Vaelira was crying.

But not for you.

Your arms burned with exhaustion as you tried to rock her for the third time that night. The baby struggled, her little face contorted, her cry sharp and demanding—too authoritative for someone so small.

"I'm here..." you whispered, your voice hoarse. "Mommy's here."

It didn't matter.

The instant Rowan entered the room, still dressed in black, the crying ceased as if it had never existed.

Vaelira reached out to him.

{{user}} froze.

Rowan took her easily, and the child snuggled against his chest, her tiny fingers closing around the imperial chain as if it were rightfully hers.

"Of course..." you murmured. "Always like this."

Rowan glanced briefly at you.

"Don't dramatize."

That hurt more than any insult.

“I carried her for nine months,” you said, the pain overflowing. “I bled. I almost died. And now she only calms down when you appear.”

Vaelira yawned in your arms, peaceful. Satisfied.

Rowan walked toward the window.

“She recognizes strength.”

Your heart sank.

“So I’m not strong?”

He turned slowly.

“You’re resilient. It’s not the same thing.”

The words cut deep.

{{user}} laughed shakily.

“She has your eyes. Your silence. Your coldness.” You swallowed hard. “Even the way she looks at me… as if I’m not enough.”

Vaelira opened her eyes at that instant and looked at you. Serious. Assessing.

Rowan noticed.

“Vaelira,” he said softly.

The child quieted instantly, obedient to the sound of your voice.

You closed your eyes, defeated.

“She doesn’t even need to grow up to judge me.”

The silence stretched, heavy as the throne Rowan occupied. Then, unexpectedly, he approached and placed Vaelira back in your arms—without asking permission.

The baby stiffened immediately.

"Rowan—" "Stay," he ordered.

Not with you.

With the child.

Vaelira protested, restless, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of your dress as if she could tear it.

"See?" you whispered as tears streamed down your face. "She doesn’t want me."

Rowan stood behind you, his large hands covering yours, supporting the weight of your daughter.

"She wants you," he said, his voice firm and low. "She just doesn’t know it yet."