Idris Point of View

She paused.

A long, theatrical pause — the kind usually reserved for awards ceremonies or royal proclamations. I swear, if we'd had a drum roll, she would've waited for it to finish before opening her mouth.

Everyone leaned in.

I held my breath.

This was the moment. This was where it would all go wrong.

I could feel it.

She was going to say something wild. Something catastrophic.

Something like Starlord Moonshine Valen or

Turbo Thundercrisp Virelle Valen or — stars help me — Captain Sparklebottom.

She looked down at our newborn son like he'd whispered his name to her in a language only she could hear. Her eyes softened. She smiled. And then, with all the confidence of someone who'd absolutely tested this name against no one and nothing:

"Mercer," she said, like it was sacred.

I blinked.

"Mercer," she repeated. "It means Mercury — the god of communication and speed. Since he won the race, came out first.

Mercer...

Mercer?

Mercer!

Why does it sound... good?

Isn't she supposed to give a bad name? A very bad suggestion as a name and am I not supposed to plead her to change into a good one?

Or better, give a better one myself.

But to my surprise and not-so-surprising to others, the name she gave out first born son, our eldest son is very good.

It has a ring to it and sounds very nice to ears. It rolls in the mouth easily and give a nice feel to call out the name.

A real, actual name. A good one, even. I didn't know whether to cry from relief or double check that she hadn't just read it off a wall somewhere by accident.

"Oh," I said intelligently.

Zephyra, catching the hesitation in my voice, narrowed her eyes. "You hate it."

"No!" I said quickly, too quickly. "I love it. I genuinely love it. It's just... I was preparing for something much weirder. Like, exponentially weirder."

Mercer... what a good name!

"Mercer Virelle Valen," I said aloud, testing it again. "That would be your name, little guy. Do you like it?"

Meanwhile, little Mercer lay in her arms like a sleepy, grumpy prince — unaware of the gravity of this naming debate or the legacy he was supposedly fulfilling. He made a tiny snorting noise that sounded judgmental. Already on-brand.

After the name is decided, dad and mom went to fill up the birth certificate details and the other registration procedure while I stayed alone with demon girl and our little Mercer for few more minutes.

"How was it?" I asked, brushing a few damp curls from her forehead. "Are you still in pain? Has the second round of contractions kicked in?" I asked; just when a nurse came in and took Mercer for child observation incubator.

Zephyra sagged back against the pillows with a sigh that sounded equal parts exhaustion and quiet triumph. Her hair looked like it had made a truce with gravity and then immediately lost that truce. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bleary, and yet somehow... she was glowing.

Literal chaos goddess.

"Not bad. I don't think our second will be coming anytime soon so I need to eat and sleep to prepare for the second battle." She sighed.

"Got it," I said, nodding seriously.

There was a moment of silence as she settled into the bed, shifting with a few soft grunts of discomfort. I stayed beside her, watching her face, thinking how surreal all of this was.

Then she opened her eyes again and said:

"You know... Mercer looks exactly like a potato."

Before I could respond back, she continued. "He kind of looks like you."

Hey, what does that mean?

What does that even mean?

Does my son look as handsome as me?

Or do I look like a freshly unearthed potato?

This is too much. I say, too much!

I stared at Zephyra, stunned by her bold declaration that our perfect, glorious firstborn son resembled a freshly unearthed potato. And worse — that I was the model for said vegetable.

She tilted her head lazily toward me, eyes half-lidded and entirely amused. "It's a compliment in our family. Potatoes are resilient. They thrive underground. They survive anything. That's hardcore."

"Okay, I'll give you that," I murmured.

What can I even do? I cannot argue with her this time.

Zephyra stretched slightly, her body easing into the bed like a queen taking a break from conquering galaxies. "Besides, he's cute. All wrinkly and smushy and mad at everything. Just like you when you wake up too early."

"I do not look like that."

"You absolutely do," she replied, smug. "It's uncanny. I'm starting to think you're the blueprint for grumpy little potatoes."

"You – I'll remember this and will deal with you once you are perfectly fine. I will note this down." I scoffed, albeit in joy but with a grumpy face.

We stayed like that for another few minutes—me beside her, her eyelids fluttering, exhaustion dragging her deeper into rest. The moment was gentle. Solid. We were on the precipice of something insane, but for now... we were just us.

Then, inevitably, the door creaked open again.

Dr. Rowan reappeared, her expression the exact blend of clinical professionalism and subtle apology I'd come to recognize.

"Mr. Valen," she said softly. "Zephyra needs uninterrupted rest now. The next phase could start at any time, and it's important she's well recovered before it does."

I nodded immediately. "Right. Of course."

Zephyra gave me a sleepy wave, more finger wiggle than gesture. "Don't forget to bring snacks when you come back."

"You'll get an entire vending machine," I promised.

And with that, I was gently ushered out.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. People came and went. My parents, who were currently acting like Mercer had singlehandedly revived the entire family bloodline.

But I kept checking the monitor in the corridor every hour like I was waiting for a comet to fall from the sky.

And then, just after midnight — it began again.

Her second round of labor pains started and I stood up so fast I spilled a full cup of tea down my shirt.

The screen continued updating over time — contractions progressing, vitals stable, team in place. It was smoother this time. Maybe because Zephyra's body knew the drill. Maybe because she'd already done it once today and was now operating on sheer divine momentum.

At around six in the morning, another cry echoed through the corridor monitors.

Another tiny, wrinkled voice entering the galaxy.

Another Valen.

Another son.

My second son; who was cleaned and brought out by the nurse and who looked exactly like his elder brother.

A potato.

And this time, again, the doctor said that the next labor might take some time so Zephyra is send to the side ward for temporary rest.

We were led into the side room, again and demon girl was asked to name out second son; again!

I held him for the first time, his squinting, unimpressed face pressed against my chest like he was already disappointed in me.

"Okay," I whispered. "You're clearly just as judgy as your older brother. Fantastic."

Zephyra, still recovering, was wheeled into the side ward again for a short rest, and I was allowed in with our newest tiny dictator. She opened her arms like she already knew he belonged there, in that exact spot, and he calmed the second he was placed in them.

Of course. Obviously. I wasn't jealous at all.

"Well?" she asked, her voice barely above a breath. "Are you ready for round two?"

I took that as a cue.

"I want to name this one," I said, as calmly and clearly as possible. "I mean it, Zephyra. I'm also the parent. I've stood beside you through all of this, and I think I've earned one name."

There was a long pause.

Too long.

Then her eyebrows rose slowly like twin comets ascending into low orbit. "You want to name him?"

"Yes. I'm serious."

Before she could answer, the door opened and in walked my parents — which was, of course, perfect timing for them to hear just that one sentence.

"You want what?" my mother asked, squinting like I'd just declared I wanted to raise the baby on a pirate ship.

"I said I want to name our second son," I repeated, this time louder.

My father shook his head immediately. "Son, Zephyra is the one pushing out these tiny champions. She's doing the heavy lifting. You're mostly just holding juice boxes and fainting in slow motion."

"I did not faint," I hissed, glaring.

"She almost cracked a rib again, Idris," my mother added, folding her arms. "You really want to name the baby when she just battled the gods with her uterus?"

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"Fine," I muttered.

She looked down at the second baby, her face softening in that way that made me feel like time stopped every time she did it. Her fingers brushed his forehead, her voice gentle but unwavering.

"Veniel," she whispered. "Veniel Virelle Valen."

I blinked.

"Veniel?"

"From Venus," she said. "Mercer was first — Mercury. The fast, clever messenger. This one... he's softer. Gentler. A different kind of strength. Venus — the star of love, beauty, patience."

I stared at her.

Then at him.

Then back at her.

I looked at my son. He blinked up at me with sleepy suspicion, as if he knew I'd almost named him something ridiculous just out of spite.

"Veniel," I said, testing it in the air. "Veniel Virelle Valen."

Damn it.

Why was it so good?

Again?

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

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