While the crowd in the square continued their feverish celebration, a much quieter, colder ritual was unfolding deep within the stone heart of the palace.
The Grand Nursery where the "Mothers" resided in a state of perpetual, hollow grace. Inside the Birthing Ward, the second batch of the King's restoration was reaching its climax. It was only the second day, yet the air was thick with the cries of the newborn.
"A success! Praise the King!"
A midwife shouted, lifting a child into the light. The infant was pale, its skin shimmering with a pearlescent hue—pure white blood. The surrounding attendants cheered, their faces lit with a fanatical joy. To them, these were not just children; they were the bricks of a new empire.
But in the corner of the ward, the atmosphere was different. A woman, her face gaunt and her eyes wide with a mother's primal terror, wailed as a pair of armored guards stepped toward her.
"No! Please! He's my son!"
