The weeks after their rebirth passed like slow-turning pages of an ancient tome. Though Lucian and Laila still lived in the fragile forms of infants, their minds were anything but helpless. Each day they absorbed the nuances of this new world—the cadence of its language, the warmth and tension in their family's voices, and the ever-present undercurrent of magic that hummed through the air like a forgotten song waiting to be remembered.
Mornings began early in the modest cottage. The scent of hearth smoke and the earthy tang of herbs often greeted the dawn. Elina moved with silent purpose, always the first to rise, and often the last to sleep. In those quiet hours, she cradled Lucian and Laila, whispering old nursery rhymes and family proverbs as if her words could weave protection around them.
Rena, ever curious and bright-eyed, took to the twins like a duck to water. She made faces, told them stories, even sang off-key lullabies that somehow always made Laila giggle. Trion, the second youngest before the twins arrived, often hovered nearby, unsure whether to treat them as siblings or invaders of his quiet.
Then there was Hades.
Of all the siblings, Hades had changed the most. At ten years old, he was still a boy, but the arrival of Lucian and Laila had pressed a weight onto his shoulders that no child should bear alone. Once, he had been the apple of Elina's eye, the brave little explorer who fetched firewood and practiced sword swings in the meadow. Now, he was another pair of hands, expected to help, expected to give.
He did so with growing resentment.
To the casual observer, he was quiet, obedient. But Lucian and Laila saw more. Babies were invisible in a way no adult could be. People spoke freely around them, showed their truest selves when they believed they weren't being watched. And Hades? He glared when no one noticed. His voice took on a bitter edge when he thought the twins were asleep. He shoved Trion more than he used to. And when Elina wasn't looking, he avoided feeding time altogether.
A month passed.
Elina began the process of weaning the twins. The change was subtle at first—a mix of warm mashed grains, softened vegetables, and whatever meat could be spared. But it soon became clear to Lucian and Laila that this transition marked more than just a change in diet. It was their first real lesson in scarcity.
Food in the household was not plentiful. Even with careful portions and magic-assisted preservation, meals were stretched thin. Every mouthful taken by the twins was a bite not eaten by someone else.
Lucian noticed the way Elina lingered at the edge of the table after meals, pretending to be satisfied though her plate was nearly untouched. Laila felt the tension in Apollo's jaw each time he measured rations with precise magic. And they both saw how Hades clenched his fists when their bowls were filled before his.
Rena remained kind—too kind, almost. She spoon-fed them slowly, as if savoring the moments rather than the food, sometimes giving up portions of her own without saying a word. But even kindness couldn't fix what was broken. The cottage was small. The land was poor. Magic could help, yes—but even magic could not summon meat from the wind or grains from the barren rock.
And the twins, though not yet able to speak, understood: they were a burden.
Not by choice, not by fault. But by simple truth.
Lucian began to watch the family with more than curiosity. He observed movements, listened to the subtleties in speech. Each magical word spoken around him was like a key turning in a lock. He began to understand that magic here wasn't just ritual—it was intention channeled through language, breath, and will.
He practiced silently as he breathed. Deep, rhythmic, and deliberate.
Solar Breathing—he called it in his mind.
Each inhale drew in warmth and light, stoking the red ember that still lived in the center of his being. He imagined his breath not just filling his lungs, but fueling a fire that would one day blaze like a sun inside him.
Laila, too, practiced in secret.
While Lucian drew in heat and light, she pulled in the quiet. Her Lunar Breathing was slow and meditative, attuned to the ebb and flow of the world's mana. She let moonlight cradle her mind's eye, shaping her core like still water that reflected all it touched.
They were different, but in harmony.
Lucian burned.
Laila shimmered.
Together, they grew.
One evening, as the sunset painted the sky in streaks of gold and violet, Hades snapped.
Rena had offered him the last slice of honey bread—an act of kindness he couldn't stomach.
"I don't want it!" he barked, slapping it away. The bread hit the floor with a soft thud.
Everyone froze.
Elina looked up from where she rocked the twins, her face unreadable. "Hades," she said slowly, "pick that up."
"No," he said. His voice cracked, caught between defiance and guilt. "Why should I? They get everything now. They don't even talk and everyone acts like they're so special!"
Apollo placed a firm hand on Hades' shoulder, but the boy yanked away.
"I used to matter!" he shouted. "Now I don't even have my own room. Trion snores. Rena gets all your attention. And these two... they cry and eat and sleep and somehow they're the future?"
Lucian and Laila locked eyes. Though still cradled in their mother's arms, the air around them shifted. A pulse of energy surged through the room—not enough for anyone to notice consciously, but enough to set every candle flickering.
Elina rose, her arms tight around the twins.
"Hades," she said gently but firmly, "I know this is hard. I know you're hurting. But love doesn't run out just because we share it."
The boy looked down, shame and anger tangled across his face. "Then why does it feel like it did?"
No one had an answer.
That night, long after the house had quieted, Lucian and Laila remained awake.
Laila stared out the window at the moon, breathing with its glow. "He's scared," she thought. "He thinks we'll take what little he has."
Lucian closed his eyes and listened to the distant echo of wind and warmth. "We won't. We'll give more than we take. Someday."
They had been granted new life, power, and purpose—but now, the cost of simply existing was made clear.
They would not forget it.
As the moon reached its peak, and the hearth's glow faded to embers, two sparks of light—one silver, one red—flickered briefly in the cradle.
Not just children.
Not just reborn souls.
But the beginning of something far greater.