Jude watches from the balcony as Cardan falls onto the grass, feigning defeat as their daughter presses a wooden sword to his chest. “Too strong,” he laments.

“I win!” she crows.

“You do,” he agrees, kissing her hand.

Jude steps toward them—then stops. The air crackles, sharp with magic.

And suddenly, another Cardan stands at the edge of the garden. Younger. Sharper. His golden eyes flick between Jude, the child, and his older self.

“What is this?” he demands.

The older Cardan sighs. “An unfortunate twist of fate.”

The child studies him. “You look mad.”

“You look small,” he counters.

She grins. “I still beat you.”

His expression wavers as he looks at her—really looks. The older Cardan watches him closely. “You think this is impossible. That you could never be me. That you do not want this.”

The younger Cardan does not answer.

“You hate me,” the older continues. “But do you hate her?”

Silence.

The younger Cardan exhales sharply. “I don’t even know her.”

“But you will,” the older says. “And she will be yours.”

Jude sees it then—the tension in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. Not rejection.

Something far more dangerous.

Hope.