     The Anatomy of Silence
     
     
     
     In this way, dawn arrived without waiting for anyone.
     Breakfast was taken at home, and as always in Hell, the masks were adjusted at dawn: what failed was replaced. But the echoes of the previous day still clung to the palace; they appeared in uncomfortable silences, in gazes that avoided other gazes.
     While breaking the bread, a stab of memory pierced Paimon: the conversation with Crocell continued to fester like an open wound.
     
     ***
     
     Crocell spoke with surgical care, as if each word were a piece that had to fit to avoid unleashing a storm. “I must insist that it is not insecurity, Your Highness,” he said. “It is prevention.”
     Paimon took the goblet without looking at him, and the crystal cracked between his claws. The wine slid over his feathers like an open vein, but he did not avert his gaze from the duke. “Prevent for yourself, Crocell. I for myself.”
     The wind moved the tablecloth, but the duke did not move. He only breathed deeply, containing the impulse to reply.
     He had learned to do it. To swallow truths to survive half-lies.
     Paimon continued: “Your reward is guaranteed by your obedience.”
     That word—obedience—made Crocell’s jaw tense slightly. A minimal gesture, almost imperceptible… but enough for Paimon to notice.
     The king narrowed his eyes, like an animal that smells doubt. Crocell lowered his gaze with rehearsed respect, but his voice remained firm: “My obedience is yours alone, Your Highness.”
     “Then prove it,” Paimon replied. “Take care of the presidents. I do not want another Dracula. And if your memory does not fail as much as your judgment, you will know why.”
     Crocell breathed slowly. He was accustomed to humiliation, but it never stopped burning. “With respect, Your Highness… that sinner was a direct order from Lucifer.”
     Paimon turned his head slowly. Very slowly. “Are you insinuating that Lucifer makes mistakes?”
     The silence that followed was a knife suspended in the air. Crocell felt a cold sweat run down his neck. “No, Your Highness,” he responded at last, with a controlled bow. “I only say… that I fulfilled the task. The guilty have already been executed.”
     Paimon leaned back in the chair, satisfied.
     Not because Crocell was right… but because he had seen him crack without breaking. “That is how I like it. Do not let it happen again.”
     The duke nodded, but the weight in his chest did not yield.
     Not there.
     Not in front of him.
     
     ***
     
     The king bit into the bread with disdain, while his gaze drifted toward his wife.
     His crumbs covered the plate entirely, and each bite was a clumsy attempt to distract himself as if chewing violently could erase the uncomfortable echo still stuck in his chest.
     The metallic vibration of the cutlery was the only harmony.
     For a brief instant —very brief, imperceptible even to himself— the silence unsettled him. His mind returned to the previous day, not out of guilt, but from a stab of wounded pride: he had lost control.
     And Paimon hated losing control.
     He hardened his jaw. Nothing in his realm should oppose him, not even memory.
     “By Lucifer… get over it already.” Said the owl.
     Paimon could feel the heat of the emotions emanating from his wife.
     The comment, far from calming her, only ignited the spark.
     Octavia stood up without a single retort and withdrew halfway from the dining room, heading to her child’s room.
     The table was left in silence.
     The stained-glass windows tinted the carved wood with muted reds and violets, and in front of Paimon remained only the leftovers of a breakfast he had not enjoyed. The royal crest in the center of the glass gleamed faintly, a mute reminder that authority must be maintained even when the house trembled.
     
     ***
     
     Meanwhile, Stolas remained in his room.
     He had breakfasted early with the nurses: Paimon still did not authorize the prince to share the family table.
     His favourite stuffed toy rested beside him, almost his same size, enough to melt any heart.
     Octavia smiled at the tenderness of the image.
     “Good morning, beautiful prince,” she greeted, her voice bathed in affection.
     The little one responded with babbling and squeals, dragging across the carpet a second, smaller stuffed toy in the shape of a mouse, which he pecked at from time to time.
     Rym watched him from a prudent distance, like someone who knows that a wrong move would make her the target of those tiny pecks.
     “Your Highness,” Rym hurried to say upon noticing the queen’s arrival.
     “You may withdraw, Rym.” Octavia’s voice was soft, but laden with a firm monotony. “You will resume your duties at lunchtime.”
     The imp bowed her head and left without a word, her steps quick and her gaze fixed on the floor.
     Stolas, attentive to his mother’s voice, turned immediately.
     The stuffed mouse hung from his beak in a scene so funny that Octavia could not help but laugh.
     The little one dropped his toy immediately and extended his hands, begging for attention.
     Octavia held Stolas against her chest, breathing deeply, as if the weight of her son were the only force keeping her on her feet.
     The breakfast argument still pounded in her temples.
     She knew she could not go on like this.
     But while rocking him, something calmed within her.
     If destiny was inevitable, not today.
     Not while he remained small… and hers.
     “Do you want to take a walk with mommy?”
     The little one calmed instantly, and the decision —though fragile— sealed itself.
     If she were going to break, it would be later. For now, she would walk. And think.
     Octavia smiled, a fragile curve on her ethereal mask, and headed toward the garden doors.
     At the foot of the exit, a passageway of cracked grey stone began, splitting the terrain in two. And on each side, the plants and trees showed themselves with honesty, seeming to receive with joy the prince’s visit to their home.
     The dense air laden with the aroma of sulphur and ash, mixed with perfume. Each breath was like receiving life itself—curing the impurities of the soul and the being.
     Stolas adored seeing the flora, whatever it was. At Crocell’s house, in his own home—wherever there were flowers, he could not resist seeking them out.
     The queen led her son through the winding paths as she had done a thousand and one times before. Always describing each plant as if it were the first time.
     “This one is called Bloodroot,” said Octavia, lifting the white flower. “It represents courage, strength… and protection.”
     The little one tried to eat it, and she laughed before placing it on her own plumage.
     “Some say it announces something new…”
     The little one listened attentively to his mother’s words, and as expected, he tried to eat it almost immediately. But his mother stopped him, placing it on her own plumage while he tried to reach it again, stretching his hands toward her.
     “It looks good on mommy, don’t you think?”
     After giving him a smile, Octavia continued the lesson. They stopped in front of a patch of yellow flowers that shone on their own.
     “Lightblossoms. Innocence that resists even in the darkness.”
     The light danced on Octavia’s fingers while Stolas looked at them with enormous eyes, as if they were stars within reach.
     At least until they reached the next one.
     “Deadly Nightshade,” she continued, stopping in front of the purple flowers. “They represent dangers… and betrayals.”
     Stolas huddled against her chest upon hearing the word danger.
     Octavia held him tighter, her hand trembling slightly. She quickly moved to the next:
     A thorny bush rose before them, severe, magnificent.
     “Ironrose,” whispered Octavia. “Love can be strong… and still hurt.”
     Stolas observed it with suspicion.
     Finally, they arrived at the luminous tree.
     “This is the Duramen,” she said, with reverent voice. “It represents beauty and inner strength.”
     Stolas looked at it fascinated, tiny before its majesty.
     Octavia also contemplated it, feeling in her chest not only awe… but a question.
     What inner strength did she have left?
     And how much more could she endure?
     At the end of the tour, Octavia and Stolas returned to the palace. Paimon was no longer in the dining room; a detail that did not move a single feather of the queen but did stir her mind. His absence screamed the usual: another of his whims consuming his time.
     And that idea heated her blood.
     
     Without hesitation —as one who feigns firmness without feeling it— she advanced through the hallways adorned with portraits of the firstborn, the son where Paimon had placed his hopes.
     A bitter irony: all those paintings had been commissioned by her, a monument hung on walls that no longer felt hers.
     The stained-glass windows tinted the colours with an almost poetic hue, like verses that are only understood when everything has ended.
     Stolas observed the pictures in silence, trying to decipher his mother’s fixation… or perhaps resentful that those portraits had captured the eyes he so adores.
     Without saying a word, Octavia continued to the library: an immense room, with shelves that climbed to touch the ceiling. Furniture filled with human and demonic works, thoughts preserved from before the German printing press of the 15th century, even from times prior to papyrus or bronze.
     Divine, pagan, or human knowledge turned penitent; inhabitants of Limbo like Homer, Horace, Socrates, or Plato seemed to breathe from the pages.
     Octavia took a seat, letting herself be enveloped by the bohemian aroma of wood and mahogany that the light, out of mere courtesy, allowed to glimpse.
     A book levitated before them: The Botanical Gardens of the World, a guide to earthly flora, a book curiously available only in Hell.
     She opened it, and the pages began to whisper as they turned.
     She pointed to one plant after another as they appeared in the illustrations, and Stolas watched her with an excited gleam, attentive to every word. Just like in the garden, she told him about their properties, their importance, their role.
     Until the little one’s eyes began to grow heavy.
     Octavia leaned back gently, allowing herself to rest with him among the books that seemed to guard their silence.
     
     ***
     
     After a few minutes—or perhaps hours, for time dilutes between dreams just as dreams do with dawn—the calm ended with a roar that woke the baby… and, consequently, Octavia.
     A universal roar, recognizable in any culture when noon begins to die.
     It was past two in the afternoon, and the body demanded sustenance.
     The prince knew it, his mother, even more.
     And in an act of rebellion against the status quo, Octavia seized the occasion: she took the little one to the dining room, completely skipping the nurse. She wanted to give herself that small pleasure whose lifespan she never knew how to measure.
     But Paimon was already there, settled in his favourite seat, conversing with a servant with the haughty attitude of a French aristocrat giving orders in a restaurant.
     Anger flooded her; she had not even managed to savour the illusion of freedom.
     A stool appeared beside her to seat the cherub. Surprise was a poor word for what she felt, but to a gift horse…
     In times when etiquette was law, it was normal for children to have their own corner to train before sharing sustenance with adults.
     So that permissiveness took on a strange hue.
     “Do you think I don’t know what you’re trying to prove?” Paimon murmured.
     “That a son can eat with his parents.”
     “You cannot teach him to speak, and you pretend to teach him to swallow. If your wish is to erect a monument to disgrace and my humiliation, who am I to stop you?”
     “Weren’t you the one who said yesterday that he simply has nothing to say?” Octavia responded while adjusting a napkin on the child.
     “If so, perhaps he is not a lost cause.”
     The servant felt the atmosphere thicken until it became suffocating, forcing him to withdraw with discreet steps, like one trying to escape a scene whose shadow he fears.
     The food, although excellent —tender meat that melted on the beak, juicy, bathed in wine aged for eternities with a deep flavour— satisfied none of the present.
     Except one.
     Stolas, who had no concept of good or bad taste, only enjoyed eating with his mother, as if that normality had been returned to him for an instant. The joy shone in him so much that, at times, it overshadowed his father’s imposing gaze.
     But not even joy can overcome instincts.
     Octavia did her best to fill him with discreet compliments, pushing him toward confidence… but no one defeats nature.
     If he used his hands, some crunch scared him.
     If he used his beak, the bent metal screeched.
     By the time the ritual ended, Paimon had already destroyed half the utensils.
     And, finally, everyone could return to their responsibilities without protesting.
     
     ***
     
     To conclude the care of her son—who was already steps away from Morpheus’s arms after a full stomach —Octavia took him to his crib to rest.
     The innocence of a being had never shone as much as Stolas did now. Melancholy sunk in a mother’s bitterness who had to force herself to decide between the sword and the wall while she was heard singing:
     “Little baby in the bleak house, you have seen the sun rise. Why are you crying? Why are you screaming? You have awakened the God of the house. Who has awakened me? Says the God of the house. It is the baby who has awakened you. Who has scared me? Says the God of the house. It is the baby who has awakened you, it is the baby who has scared you. Making sounds like a drunk who cannot sit on his stool. He has interrupted your sleep. Bring me the baby now, says the God of the house.”
     She repeated this melody over and over while rocking her son’s crib until ending with a kiss on his forehead, paid with a smile that filled his mother’s heart with warmth.
     
     ***
     
     The king was received in the study by the smell of old parchment, thick ink, and a faint trace of ceremonial smoke that floated like an omen. The windows let in a reddish light that pierced the suspended dust motes, giving the place the solemnity of a temple. On the desk—a monumental plain of black wood—rested the day’s reports: sealed parchments, tables of figures, seals of authority marking the infernal hierarchy.
     Paimon slid a claw over them with almost surgical precision. He read, classified, discarded.
     Presidents, knights, heralds, dukes; each piece of the infernal machinery passed before his eyes as if time itself folded to serve him. His mind, sharp as a ritual blade, digested information at a pace no other king could match.
     A seal fell on a report with a dry thump. Another. And another.
     An entire column of names was marked as inefficient.
     Another, as dispensable.
     Paimon’s hand stopped for an instant. A mute prayer of irritation ruffled his plumage. A constant noise had settled behind his skull, as if something were scraping the walls of his mind. Something small. Insistent.
     Stolas.
     The name pierced his thoughts like a needle.
     Not because the child hindered physically. Not because he delayed anything.
     It was the slowness. The clumsiness. The time he needed to do everything.
     Time that Paimon did not conceive. Time that offended him.
     He took another parchment. He opened it brusquely.
     The ink smudged slightly: a minimal stain, enough to tense his jaw.
     Octavia fed him with patience. She rocked him. She celebrated him.
     Him, who did not know how to speak.
     Him, who did not know how to eat.
     Him, whose mere existence was a reminder that perfection could fail.
     A failure he refused to call his own.
     Paimon clicked his tongue, irritated by a thought he dared not formulate.
     Octavia protected him too much. She did not let anyone else mold the heir. And if the heir withered… all blame would always fall on him.
     Perhaps it was time to think about the inevitable.
     A second child.
     One that would guarantee his lineage if the first proved unworthy.
     He served himself a drink of Burgundy, like one performing a ceremonial act. The ice cubes from the Ninth Circle tinkled as they fell, producing a clean, piercing sound that drew a flash of pleasure from him. Colder than death. More rigid than duty.
     He could still convince Octavia.
     He could make her believe that the distance between them was her fault.
     He could postpone her threat to go to Lucifer, divert it, manipulate it.
     The marriage must remain unquestionable.
     Not for love.
     For reputation.
     A Goetia king could not be seen as an incapable husband.
     Nor as a man who lost control.
     Paimon brought the goblet to his beak and inhaled the aroma before drinking. The liquid descended burning, delicious, without softening the knot he had carried in his chest since morning.
     The ice clinked again inside the glass.
     A faint sound.
     Dry.
     Perfect.
     The king closed his eyes, allowing himself an instant of calm before returning to the reports.
     There was glory to claim.
     And no one —neither his wife, nor his son— would stand in his way.
     
     ***
     
     And so, the afternoon died.
     The palace sank into a thick silence, barely broken by the occasional cry of a distant gargoyle.
     Stolas slept and the hallway to his room felt longer than ever.
     The bedroom was plunged into gloom. The candles had burned almost completely, leaving a faint smell of burned wax.
     Paimon waited for her naked, standing beside the bed, like a statue abandoned by the light, but still in a seductive pose.
     When Octavia crossed the threshold, he approached immediately. His hands took her by the shoulders with a force that tried to disguise itself as a caress. He was a brute pretending delicacy.
     His plumage was icy. Even when pressing his body against hers, no warmth emanated. His beak descended down Octavia’s neck in a gesture he believed seductive. Her head reacted barely, an involuntary movement.
     “Tonight, you won’t say no to me,” Paimon murmured.
     “Because you’re so seductive,” Octavia responded, without inflection. “Who could resist?”
     That spark was enough to ignite his mute violence. His claws tried to undo Octavia’s garments, slipping between layers, seeking skin. She moved only as necessary to prevent it, but Paimon enjoyed that minimal resistance, as if each failed attempt were a game.
     “If you deny me, you seek what you find,” he whispered, pressing her against his chest. “Don’t complain later about where I seek my whims.”
     Octavia knew where that conversation would lead. She knew, above all, what would happen if she yielded. But she also knew what would happen if she did not.
     She tried to push him away. She did not succeed.
     The more she struggled, the more she felt him grow in his certainty.
     “Unless you think your sister would be a better mother for a new child,” said Paimon, brushing his beak with hers.
     Octavia’s world emptied.
     All tension left her body at once.
     Paimon noticed immediately.
     “That’s it,” he whispered. “Come to your senses.”
     Paimon began to undo the knots of her dress. The layers fell one after another, silent, like petals torn from a flower that no longer fights. The corset yielded. The white fabric slid down her legs. Her body was exposed under the dying light, fragile and without will.
     Paimon sat on the bed, observing her with a dark fascination. He called her with a gesture.
     She advanced with slow steps, not for seduction, but for resignation.
     As soon as she was within reach, he pushed her toward the mattress. The fall was soft, but the intention was not. Paimon’s weight descended on her like a slab. Cold hands took her breast, her waist, her neck. Touches without tenderness. Touches without owner, only possession.
     Octavia made no sound at all.
     Not a single moan.
     Silence was her only weapon while Paimon played with her body.
     His claws traced light furrows over Octavia’s feathers, scratching just enough for the pain to mix.
     She lay there, immobile under his weight, the mattress sinking like an abyss that swallowed her whole.
     Paimon, with a twisted smile, tilted his head to consume the contour of one of her breasts. Each lick was deliberate, slow.
     Octavia clenched her eyes, forcing herself to close her beak to make no sound.
     He took his time, exploring every curve that made her feel like an object. He moved his mouth from one breast to the other, attacking the nipple, his beak brushing the sensitive flesh.
     She tried to cover herself, but it was pointless, Paimon noticed and celebrated with a low laugh, rubbing his hard erection against her thigh, leaving a sticky trail of precum that froze her.
     His hands descended, claws scratching Octavia’s flat belly, stopping at her hips to squeeze them with force, marking the skin with red furrows that would fade at dawn, but that in that moment burned like eternal fire.
     He forced her to open her legs with a brusque movement, positioning himself between them, his penis brushing the entrance.
     Paimon licked a line from her chest to her neck.
     Octavia turned her head, looking at the ceiling adorned with patterns of wings and crowns, wishing the silence would engulf her, that the entire palace would collapse on them.
     Paimon did not stop. One of his hands slipped between their bodies, fingers exploring her cloaca, inserting themselves rudely, curving inside her. He forced the fingers with an implacable rhythm.
     She clenched her fists in the sheets, claws digging into the fabric. With each thrust of his fingers she felt her body tense, trying to expel the intruder by any means.
     Paimon whispered, positioning his member against her femininity, rubbing it up and down to lubricate it. The thick tip pressed, stretching the opening, promising more pain, more submission.
     Octavia’s legs trembled, her cloaca contracting involuntarily around the tip that barely entered, an agonizing centimetre at a time.
     Until he penetrated her.
     A broken sigh escaped her throat. It was not pleasure. It was pain.
     
     ***
     
     Paimon, on the other hand, enjoyed the moment. And Octavia’s broken sounds were then interpreted as mutual pleasure and not as a plea for mercy.
     The heat inside his wife was enough for him to believe she still desired him. The pressure of a body trying to expel him felt like one that did not wish to let him go.
     The bodily fluids generated by the simple natural process of coitus told him that he was not only welcome but also expected and planned.
     Meanwhile, Octavia perceived his coldness as an aggression.
     Cold in his hands, in his chest, in his breath. A cold that devoured all heat before it could be born.
     She knew what she had to do.
     Pretend.
     Smile.
     Emit the sounds he expected to hear.
     Paimon recognized every lie —and enjoyed them even more— because they spoke of his dominance, of the inevitable victory he sought with every gesture.
     But there was an instant when Octavia could not avoid reacting: a brief startle, a spasm that crossed her body when the pain became inevitable.
     Half of her eyes closed without permission, betraying her resistance.
     Paimon’s cold hands reached her neck, guiding her, forcing her to accept a reality she could not change. The sounds that escaped Octavia were not of pleasure; they were broken sighs, muffled moans that she tried to stifle so as not to wake Stolas.
     She wanted to cry, but it was then that she understood.
     Silence protected her… but it also protected him.
     If Stolas woke up, the nightmare would stop —even if it were already too late.
     So, she let the sounds grow.
     She allowed the pain to break the air.
     She let the crying mix with forced gasps, deliberately seeking for her son to hear.
     Paimon silenced her immediately.
     His hand covered Octavia’s beak with violence, crushing it against the bed. He leaned over her, almost glued, breathing close, looking at her with an intensity so dark it seemed he wanted to pierce her.
     Octavia struggled, trying to free her face, but Paimon’s strength was impossible to fight.
     A single tear escaped, rolling down her cheek until it was lost in the sheets.
     The rest remained trapped behind her eyelids, as if her body had forgotten how to cry.
     Paimon’s body tensed more and more, pressing against her until, finally, his breathing broke into a contained tremor. Octavia felt an invasive heat inside her that drew a dry cry from her, without tears, without voice, without resistance. A pain that travelled through her interior in a thick liquid that reached the deepest part of her being.
     Her body tried to push it in all directions, where only less than half managed to seep outside.
     She felt her body throb, her femininity corrupted.
     Paimon pulled away with satisfied calm and, breaking the silence, said: “See? It was not so hard to please your husband.”
     Octavia did not respond.
     She only turned her body, giving him her back, seeking the farthest edge of the bed.
     Paimon settled behind her, surrounding her with a heavy and possessive arm, reminding her—without words—of the place he believed corresponded to her.
     In the crib, little Stolas heard nothing.
     He slept deeply, hugged to his red stuffed toy, protected by warm blankets, his calm breathing ignorant of the darkness reigning a few meters away.
     The night continued its course.
     It sang.
     And dawned.
     Thus passed one night.
     Then five.
     Ten.
     Fifteen.
     Forty.
     Time where an old nightmare awoke again.
     
     ***
     
     Paimon, who could wait centuries without blinking when it came to diplomacy or war, now discovered an impatience that corroded the edges of his soul. The nights accumulated like stones on his back.
     Forty. An insignificant number for an immortal king —and yet, unbearable. Eternity was a concept, not a measure. But even concepts can fracture. He knew very well where his strength resided and where his cracks were.
     Being king was knowing both.
     And in those cracks hid his greatest fear: the real possibility that his lineage would be tied to an heir who was not up to his standard.
     Stolas had been the first bet, the most logical, the one that should work. But the child’s slowness, his fragility, the way he required time —time that Paimon did not conceive in others— pushed him to contemplate the inevitable. A second attempt. One that would secure the future before Octavia, in an act of desperation, could decide to betray him.
     Thus, during those weeks, Paimon showed himself attentive, present, almost kind. The palace pretended to believe it, as if everyone had agreed to sustain a lie that no one could hold without effort. That attention was not love, nor affection, nor regret.
     It was maintenance. An act of conservation. An investment in the survival of his lineage.
     Octavia knew it.
     The servants knew it.
     The entire palace knew it.
     Each gesture, each word, and each night had a single purpose: to ensure that what was born from the queen’s womb was in optimal conditions.
     Nothing more. Nothing less.
     Only the child remained ignorant.
     The palace entered an artificial calm in the days that followed.
     The hallways filled with a vigilant silence, as if the columns themselves had learned to hold their breath.
     The servants spoke in whispers.
     The shadows lengthened.
     Octavia walked with a hand on her belly, feeling a weight that was not only physical. Her plumage lost shine. Her eyes looked sunken, not from lack of sleep, but from the tension that rooted in her interior like a parasite.
     Stolas followed her in silence, tottering on his little legs.
     A child who still did not master language, but who understood more than he could ever say.
     The little one’s room was illuminated by a faint blue glow. The air smelled of sweet herbs, new feathers, dreams that still did not know how to become nightmares.
     Octavia sat beside the crib, with difficulty, breathing deeply.
     Stolas dragged his red blanket to her, offering it as if it were a treasure.
     “My heaven…” whispered Octavia, caressing his head.
     Stolas placed the blanket over her legs and, without knowing why, fixed his gaze on her belly. His feathers bristled slightly. He took a clumsy step and touched the pronounced curve under the tunic.
     The touch was light.
     But the reaction was not.
     Octavia held back a startle.
     Something moved inside her, too brusque for the early stage of pregnancy. A movement that did not feel like life… but like presence.
     Stolas tilted his head, confused.
     He let out a grave sound, almost questioning.
     “It’s nothing,” she murmured, lowering her voice. “Everything is fine, love.”
     But her hand trembled.
     And Stolas noticed it.
     His childish plumage stuck to his body, a primitive instinct of alert.
     The child sought refuge in her lap, burying his face against the fabric of the tunic.
     Octavia surrounded him with both arms, seeking consolation in him, not the other way around.
     The palace, outside, remained mute.
     Inside, something throbbed under her hand, a foreign rhythm, a pulse that did not respond to hers.
     Stolas lifted his head and observed her with a shine that was not proper for his age.
     A mixture of tenderness, curiosity… and a fear that he still did not know how to name.
     Octavia rested her forehead against his.
     “Forgive me,” she whispered.
     The movement returned, shaking her belly.
     Stolas stepped back, as if he had felt a forbidden vibration.
     His eyes opened wider than normal.
     The red blanket fell to the floor.
     Octavia picked it up with a mechanical gesture, trying to restore balance.
     She leaned to place it on the child’s shoulders, but Stolas did not move.
     He did not retreat, either.
     He only observed her with an unnatural stillness.
     He emitted a grave song, imperfect, like the broken imitation of a herald.
     Octavia took him in her arms, clinging to him as if she feared extinguishing if she let go.
     The night fell without either of them noticing.
     The room sank into shadows.
     The only visible movement was the soft rise and fall of little Stolas… and the irregular spasms that ran through Octavia’s belly like a warning.
     
     ***
     
     The next morning, the servants avoided looking at her directly.
     Not out of lack of respect, but because something in the air put them on alert.
     The rumour of the new heir began to circulate, although no one dared to pronounce it clearly.
     When Octavia descended the stairs with Stolas in her arms, she felt how the gazes withdrew immediately, as if her shadow burned.
     At the breakfast table, the child played with a piece of hard bread, hitting it softly against the wood.
     Octavia tried to stay upright, but each movement inside her forced her to tense.
     A servant approached.
     “Your Highness… do you need something?” she asked with a minimal voice.
     Octavia opened her mouth to respond, but a sudden pain pierced her from the abdomen to the back.
     A dry beat.
     A brief shake, too strong.
     Stolas dropped the bread.
     His eyes fixed on her.
     “I’m fine,” she murmured, without conviction.
     The servant retreated.
     Stolas raised his arms to be picked up.
     Octavia obeyed, feeling how her son’s weight anchored her to the world.
     From the top of the stairs, a figure observed her:
     Paimon.
     Immobile, attentive, evaluative.
     Octavia squeezed Stolas a little tighter.
     The child, upon seeing that silhouette, bristled his feathers.
     The palace’s silence became denser.
     
     ***
     
     That night, while Stolas slept curled up with his red blanket, Octavia remained seated beside him.
     The palace was plunged into absolute quiet.
     Inside her belly, something moved again.
     Stronger.
     More conscious.
     Octavia placed a hand on her abdomen.
     The movement stopped immediately.
     Stolas murmured something restless and turned.
     Upon finding his blanket, his breathing calmed.
     Octavia watched him sleep for a long time.
     She knew the peace would not last.
     But for now, in that small warm and silent room, it was still possible to pretend that nothing was breaking.
     Although everything was already broken.
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