Kael had seen thousands of things in battle—bloodied warriors, torn earth, magical ruptures that split the sky in half.
But none of it prepared him for this.
He stood just inside the doorway of Aria’s chamber, the light dim and the fire low. He hadn’t been invited in. Not really. But Aria hadn’t stopped him either, and that sliver of allowance was enough.
His breath caught as he took in the sight: Aria seated in a rocking chair by the hearth, her golden hair loose around her shoulders, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. In her arms, wrapped in pale linens and warded silk, lay Elara.
The baby.
His daughter.
Kael didn’t speak. He didn’t dare break the quiet spell that wrapped around the room.
Aria looked up, her expression unreadable. “You can come closer. She’s asleep.”
He stepped forward, slowly, as if approaching something wild and divine all at once. His heart pounded too loud in his ears, and his boots felt like thunder against the stone floor.
“She… she looks so small,” he said finally.
Aria didn’t respond.
But as Kael reached the edge of the rocking chair’s arc, the firelight shifted, illuminating the baby’s face—and Kael’s world stopped turning.
Storm-gray eyes.
The same eyes that haunted him every time he closed his own.
Kael sank to his knees beside Aria’s chair without thinking.
He wasn’t the Alpha here—not now. He was just a man trying to memorize the lines of his daughter’s face before she changed again.
He studied the faint crease between her brow, the delicate way her fingers curled in sleep. Her breathing was soft, measured—but beneath it, Kael could feel the hum of power. Not aggressive. Not hostile. But present. Alive.
Aria stroked Elara’s back absently. “She hasn’t cried since she was born.”
Kael frowned. “Is that… normal?”
“Not for most children. But she’s not most children.”
He nodded, swallowing thickly. “I should’ve been there.”
“You were,” Aria said, tone neutral.
“But not really.”
She looked down at him, and for a long moment, he thought she might say something cruel. But she didn’t.
Instead, she asked, “Do you want to hold her?”
Kael’s throat closed around a thousand emotions. “I do. More than anything.”
“Then sit. Carefully.”
She shifted, adjusting the blanket, then gently passed the baby into his arms.
The moment Elara left Aria’s grasp, Kael’s whole body tensed. She was so light. So fragile. Yet the instant her weight settled against him, it felt like an anchor tied around his ribs.
Elara stirred.
And for one long second—just one—her eyes opened.
Kael froze.
Gray eyes met hazel.
And Kael saw something that didn’t belong to him.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t fuss.
She simply looked through him.
Like she knew exactly who he was.
And exactly what he’d done.
The rejection. The severed bond. The moments he’d let Aria stand alone.
Kael swallowed hard. “She knows.”
“She always did,” Aria said softly.
He clutched her tighter. “Do you think… she can forgive me?”
“That’s not for me to answer.”
He rocked her slowly, afraid to breathe too deeply. “She’s everything.”
“She’s the future.”
“And I’m not in it, am I?”
Aria didn’t answer.
But the silence between them was truth enough.
Kael stood after a while, cradling Elara like a prayer he hadn’t earned the right to speak.
He moved toward the window, letting the moonlight touch her face. “She deserves more than what I can give.”
Aria watched him with an unreadable gaze. “Then give what you can, Kael. Quietly. From a distance, if you must. But don’t vanish again.”
He turned to face her. “Do you hate me?”
“I did,” she said honestly. “Now I just want her safe.”
He nodded, stepping back toward the cradle near the hearth. Gently, reverently, he placed Elara inside, adjusting the blanket so her hands were free.
He lingered there, watching her sleep.
“She doesn’t need a warrior,” Aria murmured. “She needs someone who won’t flinch when she glows.”
Kael smiled sadly. “I flinch at everything now.”
Aria walked over and touched her daughter’s forehead. “Then let her teach you not to.”
They stood there for a moment—side by side, not lovers, not enemies. Just parents, broken and bruised.
And beneath the soft hush of firelight and breath, their daughter slept—silent and sure, as if the world couldn’t touch her.
Not yet.
