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During the war between Demons and Goddesses, many lives were lost. Some lived to old age, managing to produce offspring, while others did not even manage to open their eyes before being annihilated.
Contrary to popular belief, the goddesses were not saints, nor were they pacifists, and they were certainly not fair. They were cruel to the enemy clan.
In war, there is no such thing as good or evil, only two points of view, two ways of life that failed to coexist in harmony.
The decision of who is the "hero" and who is the "villain" is made by the winner. They impose their will, their story as the correct one, silencing the fact that both sides caused death and destruction equally.
Amidst the spilled blood, the mountain of corpses, and the cries of despair, those who do not know the reason why they fight are born. They only know that they must do so in order not to die.
Children.
Creatures too young to witness all that misery, with hands too small to hold a sword. Creatures who should never have seen such horrors.
Some managed to survive by fighting tooth and nail, others did not, but little is said about those who were sold, either as weapons, entertainment, or even livestock.
Creatures who did not understand why they were there, all because of those who fail to understand that they are not to blame for the actions of their clan.
The demon clan suffered the most from the theft and sale of children. Many were taken from their families at a young age and killed on the spot, or they were snatched from the arms of their dead relatives and put into captivity.
Some died during the journey.
Others managed to go unnoticed until the moment of their death.
But there were exceptions.
Rare subspecies, almost forgotten, some children were the last remaining members of those subspecies.
They were children, small, fragile, but above all frightened, not knowing what their fate would be, and yet they carried the weight of an entire extinct lineage on their small shoulders.
Each one was proof that this species had once tipped the balance on the battlefield or flown freely through the skies of the infernal kingdom.
Now their descendants are chained, their limbs cold, their wounds infected. They are a spectacle for the other races, a scapegoat to blame for the war.
The buyers analyzed each one of them, as if they were nothing more than collectible objects whose rarity varied.
And among them all, there was a favorite, one they always rented out, because the owner refused to lose his biggest investment, a rarity even in the demonic realm: a small boy with blond hair, blackened by dirt and dried blood, with dull green eyes and slanted pupils that reflected a contained fire.
His skin, hard and resistant like stone, showed at rest only a subtle pattern of black scales intertwined in almost invisible shapes, a natural design that he could normally bring out at will to protect himself or attack, but now, locked up and weakened, it remained only as a silent mark.
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A faceless crowd gathered around the cage, eager to see the macabre spectacle.
Cruel laughter and murmurs mingled with the smell of blood and sweat that permeated the rarefied air.
"Do you want to try his fire?" - someone shouted, throwing a stone at him that shattered on impact against the child's hard, cold skin without leaving a mark.
They dragged him out of his confinement as if he were a defective object, chained and staggering, his dull green eyes fixed on the ground.
There was no spark of hope in him, no memory to give him comfort.
He was a tiny body, covered in invisible scars that hurt more than any open wound.
The buyers ran their hands over his skin, testing its resistance, throwing knives at him that bounced off his hard skin without breaking it.
But what they did not see was the silent torture that his prison inflicted on him.
His power, that cursed dragon heritage, was chained and suppressed, and with every attempt to release it, he felt a wave of pain wash over him, an agony they could not understand.
The screams he couldn't let out were choked in his throat, and the contained fury burned in his slanted pupils.
With each "rent," the owner applied crueler punishments, seeking to break what seemed indestructible.
They left him without food, without water, without the possibility of moving freely, until the boy curled up in a corner, his green eyes barely visible through the dirt and dried tears.
It was a game for them, a cruel entertainment to feed their sadism and power. But for the boy, it was an eternal sentence, a senseless punishment for something he had never chosen or understood.
He had never felt a caress that did not hurt, nor heard a voice that did not bring orders or threats.
He did not know what compassion was. He did not know what love was.
And, deep down, he didn't even understand why he was still breathing.
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In a dark corner, far from the noise and stench of the market, three shadows gathered solemnly.
Galand, Monspeet, and Zeldris studied maps and listened to whispered reports.
"We cannot allow them to continue this barbarity. We have already delayed their annihilation." - said Monspeet, his burning eyes reflecting his contained rage. - "And yet they dare to say that we are monsters."
"The place is well protected, with armed guards and spells to contain any power." - warned Zeldris.
"We don't know who's there or how many children are left." - added Galand, slamming his fist on the table.
"We'll go in at night.."- explained Zeldris, outlining a plan.
"First we free the children, no matter who they are or what they can do. Then we take care of anyone who tries to stop us."
Their eyes met, an iron determination sealing their pact.
As night fell, the three shadows set out to enter enemy territory. Behind them, red and gray demons would help bring the little ones back home.
Galand advanced imposingly, wielding his scythe with brutal force and deadly precision. With each sweep, he cut down the guards who stood in his way, their bodies falling without a chance to defend themselves.
The blade spun in a bloody dance, illuminated by the faint moonlight, leaving a trail of darkness and death in its wake.
Meanwhile, Monspeet and Zeldris moved nimbly between the cages, picking locks and freeing the trapped children.
Monspeet, with his flames, kept potential reinforcements at bay, his whispering voice a palpable threat.
Zeldris, with his sword, cut the chains that bound the little ones, his movements firm and confident.
One by one, the children were guided to the exit. Their eyes glistened with tears, knowing that they would finally be free.
"Zeldris, there's one more child left."- Monspeet's voice was low but tense. "He's in the center of the building. At least forty fairies and giants surround him. Fifty goddesses. They're throwing stones. Most of them... level 2300."
Zeldris closed his eyes for a second.
A low, animalistic growl escaped his throat.- "Those motherfuckers..." - His tone was cold. Lethal.
He opened his eyes, which now burned like hot coals. - "Monspeet, you on the right. Galand, on the left. I'll go to the center."
"Kill everyone you find." - The assault was a symphony of death.
Monspeet was the first to move. His body rose, and his magic spread like a silent wave of heat that consumed everything. He did not scream, he did not roar. He just advanced, projecting columns of fire that enveloped entire buildings, incinerating structures, barriers, and bodies alike.
The goddesses barely had time to raise their defensive spells before they were engulfed by flames that responded to neither logic nor mercy. Those who survived the first impact died in the second, without even understanding how.
From the left, Galand entered like a storm.
There was no art or technique in his advance, only devastating force. His scythe spun like an extension of his body, reaping life with every sweep. It didn't matter if they were giants, fairies, or goddesses; their bodies were crushed like dry branches.
He laughed as he fought, not for pleasure, but out of contained fury.
The enemies tried to regroup, form defensive lines, summon barriers... but it was useless. One by one, the sectors of the complex fell to the calculated brutality of the attack.
The cries of pain were drowned in blood. And then, from the front, Zeldris entered. He made no noise. He did not launch massive attacks. He simply appeared.
Like a shadow. Like a sentence.
Where Monspeet ravaged and Galand broke, Zeldris executed.
Every enemy that crossed his gaze was pierced before they knew it. There was no blood on his blade: the sword slid like a line of inescapable destiny.
A fairy tried to summon a seal. Her head rolled before she could finish the first gesture. A goddess raised a field of light. Zeldris walked through it as if it were air.
He didn't stop. He didn't speak. He didn't flinch. He was focused.
Not on the battle.
On what awaited him at the end of it.
The entire place was littered with dismembered corpses, broken wings, bloodstained feathers. The smell was unbearable, sacred magic turned into rancid smoke.
The three demons advanced, now in silence, toward the center stage. - "Stay here." Zeldris did not raise his voice, but his order was firm, unyielding.
Monspeet and Galand stopped, nodding silently. They knew this was no time for questions. Before them, the theater was a monument to horror.
The remains of the massacre covered the rows of seats: mangled bodies, dried and fresh blood, torn wings, broken magic. A heavy silence hung in the air.
In the center of the main stage, elevated and exposed like a macabre offering, was the child.
Chained by his wrists and ankles, his small naked body trembled slightly, a victim of cold and exhaustion.
An iron muzzle, marked with sacred and profane seals, held his head up, his eyes open but empty, lifeless and hopeless.
Zeldris advanced with measured steps, his jaw clenched. Every inch closer made his rage entwine with a deep pain, almost unknown to him.
When he reached him, Zeldris slowly lowered his hand and undid the seal on the muzzle with a mixture of dark magic and stealth. The metal fell to the ground with a cold echo.
The child did not react. He could not.
His skin was torn in the most intimate area, bearing marks of brutal and repeated violence. Recent wounds and open scars on his sides and back told a story of abuse and suffering. Small sharp objects remained embedded in his flesh as reminders of torture.
His body was so weakened that it seemed almost transparent, his ribs visible beneath his bluish skin.
Zeldris swallowed hard, feeling something break inside him.
Without wasting any time, he broke the chains with dark magic and concentrated force, one by one, until the child was free.
But he did not fall.
Zeldris held him firmly, careful not to break him any further.
With quick hands, he took off his cloak and wrapped it around the child, shielding him from the cold and the world.
The little fingers clung desperately to the fabric. Zeldris said nothing. He simply lifted him into his arms and began to descend from the stage.
The air outside smelled of blood that was still warm, but cleaner than the suffocating stench inside. Zeldris walked ahead, his steps firm, holding the small body wrapped in a blanket in his arms. The boy weighed almost nothing. Just bones and wounds.
Galand and Monspeet walked behind, in close formation. Neither spoke.
The child's skin was still trembling, even with the thermal blanket around him. His wrists were marked by the shackles, still in place, and the muzzle that had silenced him for years now lay broken between Zeldris' fingers.
He had ripped it off as soon as he approached the stage.
"Ready?" - Galand asked in a deep voice, pointing to the floating crystal waiting a few steps away from the theater.
The magical orb glowed purple, suspended in the air like a beacon polished by the binding spell. A black rune slowly rotated in its center: the mark of the Demon Realm hospital.
Zeldris nodded. - "Activate it."
Monspeet touched the orb with two fingers. The magic ignited with a soft hum, and in a matter of seconds, the energy enveloped the four like a liquid halo. There were no words of farewell. Nothing to say to the corpses they left behind.
The world dissolved into purple light.
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Demon Realm Hospital — Restricted Medical Wing Entrance
They appeared right in front of the polished obsidian doors, where a couple of healers were already waiting. One of them was the chief physician, a thin demon with sunken eyes who didn't bat an eye when he saw the child in Zeldris' arms.
"Is it him?" - he asked.
"Yes. He's alive," replied Zeldris, handing him over while still holding tightly to the rusty shackles that still hung from his wrists.
"Malnourished, injured, possibly infected." - added Galand. - "He doesn't speak. He doesn't respond to the demon language."
"Universal?"
"Maybe some basic commands." - Monspeet murmured. - "But nothing else.”
The doctor nodded slightly. He already knew what to expect. - "Prepare the stretcher. Clean those wounds and draw blood. We'll prioritize it for magical and pathogen analysis."
The child did not protest when they laid him down. The contact with the clean fabric of the stretcher made him let out an almost inaudible gasp, as if his body did not understand what to do with the softness.
"He has no name, but we need to identify him." - said Zeldris. His voice was dry, direct. - "Can you do it?"
"If his magic is still active, yes. At this age, every creature retains a double imprint: a combination of both parents. If either of them was ever registered... we'll know."
The doctor raised a translucent sphere. From within it sprang a small spark of magical energy, which floated slowly until it settled on the little boy's chest.
The child watched it without moving.
The spark flickered once, twice, three times... and suddenly, the crystal glowed bright blue, with a flash so intense that it illuminated the doctor's face and projected an ancient rune onto the ceiling.
"This is not something we see every day." - he said in a calm but impressed voice. - "The magical imprint is intact and strong. It is not from an ordinary creature, that's for sure."
Zeldris moved a little closer, looking at the child wrapped in the blanket. Under the skin, almost hidden by the dirt, dark scales were visible, a detail that did not go unnoticed.
"What does that mean?" - The doctor took a deep breath.
"This child has the magic of two powerful lineages. He is the son of Lord Mordred, the leader of the demon army, and Lady Lyvina, one of the most respected instructors."
Galand and Monspeet exchanged glances, the shock clear on their faces.- "Lord Mordred?" - Monspeet whispered, his voice trembling.
"That means..." - whispered Galand, unable to hide his surprise. - "We know they committed suicide... but we never knew they had a son."
Zeldris, on the other hand, remained impassive, as if he already knew everything.
"Only the Demon King and a few others knew that Lady Lyvina laid an egg." - said the doctor. - "That secret disappeared with them."
"No one else knew." - he added, looking at the other two.
The magic orb on the child's chest began to glow more intensely. - "Can we learn more with this?" - asked Zeldris.
"Yes."- replied the doctor. - "This orb not only detects the magical imprint, it also reveals the exact nature of the lineage."
The light from the orb increased and gradually showed that the boy carried a pretty active draconic blood.
Monspeet murmured, still surprised. - "He's not just a demon, he's a draconic hybrid."
"It seems so." - confirmed the doctor. - "The scales, the magical imprint, the aura he emits... everything points to his dragon blood being dominant."
There was a brief silence. The rune on the ceiling continued to glow with a faint pulse.
"Prince Zeldris." - the doctor began, his tone lowering slightly, though not losing its firmness.
"The boy will remain hospitalized for a few months. The injuries, malnutrition, magical aftereffects... it all takes time. But after that... a foster home won't be enough."
Zeldris looked at him intently. The doctor held his gaze.
"The boy knows nothing of love or anything like it. No affection, no bond, no trust. His body is wounded, yes, but what worries me most is his mind... and what might happen if we don't work carefully."
The doctor glanced briefly at the child, who lay motionless on the stretcher. The blanket barely rose and fell with his breathing.
"If we want him to recover, truly recover, he will have to be with someone who has patience with him. Someone who has the time and resources to take him to Sir Gowther. He is the only one who can assess whether there is deep damage... or if what we see is only superficial."
Zeldris did not respond immediately. His black eyes were fixed on the child as if trying to read something invisible on his skin.
Monspeet crossed his arms, uncomfortable. - "What if his draconic side awakens? Without guidance, without knowing what it is?"
"That's why he must be with someone who doesn't fear him."- replied the doctor. "Someone who doesn't see him as an unstable creature, but as a child. A child who survived the unthinkable."
"Are you suggesting that I should adopt him?"- asked Zeldris, without raising his voice.
"I'm saying," - repeated the doctor, a little more gently. - "that you've already taken the first step. You carried him. You wrapped him up. You gave him your cloak without saying a word. You didn't force him to talk or behave. He noticed that, Your Highness."
Zeldris barely frowned. His cloak still wrapped around the child, now under the thermal blanket. He had wanted to take it off when they entered the hospital, but the little one... wouldn't let go. Not once.
"He doesn't trust you completely..." - the doctor continued. - "but he prefers you. Do you know how many children in his situation don't touch or let themselves be touched? He let himself be carried. He let himself be covered. And it wasn't because of weakness. It was because his body recognized something: smell, energy, presence."
Zeldris said nothing.
The child wasn't sleeping, but his eyes remained downcast, focused on a non-existent point on the ceiling. Between his fingers, the edge of the black cape remained firmly grasped. He didn't seem to be clinging to it out of fear, but rather as someone clinging to a promise he didn't yet understand.
Galand looked down, his jaw clenched.
"Mordred would have done the same... if he'd had another chance."- Monspeet murmured a barely audible 'yes'
The doctor left them in silence for a moment, then added. - "When he wakes up properly, he'll most likely run away, shut himself away. But if you call him, he may respond. Not out of respect. Out of attachment."
Zeldris let out a slight sigh. He wasn't one to be emotionally manipulated... but this wasn't manipulation. It was fact.
The boy had made his choice. Without words, without requests. Just with a gesture: accepting a cloak and not returning it.
"Let him stabilize." - Zeldris said at last, without harshness. - "If he survives the first month, we'll talk."
"As you wish."
The orb lost its glow completely. In the room, all that remained was the faint sound of the respirator and the monitored heartbeat.
Zeldris approached, this time without haste, and crouched down next to the stretcher. He didn't try to talk to him. He just looked at him closely.
The boy barely turned his face. His eyes showed no fear. Only exhaustion. But... he didn't avoid the gaze.
Zeldris nodded slightly.
"Then keep the cloak." - he murmured, more to himself than to the boy.- "I don't need it now."
And for the first time since he was rescued... the little boy closed his eyes, allowing himself to trust.
A month after the rescue, the east wing of the demon hospital remained silent. Despite being inhabited by recovering soldiers, stabilizing mages, and creatures too unstable to return to the Kingdom, the room assigned to the hybrid child was the most heavily guarded. Not out of fear of him, but out of caution... and respect. By then, everyone knew who he was. Or at least who he had been.
Outside, two recognizable guards stood at attention. When Gowther's slim-yet-robust figure appeared in the hallway, he didn't bother to greet them. They both bowed slightly and opened the door without question.
The room smelled of contained body heat. Of stone and thick blankets. The light was soft, enchanted. In one corner, sitting on a narrow bed, was the boy. His head was bowed, his bare feet on the floor. His body, still thin but now more full of life, was dressed in light tunics and the same black cloak that Zeldris had given him on the day of the rescue. He never took it off.
Zeldris was sitting next to the bed, leafing through a small report, his brow furrowed. Noticing the blond's presence, he stood up immediately.
"Gowther."- he greeted him without explanation. - "Thank you for coming."
"Taking him out of here would be a mistake." - replied the wizard, without emotional inflection. His voice sounded more like certainty than opinion. -"This room is the only thing he recognizes as his own."
Zeldris nodded, passing him in silence. He stood by the window, keeping his distance. Gowther approached slowly.
The boy did not raise his head. But his fingers tensed slightly on the cloak. As if he could recognize the stranger by the sound of his footsteps.
Gowther crouched down in front of him, lowering himself to his level. He didn't say a word at first. He just watched him.
The boy had visible scars on his arms, wrists, and neck. Some magical, others purely physical. But those weren't the ones that spoke the loudest. It was stillness... the kind of stillness where the body still fears being touched. Where any noise louder than it should be could mean punishment. Where one has learned that to be still is to be safe.
Slowly, Gowther raised a hand. He stopped inches from his head.- "May I?" he asked.
The boy did not answer, but after a moment, the cape fell slightly from his shoulders, as if he had loosened his grip. Gowther took that as a yes.
He placed his entire palm on the top of the boy's head. And then he closed his eyes.
The magic he activated was non-invasive, non-harmful. It floated rather than pressed. It touched without probing. He immediately sensed the layers of trauma, the fragmented memories, the undeveloped language, the bonds broken before birth.
And beneath all that... a spark.
Gowther took a deep breath. He held the connection. It wasn't the mind of a wild child or a rabid one. It was the mind of someone who never had a net to anchor to. A mind born in isolation, where the concepts of 'me', 'you', 'home', 'pain', and 'warmth' were not differentiated. Where punishment was the same as a normal day. Where silence had replaced language because no one ever responded.
But there was that new layer. That trace of dark magic enveloping him, recognizing it as 'safe'. Gowther identified it immediately: the presence of Zeldris.
He withdrew his hand, very slowly.
The boy was looking at him now. Not with fear, but with that precise attention that only comes when one has had to survive by reading every gesture of others.
"You're lucky"- Gowther said softly, speaking to the air rather than to anyone. - "You recognize it as yours... even though you don't understand why."
Zeldris frowned from the window.- "What did you see?"
"Not enough. I'll need more sessions. But the basics are clear: if you separate him from this environment, he'll regress. He doesn't speak because he never had anyone to talk to. His mind has created its own system of interpretation. Smells, magical presences, soft sounds... he understands those. Not language. Not rules."
"Can it be reversed?"
"You can't reverse what never existed. You have to build it." - Gowther stood up, slowly stretching his muscles. - "Taking him to a foster home would condemn him to silence again. He needs connection, not structure."
The little blond boy, still sitting on the bed, watched him with wide eyes. He didn't fully understand what was being said, but his attention was fixed on the arms rising toward the ceiling, the way the muscles stretched, the slight sigh that escaped from the adult's chest. Something about that gesture seemed confident. Warm.
Then, without thinking, he imitated him.
His arms rose awkwardly, trembling with the effort. His fingers stretched out as if reaching for something invisible. As he did so, a sound escaped from his mouth, a low, guttural exhalation, barely audible, similar to the moan animals make when they stretch in a place where they feel safe.
Zeldris looked up immediately.
Gowther, who was turning around to look for his book, stopped dead in his tracks.
The silence that followed was thick, charged with an emotion that neither could name at first. But the expression on both their faces changed.
Gowther stared at him for a long time before speaking in a soft voice, without taking his eyes off the child. - "That wasn't a physical reflex. It was an imitation. It's the first sign that he's beginning to recognize himself in another."
Zeldris nodded slightly, swallowing hard. His gaze, previously tense, softened. - "He's choosing." - he murmured, with a certainty that hurt his chest. - "In his own way... he's choosing."
"Yes." - Gowther replied without hesitation. - "He doesn't trust yet, but he has begun to differentiate between the world that hurt him and what doesn't hurt him now."
"That cloak..." - he gestured to the black fabric over his shoulders. - "It's his first object of attachment. The first 'something' that hasn't been taken away from him. The first 'someone' who didn't demand anything in return for giving it to him."
Zeldris didn't respond. He just stood there, looking at the child who was now slowly turning his face toward him.
And for a moment, just a moment, the little boy's eyes softened. Gowther noticed it.
"There's something else..." - he added, his voice almost low. - "It has no name. And that's no small thing."
Zeldris looked up. - "Does it matter that much?"
"Much more than you think. A name shapes identity. It allows him to know that he exists as something more than 'that,' 'the child,' 'the dragon,' or 'the weapon.' You can't give him a place if you don't give him a name first."
"What if he doesn't accept it?"
"He doesn't need to accept it right away. He just needs to hear it. Associate it with you. Carefully. With the new. With what remains."
Zeldris nodded, his eyes fixed on the child, who was now playing with the edge of the blanket, concentrating on sliding it between his fingers as if the texture offered him some kind of comfort.
It was then that Gowther, after taking his seat again, opened a small book of magical records and spoke calmly, measuring his words.
"All of Lord Mordred and Lady Lyvina's belongings were handed over to His Majesty after their death." - he explained, without emotion, but with a hint of respect in his tone. -"That includes personal diaries, photo albums, magical objects, and even training notes. As the prince, you have the right to review them."
Zeldris slowly turned his face, his dark eyes now fixed on Gowther's. "Are you implying that they could have given it a name?"
"I’m pretty sure they did." - Gowther replied without hesitation. -"Dragons, especially those of ancient lineage, have a habit of talking to their eggs. They tell them stories, whisper names to them, call them long before they break the shell. It is an act of bonding, of magic... and of love. If they named him, even if he doesn't remember, even if he has never heard his voice, his blood might recognize it."
Zeldris closed his eyes for a moment. It was such an absurd idea, so gentle, that it hurt. A name... whispered through the shell. Repeated night after night by two voices now lost. - "What if he has no name?" -he murmured, barely audible.
Gowther looked up, with that lucid gleam that sometimes seemed more divine than mortal. - "Then you give him one. Not out of pity. Out of connection. Because without a name, he doesn't exist in this world. And you, Zeldris, are no longer trying to save an anonymous child."
Zeldris lowered his gaze.
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The special archives room was unlike any other in the castle. It was hidden behind a magical spiral door, marked with runes that only the high command or the royal family could read. It had no windows. The air was dense, preserved. As if neither the passage of time nor war could reach it inside.
Zeldris entered silently.
Although his steps were steady, his heart was heavy. He did not know Mordred or Lyvina personally. He only knew that they had been key figures in the demonic structure: he, an elite commander; she, an instructor in advanced magic. Two respected, discreet demons who died without leaving any legacy. Or so it was believed for years.
The personal belongings they left behind after their disappearance were transferred to that room. The only reason he could now examine them was his status as prince... and the fact that the rescued child had dragon blood and was born from an egg registered in their name.
The first chest he opened was large, sturdy, made of black wood covered with iron. Inside was heavy plate armor, carefully assembled, with signs of real wear and tear. At the bottom, wrapped in a dark cloth, lay a sword: broad-bladed, tapering toward the tip, double- edged, measuring 1.32 meters. It was gray, sober, with no decoration beyond ancient runes carved along the blade.
Runes of protection, loyalty, and fire. It was not a ceremonial weapon.
Beneath it, Zeldris found a thin red leather case. Upon opening it, he instantly recognized the style of military organization: reports, missions, maps of old patrols. But among the documents, a set of different scrolls stood out. They were medical.
Fertilization reports. Incubation rituals. Magical evaluations. They all detailed the development of a high-purity draconic egg, incubated under surveillance.
And then, a crumpled sheet with something unexpected: a list of names.
"Morgan... Meliodas... Lioren... Khael... Mardoc."
The words were crossed out, rewritten. But next to "Meliodas," a note in more delicate handwriting said:
"He reacted. The egg glowed. He felt something."
Zeldris stood still for a moment. He continued.
There was another chest, smaller, which seemed to belong to Lyvina. In it, he found soft fabrics folded with precision: a blanket woven with embroidered scales, a small bib with a draconic symbol, a music box without a string, and an obsidian figurine representing an egg held by two claws.
And then, the diaries.
One was Mordred's: formal, precise. It talked about tactics and reports, but at times it strayed:
"Today she spoke to him again. She tells him things she doesn't tell me. The egg warms up when she calls his name. It doesn't matter if it's not his name in the end... He already hears it."
The second diary, more worn, was Lyvina's. Her handwriting was light, almost floating.
"I talk to him every day. Not with my mouth, but with the voice that goes straight to the soul. Sometimes, when I sleep nearby, the egg stirs. I'm sure it responds to the music. And when I say his name... the one I haven't told anyone else, something in him vibrates."
"Meliodas."
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Gowther hadn't left the hospital. He was still in the next room, reviewing reports and mind maps drawn with magic ink on translucent parchment. He didn't flinch when Zeldris entered, still covered in the light dust that the forgotten files released when opened for the first time in years.
"Did you find it?" - he asked without looking up, though there was a note of anticipation in his voice.
Zeldris nodded slowly and sat down across from him. He dropped an old blanket, carefully folded, onto the table. The scales woven into its surface glistened faintly. Gowther looked at it for a second and then looked up at Zeldris, without speaking.
"It was in a box sealed with old stamps. Their belongings. Everything that was recovered after they died." - Zeldris began, his tone lower than normal. - "Documents, swords... photo albums, handwritten notes... and a diary. It belonged to Lyvina."
Gowther fell silent, waiting. He knew that Zeldris didn't say things just for the sake of saying them. He watched him as if reading a complex text with his eyes.
"She talked to the egg. She wrote down fragments of conversation as if it were responding." - Zeldris continued, and a fleeting expression, almost a dead smile, crossed his lips. - "She called it many sweet things. But there was one name that was repeated more often. Always written more carefully. With embellishments."
He took out the paper he had folded in the diary and placed it in front of Gowther. - "Meliodas. That was the name they used. And it didn't seem like something temporary. She
mentioned it when she talked to the egg in her sleep... when she sang to him... Mordred
also wrote it on the sheaths of the small swords. As if they had already decided.”
Gowther slowly lowered his gaze, resting it on the sheet. The handwriting was firm, with rounded strokes at the edges of the name. There was even a line of ancient magic, a blessing for the name to always protect him.
"Meliodas..." - he repeated softly, almost as if tasting the sound.
Zeldris nodded once.
Gowther let the silence fill the space between them for a few seconds. Then he nodded serenely, and his eyes, almost always impassive, glowed slightly. - "Then it's no longer a lost egg. It has a name. History. A bond."
"That's what you said he needed, right?"- Zeldris murmured.
"That's what he needs." - Gowther confirmed, and with a wave of his hand, he made the blanket float onto the table, where the scales glowed with a faint warmth.
"Do you think it will accept it?" - Zeldris asked, not out of doubt, but because of the weight that came with it.
Gowther looked at him. For the first time, he smiled very slightly. - "I think he already has. We just have to tell him."
The door opened silently.
The boy was not asleep. He was still curled up under the hospital blanket, Zeldris' black cape in his arms, as if it were part of his body. He barely lifted his face when he heard the sound, but his ears, hidden among blond locks, moved subtly.
Zeldris was the first to enter, walking calmly with his arms full. He carried an old blanket made of dark fabric, sewn with iridescent scales that reflected the dim light in the room. Behind him, Gowther stood by the wall, watching without intervening.
Zeldris crouched down next to the cot without saying a word.
He placed the scaled blanket on the sheets, just a few inches from the child. He didn't push it, he didn't offer it insistently. He just left it there, respectfully.
The child turned his face to one side. His green eyes shone in the dim light.
First, he slowly approached, dragging his small body to the edge of the cot. He sniffed the air, short, direct. Then he leaned toward the blanket and inhaled more deeply. A second, a third.
The change was subtle, but Zeldris noticed it immediately.
The boy's pupils dilated. They went from ovals to wide circles, as felines do when something is familiar or exciting to them. His breathing slowed, became heavier, as if his entire body was reminding itself.
Then, and only then, did the child reach out a trembling hand. He touched the blanket with his fingertips, barely grazing it. Then he pulled it closer and rubbed it against his cheek with an instinctive movement.
A low sound escaped from his chest. Soft, almost imperceptible, like the sigh of a sleeping beast. A faint purr, broken by emotion.
Zeldris watched, motionless.
"Meliodas."- As soon as he uttered the name, the boy froze.
His ears perked up suddenly, tense. His pupils, already dilated, focused directly on him. His face rose slowly, and for the first time all day, he looked him in the eyes.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't surprise. It was something deeper. Recognition. As if that name had called to him from within.
Zeldris held his gaze, without blinking.
Gowther spoke for the first time, his voice neutral from his corner. - "Immediate reaction. The body's memory is older than language. Dragons recognize their name long before they understand it."
Zeldris nodded quietly.- "Then we got it right."
He leaned in a little closer, carefully placing a sheet of paper next to the scaly blanket.
"Among the things that belonged to Mordred and Lyvina." - he said softly. -"I found this. Dragons have a habit of talking to their eggs... for weeks, as if they were already there. As if the soul could hear them before birth."
On the sheet was written a single word, in magical ink that still glowed softly:
Meliodas.
The boy did not take his eyes off Zeldris. He did not look at the paper. But he moved closer. He rubbed the blanket harder, as if seeking to envelop his body in that scent.
A second purr escaped from his chest. Lower. Longer. Zeldris watched him silently.
"Meliodas." - he repeated, more slowly this time.
The boy didn't understand. But he reacted. His green eyes never left him, as if Zeldris' voice were an invisible thread to cling to.
Gowther murmured. - "It's engraved. In the bones, in the magic, in the senses. That name is his. He may not know what it means... but he knows it calls to him."
Zeldris looked at him for a moment longer. Then, with slow movements, he took the leaf and put it in his jacket. There was no need to show it anymore.
The boy was still holding the blanket with both hands, tangled in it as if it were a nest. His breathing was calmer. His body... a little looser.
There was no language yet. But for the first time, there was an anchor. A word that was his.