'Halo, my name is Ru—'
Wait. No.
'Oberon.'
That's what they keep calling me, at least. The name rolls off their tongues like honey, dripping with reverence and affection. And right now, I'm trapped in the soft, suffocating embrace of a woman who looks at me like I'm the dawn itself.
Her name—I've gathered—is Viska. My mother, I think. Her golden hair spills over her shoulders like liquid sunlight, and her voice… gods, her voice is a melody I can't escape.
"Oberon, nin litle precious réd. ~ Fufu~"
Her fingers pinch my cheeks—again—and I can only gurgle in protest. Which, of course, she interprets as adoration. She nuzzles me closer, her scent a mix of wildflowers and something faintly magical. I'm a doll to her. A prized, squishy, utterly helpless doll.
'This is humiliating.'
I don't understand her language. Not fully. But fragments of it echo in my mind like a forgotten song—words that sound eerily similar to the ancient elven tongue I once studied. The one the dragon tribes preserved in their whispered chants. Back then, it took me a year to learn it. But now? In this body? My mind is a sponge, soaking up every syllable, every inflection. It's frighteningly fast.
'Am I even human anymore?'
No. The ears are a dead giveaway. Long, tapered, and ridiculously sensitive. They twitch at every sound. The hum of mana in this body is intoxicating—clearer, purer than anything I ever felt as a human. I can feel it thrum in my veins, like a second heartbeat.
'But the diapers…'
Back to wearing them. The sheer indignity stings more than I care to admit.
"Time to eat!" Viska sings, reaching for her top.
'Oh no. No, no, no—'
My face burns hotter than dragon fire as she cradles me closer. The taste is… overwhelming. And the softness? Curse your D cup, woman! My thoughts spiral into dangerous territory before I forcibly slam the brakes.
'Focus. Focus on something else.'
Then the door creaks open.
Viska lights up like a star. "Riveria!"
'Riveria?'
I crane my neck—which takes far more effort than it should—and freeze.
Time stops.
She steps inside like she owns the air itself. Long, emerald-green hair flows past her shoulders, each strand catching the light like spun jade. Her eyes are the color of rare gemstones, ancient and knowing, glimmering with amusement. She's tall, regal, and utterly captivating.
"Wawoh~" The sound slips out before I can stop it. My infant lips betray me.
Viska gasps. "Oberon, you spoke?!"
'Oh. Right. I haven't made a sound since birth. No crying. No babbling. Just… silence. Oops.'
Riveria's lips curl into an amused smile. "It seems you've recovered, Viska." Her voice is smooth, calming, like a brook flowing through an enchanted forest.
I activate it—Ereshkigal's gift. The eyes that see beyond flesh, beyond pretense, straight into the soul.
Riveria's aura unfurls before me like a blooming flower: grey and white, warm and impossibly steady. It feels like comfort. Like familiarity. Like…
'Sylphy.'
If she'd kept her green hair, would she have looked like this? My chest tightens. I push the thought away.
Riveria steps closer, her gaze sharpening as she examines me. Her fingers brush my cheek, my chest, my—oh no—my ears.
"Aah~!" I squeak as she touches the tip of my left ear. It's electric. My whole body shudders, and I can't stop the giggle that erupts from my tiny throat.
Riveria chuckles, a low, melodic sound. "Sensitive, is he?"
Viska beams. "He takes after his father."
'Father?'
I try to ask, but all that comes out is a series of gurgles and coos. Useless. My tiny fingers curl into fists as I glare at Riveria, who seems utterly unbothered by my silent rage.
She pokes my side. I twitch.
She prods my belly. I squirm.
She touches my ears again, and I'm helpless against the flood of giggles that spill out of me. It's torture. Humiliating, mortifying, and—
'…kind of nice?'
'No. Stop. I'm a grown man. Or… I was. Inside this tiny, weak, unbearably adorable body, I'm nothing but a prisoner to my own reflexes.'
By the time Riveria finishes her examination, I'm panting, flushed, and thoroughly exasperated. She straightens, a satisfied glimmer in her jade eyes.
"Healthy as a newborn high elf," she declares. "Nothing to worry about."
====x====
Oberon's consciousness guttered like a spent candle.
The last ember of his newborn awareness flickered and died as the deep, silent tide of sleep pulled him under. In the sudden hush of the nursery, his chest barely rose, his small form a fragile whisper against the grand, ancient bed. It was a cruel irony—this tiny, sleeping creature, heir to a legend that could shatter mountains.
A soft sigh sliced the quiet.
"By the ancient trees," Riveria breathed, her voice stripped of its usual royal armor. She leaned closer, her emerald eyes tracing the infant's face. "He has Levos's eyes. That same fierce, ruby flame—like a dying star caught in amber." Her gaze drifted to the pillow, where fine strands of hair caught the candlelight. "But this silk-gold… that is all you, Viska."
A bitter-sweet smile touched Viska's lips, but it didn't reach her eyes—those eyes, shadowed and watchful, like a wolf who had finally found her den but still smelled blood on the wind. "When he was born, he didn't cry. Not a whimper." Her finger, trembling almost imperceptibly, traced the soft curve of his cheek. "In that silence… I thought the world had already stolen his voice."
Riveria's hand found her shoulder, firm and warm. "The diagnostics don't lie, Viska. He is perfect." She paused, a sly smile creeping onto her lips. "When I touched his ears with a whisper of mana—just a sliver, mind you—he laughed. A tiny, bubbling sound. It's a good omen. He'll be a great magus one day. The kind they write songs about."
It was known: an elven child born with a sensitivity to mana through their ears was marked for greatness. A living conduit to the old magic.
But Viska's nod was distant, her gaze already sweeping the room's velvet shadows. "Speaking of formidable men…" Her voice dropped, sharp as a blade's edge. "Where is my husband?"
The air thickened. Riveria's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath her porcelain skin. "There were… reports. From the northern border. Disturbing ones." She hesitated, then forced the words out. "Levos rode out at dawn. With a full lance."
Viska's fingers curled into a fist—a white-knuckled tremor that lasted only a heartbeat before she released it with a forced, almost musical laugh. A courtly laugh. A mask she'd perfected in the snake pit of royalty. "Ah, of course," she trilled, the sound brittle as frost. "The realm's troubles wait for no one. Not even a father's first day."
The mask cracked.
Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush, raw and urgent. "Riveria… you should go. If the court whispers that the Crown Princess is here, in this manor, with me…"
"I know." Riveria pinched the bridge of her nose, a rare crack in her composure. "The political games. My father's endless maneuvering. Loki's… everything." She let the unspoken weight hang between them—the alliances, the betrayals, the thousand knives hidden behind silk smiles.
Viska's expression gentled, softening like stone worn smooth by water. She reached out, her hand brushing Riveria's arm. "Let the wolves of the court snarl at each other," she said, her voice low and fierce. "I have what I fought for." She leaned closer, her whisper a blade of pure conviction. "Now… it's your turn to seize your dream."
Riveria's breath caught. For a moment, the princess vanished—the titles, the armor, and the endless performances— leaving only the woman beneath, raw and trembling. "Viska…" she breathed, the name itself a prayer.
A warm, genuine laugh escaped Viska—the first real one in hours. She turned back to her son, her fingers weaving gently through his shock of crimson hair. "Fufu~ Even now, it feels like a dream I dare not wake from. To have a son… my little Oberon."
"T-that's true," Riveria stammered, her voice thick with an unnamed emotion—a storm of joy and dread, hope and grief, all tangled together.
Viska's smile grew, soft and dangerous. She looked down at the sleeping babe, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
"I wonder what kind of man he will become," she mused, her voice a velvet whisper. "After all… he carries the name of a myth. Our legendary King Oberon."
And in the stillness of the nursery, the shadows seemed to lean closer, listening.
====x====
'Gods, this is tedious.'
Oberon's consciousness breached the surface of sleep, but his body remained a prisoner—a limp, leaden form in a crib. His newborn eyes, refusing to blur, fixed on the ceiling above. It was a tapestry of moon-pale wood and silver vines that seemed to breathe with a faint, internal luminescence.
'Right. The language. I had to learn that from scratch.'
The memory was fragmented, a corrupted data file from a past life. In stark contrast, his current mind felt like a crystal-clear supercomputer, humming with frantic, trapped energy.
'An elf. I was reborn as an elf.'
The conclusion was inescapable, written in the impossible elegance of the room. This wasn't just wealth; it was the quiet, deep-rooted opulence of ancient nobility. His analysis raced further. Their magic was… terrifying. His mother, Viska—pale and drained mere hours ago—now glowed with health. A full recovery from childbirth in a single night? His old world would have declared it a divine miracle.
'How long until I can even crawl? A year? Two? Do elf infants stagnate in this helpless state as long as humans?'
He cursed his former intellectual arrogance. In all his years of study, elven developmental biology had never seemed relevant.
Then, a memory, sharp as a shard of glass, pierced his thoughts.
'Lucy and Sylphy… both were a half-elf. Aged like a human at first, and then… just stopped.'
The implications didn't just dawn; they crashed over him. A century? Several? A thousand years? The sheer, yawning expanse of a potential millennium didn't excite him—it terrified him. It was a gilded cage of time.
'So much time… I must plan. Everything.'
A long life was a blessing and a curse woven into a single thread. And the gods… the gods here were not distant myths. They walked among mortals. Even with the reassurance from a goddess like Ereshkigal, a primal, creeping fear remained—a chill that could keep a soul awake for centuries.
He pushed the dread down. There was no room for it.
'Observation. Knowledge. That is my foundation. I must absorb every piece of this world, every secret it holds. It's the only weapon I have.'
====x====
A thousand years ago, in an age before the gods, the world shuddered. A cataclysmic earthquake tore a bleeding wound in the very flesh of the earth. And from that abyssal gash, they came—a tide of nightmares given form, pouring forth to drown the world in death and despair.
The great kingdoms of Man, Beast-man, Dwarf, and Elf, steeped in ancient hatreds, found themselves at a precipice. Their choice was stark: stand together, or be devoured alone. For the sake of their children and the future itself, they forged a fragile alliance.
In that darkest hour, a hero arose. Oberon, an Elven king, wielded a blade of pure light, a gift from the Queen of the Spirits. He became the beacon that pushed the monstrous horde back to the brink, and with a final, glorious surge, he banished them into the abyss.
As the last monster fell, the gods finally appeared. But for King Oberon, victory was ash. He stood alone, his people lost, his noble sacrifice a fleeting whisper on the wind, forgotten with the dawn of the new Age of Gods.
"Baawo~"
A tiny, curious hand pressed against the storybook's illustration of the elven king driving his brilliant sword into a dragon's heart.
A gentle smile touched Viska's lips as she ruffled her son's hair. "I gave you the same name. Do you like it, my little Oberon?"
This was the peace she had dreamed of—these quiet moments with her son, his warm weight against her. As she read the legend, she was struck by his intensity. His bright eyes followed every word, his tiny face a canvas of emotions. It was uncanny; though only weeks old, he listened as if he understood.
Oberon was a mystery. He rarely cried, only for hunger or discomfort. Instead, he communicated. A gummy grin for joy, a wrinkled nose for disgust, excited wiggles for a new discovery. The world was his fascination, and every new sight earned a delighted giggle as he strained to observe it closer.
Now, with night blanketing the room, his eyelids grew heavy, finally fluttering shut after the last page was turned.
"Madam."
Viska turned to see Laffey, her trusted aide, standing in the doorway. The middle-aged elf's long ears twitched, and her keen, clear eyes softened as they fell upon the baby sleeping blissfully in his crib.
"Welcome back, Laffey."
"Thank you, madam. And I must apologize again for not being at your side when the young master was born."
"You, Sheela, and your husband have shouldered my responsibilities flawlessly. I could not have been away without you."
Suddenly, the peaceful silence shattered. Oberon's small body tensed, his limbs twitching. A fine sheen of sweat bloomed on his forehead.
Laffey gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Madam! Is he—?"
But Viska merely frowned, a familiar worry in her eyes. She leaned over the crib, her voice a soft murmur. "It happens sometimes, Laffey." She gathered her trembling son into her arms, holding him close. His small body radiated a frantic energy. "I don't know how… but if you watch him, it's as if he's trapped in a nightmare."
"A nightmare?" Laffey's eyes widened in disbelief. "But how is that even possible?"
Viska didn't answer. She simply held him, humming a low, soothing tune until the tension slowly seeped from his tiny frame. As he settled back into a calm sleep, she gently wiped his brow with her sleeve.
"It worries me," she whispered, her gaze fixed on his peaceful face. "But the episodes are becoming less frequent."
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