ALL NOVEL 3. Xironia
Xironia's POV
I sank back into the chair, letting out a groan as the quill slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the table. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, savouring the brief moment of peace before daring to face the chaos before me.
"This is too much work for one person..." I muttered, closing my eyes because they burnt from looking at numerous papers for such long hours, I rubbed my temples begging it to stop throbbing.
Tax records, land management, noble affairs, regional updates, charity reports. The never-ending stream of tasks made me long for the days when people lived off rocks and berries.
'I am the wife of a duke and the mother of a one-year-old baby, how in the world do they manage to dump this much nonsense on my plate every day?' I mentally screamed, desperately suppressing the urge to shriek in frustration. 'A fine woman like me deserves less stress! If this keeps up, I’ll end up with wrinkles—nooo!'
The tranquil evening sky outside the window was a soothing mix of orange and blue, and the sight of birds flying back to their nests added a lively touch to the scene. It was all very peaceful. Too bad I wasn't.
"One way to waste a perfectly good day," I sighed, staring longingly outside, wishing I could trade paperwork for a nap on a grassy hill somewhere.
Not that I want to complain, but sitting at a desk all day doing this? Pure torture. Novius, as the Duke, always has his hands full with a mountain of responsibilities. I don’t want him to carry the entire burden on his own, though. It wears him out, even if he never says it aloud. I know he wants to spend more time with us, but there's always one thing or another demanding his attention. Especially when he’s off inspecting the army or handling affairs outside the estate.
I groaned again, dragging a hand across my face. "Guess I'll be back at it tomorrow..." I muttered, before realizing that there was a tiny bundle fast asleep between my crossed legs.
Alaric. My sweet little boy, nestled peacefully in my lap, his chest rising and falling in a slow and soft. He was so small—still so small even after a year had passed. I wanted to scoop him up and smother him with hugs, but all I could do was stroke his soft hair gently, not wanting to wake him from his adorable nap.
Every afternoon, without fail, Alaric would drift off like this after being fed, dozing in my lap until dusk. He looked so peaceful, so content, and my heart just about melted every time.
"Since my little Al is fast asleep..." I murmured, reaching for the drawer beside me.
This wasn't an office, despite what the stacks of papers might suggest. It was my personal study, a cozy space with bookshelves, paintings, and a few bits of furniture. But recently, the papers had overtaken it, turning it into an unofficial workspace. I pulled out a thick, dusty book with a worn cover—the diary I had neglected for far too long.
Flipping it open to the last entry, dated ‘28/11’ a smile tugged at my lips. That was the day after Alaric was born. I read the entry, and as my eyes lingered on my sleeping son, the warmth inside me only grew and my chest tightened as I remembered the first time I held him. That day... it was the best day of my life.
"Four months already?" I mumbled in disbelief, lifting a paper from the stack and shaking my head. Time was slipping by so quickly that it felt like Alaric's first birthday was just yesterday and now we are four months deep into the new year.
Dipping the quill into the ink, I began writing, the smooth glide of the pen across the paper melting away the fatigue that had clung to me all day. When I was doing something I enjoyed, everything felt lighter, and easier. And in that moment, with Alaric asleep and the quiet of the evening settling around me, I found myself enjoying the calm—however brief it might be.
'A year has passed—can you believe it? Time really does have a way of slipping through your fingers. I expected raising a child to be a relentless challenge, yet here I am, surprised at how effortless it has been. I won’t lie; it shouldn’t be this simple.
Sure, the maids help keep things running smoothly, but I keep Alaric close. The only time he leaves my side is when he manages to spoil his clothes during my work, and even then, I make it my mission to be right there, sorting it out. It’s as if raising him is a task I’ve taken on with fervor, yet it feels bizarrely easy.
Other children I’ve seen—toddlers, even—are a whirlwind of chaos. They crave attention, poke their fingers into everything that piques their curiosity, and seem to have an uncanny talent for finding anything small to shove into their mouths. But Alaric? He’s different.
He...'
As I stepped out of the bath, steam still curling from my skin, the early morning sun filtered gently through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. My hair clung damply to my neck, but I didn’t rush. The hum of the song on my lips felt too natural, too peaceful, to be hurried. Novius trailed behind me, his movements slow, deliberate, in that post-bath haze where time seemed to stretch lazily.
The soft hum of my tune lingered, the melody echoing in the stillness. I hadn’t picked out clothes earlier, and the thought of rummaging through the wardrobe didn’t feel pressing either. I ran my fingers along the edges of the hanging fabrics, the smoothness cool against my fingertips, but it was impossible to focus on anything mundane.
A chuckle rose from behind me, warm and low. “Still with the tune, huh?” Novius’s voice carried a teasing edge, his presence familiar and comforting.
I turned slightly, catching the glint in his eyes—mischief, affection, that easy, unspoken connection we always had after mornings like these. “What can I say? Maybe you pushed some tunes out,” I quipped, unable to hide the smile tugging at my lips.
He stood behind me, his hair still damp, and the sight of him, so relaxed, so... at ease, sent a ripple of warmth through me. I finally settled on a simple dress, the fabric soft as I wrapped it around myself.
Novius was closer now, his arms slipping around my waist as his lips brushed against my neck. “We’ve got more time, I think there can be more tunes to find” he murmured, his voice thick with promise, his breath warm against my skin.
“Tempting,” I mused, leaning into him, the scent of the bath and him mingling in the space between us. “But we do have a little one to think about.”
His laughter vibrated through me, rich and low. “He’s still asleep... isn’t he?”
As if the universe had a sense of humor, a soft squeal rose from the crib in the corner. We both paused, exchanging a glance that held equal parts amusement and resignation.
I turned in his arms, both of us gazing toward the crib where tiny Alaric wiggled beneath his blanket, his tiny fists stretched toward the ceiling in a protest of the new day.
“Well, so much for that,” I said with a soft laugh, stepping out of Novius’s embrace to scoop the little bundle into my arms. “Good morning, sweetheart,” I whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. The warmth of him nestled against me, his tiny body squirming, filled me with a tenderness I hadn’t known I was capable of.
Novius stood beside me, a hand resting on my shoulder as he gazed down at our son. “Kid you are changing your mother's priorities,” he murmured, in mock annoyance before chuckling.
I smiled, watching as Alaric’s tiny face scrunched up before relaxing again, a sleepy contentment settling over him.
The days passed like that, easy, rhythmic, mornings with Novius blending into one another until they felt like a blur of soft touches, warm embraces, and the quiet joy of new parenthood.
Until one morning... it was different.
I stepped out of the bath, the melody still on my lips, the same comforting routine. But as I passed the crib, something made me pause. Alaric’s eyes—those deep, unnervingly sharp blue eyes—were open, staring at the ceiling. His face, normally so animated with babyish wonder, was still, his expression one of quiet focus. A tiny crease formed between his brows, a look I’d never seen on him before.
“Al?” I whispered, my voice soft, but it seemed to pull him from whatever trance he was in. His eyes shifted, finally noticing me, and his little body jolted ever so slightly as if startled by my presence. Then, with a coo and the lift of his tiny arms, he was back—our sweet Alaric, reaching out to me, his face lighting up in recognition.
I picked him up, cradling him to my chest, but there was a knot in my stomach that hadn’t been there before. Something about the way he’d been staring, the quiet stillness of it, unsettled me in a way I couldn’t explain.
The next morning, I woke before Novius, his breath deep and even beside me. He’d come home late from an inspection, and I didn’t have the heart to disturb him, so I slipped out of bed alone, the morning light casting long shadows across the floor as I padded softly toward the bathroom.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling from the day before. The way Alaric had looked—how... detached he seemed. Curiosity gnawed at me as I tiptoed toward the crib, my heart fluttering in my chest with a strange sense of anticipation.
There he was again, lying on his tummy, his face turned to the side, eyes open but still. Watching. Not crying, not fussing, just... existing. His tiny hand rested limply beside his head, unmoving.
I crouched by the crib, watching him in silence. It wasn’t normal, was it? Babies were supposed to move, make noise, fuss for attention. But he just lay there, his breathing steady, his gaze distant, as if he was somewhere else entirely.
I reached out slowly, my fingers brushing the soft blanket beneath him. His eyes blinked, slowly at first, then quicker, as if something clicked back into place. His gaze met mine, and for a moment, it was as though he didn’t recognize me.
But then, the spark in his eyes returned. His little mouth curled into a smile, his arms reaching for me, and I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Good morning, Al,” I whispered, lifting him into my arms, feeling his familiar warmth against my chest. But the unease lingered, like a shadow that wouldn’t quite disappear.
Something wasn’t right. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever it was, it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
'I know, it sounds strange—children shouldn’t look like that. Yet there was Alaric, gazing at the world with an unsettling awareness.
I’ve noticed it more often now. His eyes, his demeanor—they shift like the wind. When he stays here with me, I let him play on the floor, and after a while, his playful antics simply cease. It’s obvious that his small, frail body gets tired, but it’s not just that. He becomes still, watching me work with an intensity that feels almost like examination.
It’s not only me he studies. At dinner, I catch him doing the same with the maids and butlers. When he’s nearby, whether playing by my chair or perched in my lap, his gaze never settles—he watches everyone as if he’s evaluating them.
There’s something peculiar about his curiosity. Most infants are eager to explore, shoving everything into their mouths, squealing at shiny objects, trying to hug or toss whatever catches their eye. Alaric, however, is different. Well, except for the throwing part—he throws things around a lot.
His curiosity is undeniable, but in an unexpected way. Once, I handed him a toy, watching as he waited for me to focus on my work before he hurled it against the wall with a mischievous glint in his eyes. The toy was an artifact designed to light up when upright, easily fixable unless completely destroyed.
When he threw it like that, I had to get back up to fix it, but as soon as I grabbed the parts and tried to attach them again, Alaric wailed, his cries echoing through the room. He latched onto me, refusing to let me fix the toy, and he didn’t settle until I returned the broken toy to him. His face lit up as if I’d handed him a treasure. I crouched there, watching him with a mixture of amusement and unease.
At first, his teary smile seemed adorable as he fiddled with the toy’s parts. But it quickly dawned on me that he wasn’t playing—he was dissecting it, piece by piece.
I stared, captivated, as he laid the fragments out in a neat arrangement. And then, as if he’d been waiting for this moment, he began picking up the pieces, carefully placing them back together. The parts he couldn’t fit would be thrust toward me, accompanied by soft coos that felt like silent pleas for help. The instant I reattached a piece, he’d clap his hands together, claiming the toy as his own. This went on until it was fixed, leaving me to wonder what was more remarkable: his ingenuity or the way he engaged with me.
His curiosity runs in its own lane. But let me tell you about the day he called me “Mama.” Words can’t capture the warmth that filled my heart.
It happened when he was about ten months old, sitting snug in my lap after a long day.'
The evening light cast a soft glow in the room, and Alaric, as usual, was quietly observing everything around him. His tiny fingers fidgeted with a string from my robe, but I could feel his gaze darting between me and the shifting shadows on the floor.
And then, without warning, he stopped. His eyes—those deep blue pools—turned toward me, focused, intent. For a second, I thought he was about to coo, or make one of those tiny baby sounds he often did. But instead, his little lips parted, and he whispered, almost like a breath, “Ma...ma.”
My heart stopped. It wasn’t just the word—no, it was the way he said it. His voice was so soft, so small, as if he’d been practicing in secret. His chubby cheeks puffed up just a little as the syllables slipped out, and the pure innocence in his expression melted me entirely. He wasn’t looking at me like a child would a toy or a piece of the world to analyze. He was looking at me—his mother—with recognition, like he knew exactly who I was.
I couldn’t help it; I scooped him closer, my chest tight with joy, pressing a kiss to his head. “Al... what did you say?” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.
His reaction made it all the more adorable. He blinked at me, as if surprised by his own success, then broke into the tiniest, most precious smile I’d ever seen. His whole face lit up, the smile reaching his eyes, bright and full of pride.
Then he giggled—one of those tiny, sweet giggles that made my heart swell. His little hands clapped together, excited by the sound he’d made. And when I repeated, “Mama,” he let out another giggle, as if we’d shared the most delightful secret in the world.
In that moment, everything else faded away. It was just him, me, and that one perfect word.
'It was such a warm feeling, I still remember feeling my pulses in my throat, the way my throat felt thick... with emotions.
Anyways, let's talk about more weird stuff, hehe~
Let me tell you about another incident—'
A cold, beautiful night, and we had visitors. Marquee Bennett, his wife, and their son had come bearing gifts—a congratulations for Alaric’s first birthday. They hadn’t been able to visit when he was born, and tonight was meant to make up for it.
We were seated in the dining hall, the maids quietly serving food as Novius and the Marquee engaged in their usual banter. Their conversation wasn’t work-related—it was more like two old friends bickering.
Thomas, their six-year-old son, sat next to his father, politely joining us for dinner. I remember picking out a gift for him when he was born. He was much older than Alaric, and far more expressive.
Alaric sat beside me on the floor his usual spot during dinner, brow furrowed as his small hands fumbled with the stubborn toy. He grunted, smacking it against the floor in frustration, but his determination remained unwavering. It was as if the toy itself had become a worthy adversary in his tiny world.
It had two parts both with springs, one easier to fix, but the top part—compressed tightly—was a real challenge for his small hands to handle. It was one of the newer toys I’d given him, a bit more complex than the others he’d grown bored of. I started getting him toys that required fixing, increasing the difficulty each time.
He liked a challenge.
“Mama,” a soft voice broke through my thoughts, but it wasn’t Alaric. I glanced across the table and saw Thomas squirming slightly in his seat, trying to get his mother’s attention. I couldn’t hear what he whispered to her, but her smile told me it wasn’t anything troublesome. She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, amusement dancing on her face.
"Go ask Duchess Xironia's permission first," Lady Bennett said, gently patting his head. She tried to whisper back, but it was clear she knew I heard. I pretended to be oblivious, though Thomas was now looking directly at me.
The boy had manners, I had to give him that. I glanced at Alaric—my sweet child was currently frowning, slamming the toy against the floor in frustration. He couldn't get the spring to stay put, and I sighed inwardly. 'Not happening anytime soon, is it?'
“M-Miss Duchess,” Thomas stuttered nervously. Not wanting to scare him, I gently set my knife and fork down, turning to him with a kind smile.
"What is it, Thomas?" I asked softly.
“Um, I-I want to play with Alaric,” he blurted out, his eyes wide and hopeful, darting between me and Alaric.
“Sure, go ahead,” I replied, watching his face light up with excitement as he squealed and hurried over to Alaric’s side of the chair.
I couldn’t help but glance at Alaric. He was still grumpily tinkering with the toy, determined to fix the spring that simply refused to cooperate. The toy was designed so that when pressed and released, it would bounce, but Alaric had managed to reduce it to something that barely resembled a toy at this point. Even I was curious how long it would take him to fix it, but tonight, for once, he seemed genuinely troubled.
"Hello," Thomas said softly as he squatted down, catching Alaric's attention. Alaric, who had been making a series of incoherent grunts while fiddling with his toy, suddenly paused, turning his wide eyes toward the older boy. He stared at Thomas for a moment, silent and curious. Then, out of nowhere, Alaric burst into laughter, clapping his little hands together, his whole face lighting up with joy.
'Well, that’s new,' I thought, surprised. The way Alaric reacted was so sudden, so full of unfiltered happiness, that even Thomas seemed taken aback, his cheeks flushing slightly. I had never thought much about how children might find ones younger than them adorable, but here we were—Thomas completely enchanted by Alaric's glee.
Unable to resist, Thomas reached out and gently poked Alaric’s round cheeks. Alaric squealed in delight, his tiny body bouncing in place as he tried to jump while sitting, only to plop back down on his bottom with a giggle. His eyes were gleaming with excitement, his little world brighter for the attention.
'Maybe interacting with other kids was what he needed all along,' I mused, my hand halting mid-motion. A creeping realization settled over me. 'How did I never think of that... my son has no friends.'' The thought lingered uncomfortably, making me glance at Alaric again.
"Huh," Thomas mumbled, looking perplexed as Alaric suddenly stopped his happy antics and held out the top part of his toy. The spring was attached to it, and he was silently offering it to Thomas, his focus now laser-sharp.
But patience wasn’t Alaric’s strong suit. Without waiting for Thomas to react, Alaric placed the top part of the toy into Thomas’s hand, keeping the bottom part for himself. The message was clear—he needed help fixing the toy. It was too hard for Alaric alone; the toy required more strength and an extra set of hands to work properly, something an infant simply couldn’t manage.
Thomas, clearly a bit confused at first, looked between Alaric and the toy. Then realization dawned on him. "You want me to hold it?" he asked, his voice filled with an innocent curiosity.
Alaric, eager to communicate, slammed his tiny hands down on the floor, almost like he was trying to nod but couldn’t manage the movement. His excitement and determination radiated through those rapid, feverish motions, making his intentions crystal clear.
With a soft smile, Thomas adjusted his grip, holding the toy securely against his chest. Alaric’s face lit up with triumph, his eyes practically sparkling as if he had just conquered some grand challenge. It was a victory for him, and his joy was contagious. I stared at my son, even I knew my face was expressionless but how could I not stare deadpan at him? 'Interactions, my foot.' Alaric was clearly using his childish charm.
With a small 'clack' the toy was finally fixed. Thomas handed it back to Alaric, a proud grin on his face. "Nice," he praised, watching as Alaric, now satisfied, inspected his toy.
Thomas, clearly smitten by Alaric’s enthusiasm, sat down cross-legged in front of him, staring at my son as if he were the most adorable thing in the world—like a little pet. Alaric, however, had already returned to his usual quiet self, content with his newly fixed toy, not sparing a second glance at the boy who helped him.
Alaric, fully immersed in testing his toy, pressed it against the floor and let it go, expecting it to bounce in triumph. His eyes were glued to the toy, a delighted smile growing as it bounced the first time. However, on the second jump, disaster struck—the toy snapped apart mid-air, sending the top piece flying in an unpredictable arc. It landed with a perfect hit—on Thomas's nose.
The room seemed to freeze for a second, just long enough for Thomas’s nose to turn an alarming shade of red. And then, the inevitable happened. The boy burst into tears, his wails filling the once calm dining hall. I quickly turned to see Mrs. Bennet rushing over to her son, while Novius and the Marquee, understanding exactly what had transpired, exchanged knowing smiles. They didn't intervene, letting the moment play out, though they held a wry smile.
As Mrs. Bennet soothed Thomas, I glanced over at Alaric, expecting him to show some sort of reaction to the chaos he had caused. Yet, he seemed utterly unbothered, as if the entire scene was happening in another world. Without a glance toward Thomas’s tear-streaked face, Alaric crawled forward, laser-focused on retrieving the fallen toy pieces that now lay between Thomas and his mother. The commotion didn't deter him in the slightest.
Settling himself beside the sobbing child, Alaric, in his typical silent manner, went straight back to work, attempting to fix the toy that had caused the mess. His tiny hands worked methodically, almost as if he were replaying the steps in his head, seeking out the exact point where he had made a mistake. It was strange, almost unsettling, watching a child barely a year old approach a task with such quiet determination.
Yet, what caught me off guard the most was the fleeting expression that crossed his face—a look of disappointment. He sighed, a little exasperated, before narrowing his eyes and shooting a sharp, annoyed look at Thomas—almost as if wishing for the boy to not disturb hime.
I stared at Alaric in disbelief. He wasn’t affected by the crying, the noise, or even the injury he had indirectly caused. Once more, Alaric inspected the toy, this time making sure everything was perfectly in place before giving a small, satisfied nod to himself, completely content with his work.
I could only watch, my focus entirely on Alaric. Thomas's cries seemed distant, like they were coming from another room, as I observed my son move with a strange sense of purpose. After fixing the toy to his satisfaction, Alaric glanced at Thomas once more, but this time, his gaze wasn’t sharp. It was tired. With slow, deliberate movements, he crawled closer to Thomas and pressed his head against the boy's side.
That simple gesture—innocent and gentle—caught both Mrs. Bennet's and Thomas’s attention. Alaric squealed, breaking the silence just as he pressed the toy down again.
"That’s dangerous, Ala—" Mrs. Bennet's warning was cut short as the toy launched into action. The first bounce was just as expected, and when the second came, Thomas instinctively turned his face away, bracing for the worst with a shallow gasp amid his sobs. It was as though he feared another disaster, but it never came. The toy bounced harmlessly to the ground, leaving nothing but silence and Thomas’s hesitant curiosity in its wake.
Alaric, now beaming with the unbothered joy of a child, crawled forward again, this time bumping his head gently against Thomas's side, as if nudging him into action. Mrs. Bennet, whose initial concern had faded, smiled warmly.
"See, Thomas dear, little Alaric just wants to play with you," she cooed, her hand gently rubbing her son's head.
Slowly, Thomas peeked out from behind his tear-streaked hands and looked at Alaric. His eyes, once filled with fear, softened as he took in the sight of my son’s bright, gleaming blue eyes and wide, open-mouthed giggle. Alaric, still holding the toy, offered it to Thomas, inviting him to take part in the game.
With a hesitant glance at his mother for reassurance, Thomas reached out and took the toy from Alaric’s hands. The boy’s uncertainty slowly melted away as he pressed the toy down, watching it perform its two bounces again. His eyes brightened with a flicker of excitement, and for the first time since the incident, a small smile crept onto his face. Alaric’s laughter rang out, a playful, infectious sound that seemed to lift Thomas’s spirits further. The two boys were soon giggling together, engrossed in their game as if the earlier mishap had never occurred.
Both Mrs. Bennet and I heaved a quiet sigh of relief as the tension finally broke. We exchanged small, knowing smiles, grateful that the children were playing again. As we returned to our seats, Novius and Marquee Bennet resumed their conversation, seemingly unaffected by the brief commotion.
The hall was calm once again.
"That toy seems different," Mrs. Bennet stated while sitting down, now beside me, since both our husbands didn't look like they were going to end their talks anytime soon both of us decided to do the same.
"Ah... Novius had asked someone to make it specifically for Al,"
"I see, your son does seem like one to enjoy smashing things," Mrs. Bennet said with a chuckle and I could do nothing but let out a wry smile of myself.
'I am telling you, my child is a total genius! Wahaha!' I scribbled down with a grin, the image of Alaric's tiny face bright in my mind. 'He has such an observant and keen gaze, as if he's constantly questioning everything around him. And while he doesn’t lack playfulness, the way he plays is different—it's thoughtful, even meticulous at times. Some might think he's emotionally distant, but it's not that. He's just... awkward, in his own way.'
I paused, chewing on the end of my quill, before continuing, 'I don’t know if I want him to be a genius, though. Being too exceptional can be dangerous, especially when you're our son. Novius and I both know what it means to stand out, and the risks that come with it.'
The thoughts weighed heavier than I expected. I didn’t want Alaric to catch anyone's attention, not like that. I just wanted him safe, always safe. 'He’s so cute, adorable, and lovely. My sweet son. All I want is for him to stay happy, to never be in danger.'
I was interrupted by the soft stir of movement, and immediately, a smile spread across my face. 'It’s time,' a soft chuckle escaped me. 'My sweet son is awake, full of energy and ready to keep us up until the middle of the night again.' My heart swelled with love at the thought of him, so lively and precious.
‘I will write again soon, but for now, goodbye, Mother.
03/04, 07:13 pm’
