Talaus had been pacing for hours. Hours of dread, uncertainty clawing at his chest like a caged beast. The air in the marble corridor outside the royal birthing chamber felt heavy, stifling. Guards and attendants kept their distance, eyes downcast. No one dared speak to him. Not when his jaw was clenched tight and his steps echoed like thunder. He was the King of Virelion—strong, unwavering, feared by his enemies, respected by his people. But right now, he wasn’t a king. He was a husband. A father-to-be. And he wasn’t allowed into the labor room.

He hated it.

Every groan that filtered through the heavy wooden doors felt like a dagger to his ribs. He’d conquered war fronts with less fear in his veins than he felt in that moment. His wife—his queen, his steady light—was in pain, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

He stopped pacing only when his palms began to sweat, something he hadn’t felt since he was a boy in training armor. He looked to the ornate doors again, wishing he could tear them off the hinges and be by her side. But tradition was cruel, and the royal physicians were stricter than any knight.

His thoughts drifted to their son. Their heir. Would he have her kindness? Her eyes? Gods, he hoped so. He hoped the child wouldn’t inherit his sharpness, his stern gaze, the cold weight of a crown that never left his shoulders.

Finally, the doors creaked. A midwife emerged, wide-eyed, her apron stained. Talaus didn’t wait for her to speak. He stormed past, heart in his throat.

There she was—tired, glowing, beautiful. Their son lay in her arms, pink and tiny, squirming softly. Talaus dropped to his knees beside them, his hand trembling as he brushed his knuckles against her cheek.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, voice barely there.

He gently cupped the baby's tiny hand, swallowing the lump in his throat. "He’s perfect," he murmured, his voice thick.