Styx, as always, was buzzing with energy. Her golden hair bounces with every step, eyes gleaming with uncontainable glee.
"Papa, Papa! Can we go to the sword shop first? Pleeeease? I wanna see the shiny ones again!" she chirps, tugging on Dad's hair like a very insistent squirrel.
Rigas just laughs, ruffling her head. "You got it girl.'' We'll make a stop at Hemlock's shop. But don't touch anything without asking, okay? Some of those blades are very sharp."
Xylia held Piers close, his head nestled against her shoulder. Her voice, soft and meant only for him, it flowed warmly in his ear.
"My sweet little one," she murmured, "so much to see, so much to learn. You'll be walking beside your sister before you know it."
As Rigas, with Styx veered towards the blacksmith's shop, Xylia adjusted Piers in her arms and made her way toward a quaint little clothing store. She was hoping to find something more suitable for her growing son—something that didn't involve constant rewrapping.
The shop's interior was warm and tidy, filled with neatly hung baby clothes and soft bolts of fabric. A gentle-looking woman behind the counter smiled as they entered.
"Oh, what a darling little one," she said kindly. "Looking for something a bit more comfortable for him?"
"Yes," Xylia replied with a polite smile.
"He's growing too fast for his wrappings to keep up."
"Well, you've come to the right place.
Let me show you something soft and sturdy—perfect for curious little feet."
As the woman moved to fetch a few samples, Xylia held up a tiny tunic to Piers's chest, amused by how serious he looked. But Piers was no longer paying attention.
His gaze drifted out the open window, across the street—where a wooden sign hung gently in the breeze.
A stylized quill dipped in an inkpot.
A bookstore.
A jolt of pure, wordless excitement shot through him. His tiny body stiffened.
Then came the squirming.
He started to wriggle in Xylia's arms, his tiny limbs flailing with surprising strength.
Little grunts and squeaks escaped him, frantic and determined. In his mind, they translated to:
"Put me down! Books! Must… have… books!"
Xylia, always attuned to her son's mood, and perhaps a little amused by this sudden burst of energy, raised an eyebrow but didn't resist.
She eased him down to the floor, half watching him, half focused on the shopkeeper.
"All right, my little one," she murmured, distracted as her attention drifted back to the counter.
The moment his feet hit the ground, he took off—sudden, fast…
Not a toddle. A wobbling, tiny blur of a sprint, squeezing between shelves and tearing straight for the open door.
To Xylia, it seemed like he was simply toddling nearby. She didn't catch the tight, focused strain in his jaw, or how the speed was unnatural—faster, much farther, than a kid that size should move.
His tiny legs pumped with surprising drive. To anyone else, he was just a determined toddler on the loose. But in his head, he was already an explorer breaking out into a new world.
He stumbled, he wobbled, he clipped a stray cat that hissed at him on the way, but he kept going, his eyes locked on the entrance to the bookstore. The world around him blurred into noise and moving shapes as he raced toward his literary destiny.
The second he stepped inside, the atmosphere changed.
The smell hit him first, paper, ink, old leather—but there was something sharper under it, metallic and faint, like dried blood buried in the bindings. The tall shelves cast long shadows that stretched toward the ceiling, giving the whole place a heavy, listening stillness.
Piers froze, tiny chest rising and falling. His heart hammered not with fear but with thrill. This wasn't just a shop. It was a vault of secrets.
Books lined the shelves in uneven rows: cracked leather covers that seemed to hum, picture books whose colors looked just a bit too real, beast manuals that carried the faint musk of the creatures they described, and scrolls that looked like they might nip fingers if handled wrong.
He didn't hesitate.
he launched into action—tiny hands grabbing anything that flashed or demanded attention. He pulled books down with shocking force, stacking them in his arms, gripping the spines like trophies. His face buried behind the paper and parchment pile.
Of course, his arms were far too short to carry such a haul.
With a stubborn grunt, he heaved the stack toward the nearest solid surface—the shopkeeper's counter—and dumped everything in one messy, determined heap.
The shopkeeper, a kindly man with a bushy beard and a perpetually startled expression, froze mid-shelving. His counter was suddenly overtaken by a mountain of books… delivered by a very determined toddler.
Then the boy looked up.
Big, innocent eyes. A slight head tilt. The tiniest tremble in his lower lip.
it's the full force of his "puppy dog eyes."
It was devastatingly effective.
The shopkeeper's startled expression melted into helpless adoration. It was as if he'd been hit by a concentrated beam of pure, weaponized cuteness—though in the dim light of the store, that cuteness felt more like a spell. Like enchantment disguised in a child's face.
Piers didn't move. He just watched. He knew his audience. He knew his power.
A master manipulator cloaked in baby fat, a predator hidden in innocence.
The shopkeeper's Adam's apple bobbed nervously. He was a seasoned merchant, a man who could haggle with wolfkin and outwit elven traders—but this… this was sorcery.
He almost gave in.
He almost said,
"Take them all, little one! Take my shop, my soul, my firstborn!"
But somehow—barely—he resisted. His throat cleared, though his voice shook.
"Oh no, little… guy. I-I can't just lend you these for free. I have a business to run, you know? Rules… regulations…"
Piers, for his part, was not pleased.
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Then—
Tsk.
A click of his new teeth—adorable, yet faintly menacing.
His initial strategy had failed. Time to calculate his next move.
But before he could deploy another round of his weaponized cuteness, the shop door swung open with a low chime. A figure stepped inside, and the air seemed to still.
It was a knight. Not just any knight—a vision of silver and steel. She wore armor that gleamed faintly as though it drank the sunlight, each plate forged to both protect and flatter. A midnight-blue cloak trailed behind her like a shadow, and strands of silver-white hair framed a face both stern and beautiful. Her eyes were sharp—piercing, unyielding. She carried herself with a quiet authority that filled the small shop as if it were a battlefield.
Yet beneath her composure, something stirred.
What is this…? Vale's inner voice faltered. A child. No—more than that. Those eyes… too old. Too knowing. He should be harmless, and yet… Why do I feel my heart stumble? Why do I want to… hold him?
Her breath caught, and the faintest tremor passed through her gauntleted hands.
No. I mustn't. I am a knight. I have discipline. I do not… squee.
Piers, ever the astute observer, recognized an opportunity.
He sensed the knight's internal struggle, the battle between duty and... baby fever. And he knew exactly what to do.
He turned his full attention to the knight. Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head, widened his eyes, and let his lip quiver ever so slightly.
A silent, surgical strike.
Vale's expression faltered. Her knees nearly gave. For one disarming heartbeat, the knight who could cut down men twice her size looked as though she might collapse at the feet of a toddler.
The door chimed again. Another figure bounded inside—a catfolk girl. Her short crimson hair caught the light, ears twitching above a grin too wide to be harmless. She dressed lightly, practical clothes for someone used to movement, but her presence was… overwhelming. A predator disguised as playful energy.
"Vale!" she sang, tail swishing as her golden eyes scanned the room. "Why are you—oh."
Her gaze landed on Piers. Her grin widened. Her voice leapt into something dangerously close to a purr.
"Ohhh, look at this little thing! What is he?" she squealed, darting forward.
Without hesitation, she rubbed her cheek against his, her chest vibrating with a rolling purr.
"He smells like milk and… and something warm. Precious. I want him. Can I keep him, Vale? Can I?"
Her enthusiasm was too much, smothering.
Piers threw himself sideways in her arms, tiny hands shoving hard against her face, a clear spike of genuine annoyance cracking through his carefully managed behavior.
Vale, still flushed, still wrestling with her own raw emotions, took a sharp step forward, pulling her composure back like a tight coat. Her voice was steady this time, though her eyes were locked onto Piers, a tether she couldn't quite snap.
"Enough, Milliana," she said, calm but firm. "We don't know where this child came from. And yet…" She paused, dropping her voice just enough to force Milliana to lean in. "…leaving him here doesn't feel right."
Milliana pouted, ears flattening.
"But he's perfect. Like a little sun wrapped in flesh. Just a few more minutes?"
Vale's jaw tightened. She turned to the shopkeeper, who stood frozen behind the counter, torn between awe and unease.
"Has anyone come searching for him?" she asked.
The man shook his head quickly.
"N-no. Just wandered in on his own. But he's… unusual." His voice dropped, nervous. "Too unusual."
Vale's eyes pinched tight. She looked back at Piers, who just met her gaze with that same unnerving stillness for a child of his size.
For a moment, the silence was heavy; it was hard to tell who was truly assessing whom.
At last, she gathered him into her arms, careful yet undeniably possessive.
"Then we'll see that he's not left alone," she said, quiet but resolute.
Milliana's ears twitched, her tail curling with delight.
She scooped up the stack of books Piers had claimed,
"See? Responsible adults," she chirped, though the hunger in her grin betrayed her.
Vale's composure didn't waver, but a faint color lingered on her cheeks.
She turned to the shopkeeper, who still looked dazed by the spectacle.
"Excuse my companion," she said with practiced calm. "What do we owe you?"
The man stammered a price. Vale paid without hesitation, movements efficient and precise. Transaction done, she turned back—only to find Milliana attempting to braid Piers's nonexistent hair.
"Come along, Milliana," Vale said, firm yet measured.
"Fine, fine," Milliana muttered, though her smile curved with delight.
Still, she couldn't resist a final glance at the boy in Vale's arms—tiny, silent, and already at the center of something neither of them could name.
* * *