracle, and the other..." He paused, as if searching for the right word. Another moment passed before he continued, as though the idea had finally taken shape: "Doesn't this remind you of that old children's story? Well, the elder will be named Nikos, and the younger, Cyrus. Now go and have it recorded."

Upon hearing the names, a clear look of concern crossed Loukos' face. He slowly scratched his chin again, his eyes wandering as if deeply contemplating what had just been said. After a moment of hesitation, he spoke cautiously, his voice thoughtful: "Don't you think that's a bit much? Wouldn't it be wise to consult the mother?"

But Alexander's response was swift and firm, cutting off any further discussion: "No, just go and record it."

Loukos slowly scratched his head, a half-smile forming on his lips, as if he were still weighing Alexander's words in his mind. After a brief pause, he spoke quietly, "Very well, as you wish. I won't argue with you on this." He stood up slowly and made his way toward the door. The servant opened it for him, but Loukos didn't leave immediately. Instead, he paused for a moment, casting a sidelong glance at Alexander, his eyes carrying a hint of warning as he quietly said, "Don't be surprised if Lady Andromeda takes issue with this."

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Alexander showed no interest or reaction; he simply raised his hand dismissively, waving Loukos off. Loukos shook his head in resignation, then stepped through the door slowly, leaving behind a heavy atmosphere.

Once the door closed behind him, Alexander leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if searching for something unseen. His face revealed no clear emotion, but inside, he was boiling. Thoughts of the twins, his exhausted wife, and the decisions that seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment tangled in his mind like a complex web, consuming all his focus.

Suddenly, an old memory broke through the fog clouding his thoughts. The image of an old friend flickered in his mind, just a fleeting ghost, but it found no welcome. He exhaled deeply, as though trying to push the memory away, yet he remained staring, unable to escape the weight of responsibility pressing down on him.

His gaze slowly wandered around the room, his eyes catching every corner and detail before settling on the maid standing silently by the door. For a moment, he didn't speak, as if his thoughts were colliding inside him, unable to find a way out. Then, in a low, calm voice that broke the silence, he said, "I'll see Andromeda after she's had some rest. Until then, bring me some tea."

The maid nodded and slipped out of the room quietly, leaving Alexander alone with the desk cluttered with scattered papers. The surface was in even more disarray than the thoughts crowding his mind. He stared at it for a moment, letting out another sigh before reaching for the nearest paper, turning it over with quiet focus.

The room was filled with the faint scent of burning wood, soft smoke rising from the fireplace, enveloping the space with a gentle warmth like a winter blanket. The air inside the room was still, while outside, the village pulsed with life. The noise of daily activity reached him like whispers, faint, barely audible.

Despite his strong and commanding exterior, Alexander hid a more fragile side beneath the surface—a side shaped by his early leadership of the village of Selene at the age of nineteen. Selene wasn't just a small, remote village; it was more like a thriving city, flourishing under the banner of the ancient institution, "Hecteria." The institution wasn't merely a name in the records but a deep-rooted legacy spanning generations, a strong foundation in the land and a powerful echo of historical strength.

Alexander hadn't just inherited noble blood; he had inherited a heavy legacy. After the death of his father, Ivan Hecteria, at the age of forty, Alexander was forced to take on the leadership of the village while still a young man. At an age when others were just beginning their journey of learning and experience, he had been burdened with a weight that forced him to grow up quickly, as if the years of his life had accelerated, pushing him toward a future for which he was not entirely prepared.

As Alexander was lost in his thoughts, the maid entered quietly, her movements barely making a sound. She carried a silver tray with a steaming teapot and two cups gleaming with dark, intricate patterns. She placed the tray carefully on the table beside him, her motions precise, as if she understood the significance of the moment. In a soft whisper, she asked, "Do you need anything else?"

Alexander slowly lifted his head, a faint smile barely crossing his face, and he shook his head slightly. "No, thank you." The moment of connection was brief, as his eyes quickly returned to the scattered papers before him. The maid bowed quietly, then slipped out of the room, leaving behind the delicate scent of tea, which slowly began to fill the air.

Alexander picked up the first cup, the rising steam gently wrapping around his face as the scent of hot tea filled his senses, offering him a brief moment of peace. His eyes drifted slowly away from the papers, settling on the crackling fire in the corner. After a moment of reflection, he carried the tray over to the fire, sitting on a nearby chair, watching the flames dance before him.

The sound of the fire was like a soft melody playing in the background, its echoes offering an unspoken comfort. The warmth of the flames began to seep into his weary body, little by little, as if trying to melt away some of the weight he carried inside.

But the respite didn't last long. After finishing a few cups of tea, he rose and returned the tray to his desk, where the waiting papers reminded him of his unfinished duties.

The hours passed quickly, and Alexander only realized the urgent tasks were completed when he finally lifted his head. He took a deep breath, recognizing that it was time to see his wife.

Rising from behind his desk, his body taut like a drawn bowstring, he inhaled deeply. With quick but steady steps, he made his way through the long corridors, ignoring everything around him.

When he reached the door of the suite, he paused for a brief moment. He knocked gently, as if afraid to disturb the calm that filled the space. The maid opened the door promptly, bowing lightly upon seeing him. Andromeda looked up from her place beside the cradle of their twins, a warm smile on her face—the smile he had always known and loved.

"Come, sit beside me, my dear," she said gently, her voice filled with love and appreciation. She gazed at the twins with admiration and whispered, "Look at the innocence and beauty of our sons... they are truly a gift."

Alexander approached slowly, his steps heavy, as if her words passed by him without touching anything inside. He sat next to her, his eyes fixed on the twins, but his mind was elsewhere. He stared at them for a long time before saying, "One of them is... the other is not."

Andromeda's smile faltered, turning into something fragile, her eyes widening in confusion she couldn't hide. "What do you mean?"

With a cold calmness, Alexander continued, "This is Nikos, and this is Cyrus." His words were heavy, as if he were drawing sharp boundaries between the lives and futures of the two children.

Andromeda, frozen in place, stared at him as though waiting for him to say something else, but all she received was an empty look. "Alexander... are you joking? How can you say that?"

He didn't acknowledge her anger, responding simply, "I am their father, and that is my right." Then he added calmly, "It's already been recorded."

He stepped closer to the cradle and carefully reached out to lift Nikos. Holding him in his arms, Alexander looked at him with pride, as if Nikos embodied everything he had ever hoped for. He smiled softly and whispered, "My son, you are perfect."

Andromeda's eyes never left Alexander, and slowly, tears began to glisten at the corners of her eyes, as if she were holding on to the last bit of her strength. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing. The sight of Alexander favoring one child over the other nearly broke her, and the stark injustice of his preference left her frozen in place.

Alexander stepped closer, and quietly, he reached out to stroke her cheek. His touch didn't carry the tenderness she was used to, but rather a faint feeling of cold satisfaction. His eyes reflected nothing but hidden indifference, and a small smile appeared on his face, though it never reached his eyes. "Thank God you're well," he said in a calm voice, but it sounded like a distant echo, devoid of any real emotion. "And thank you for this beautiful child. I truly love you."

He kissed her lightly on the cheek, as if fulfilling a duty imposed upon him. The kiss lacked warmth, devoid of passion, just a fleeting touch. Then he turned and walked away, his quiet footsteps echoing in the room as he carried Nikos in his arms, as if the world had shrunk to revolve around this one child.

Andromeda didn't move, frozen in place, her gaze fixed on the closed door. For a long moment, she did nothing but stare into the empty space, before pulling Cyrus tightly into her arms, as if trying to shield him from a cruelty he had yet to know. It was as though she was building a protective shield around him, guarding him from a harsh world he knew nothing about.

Silently, her tears finally fell, streaming down her cheeks without sobs or wails. She whispered to him as she held him close, "This isn't your fault… never."