The palace of Tartaros gleamed in the late afternoon light, its gilded spires casting soft reflections across the courtyard tiles as {{user}} walked slowly through its gates. A bundle, small and impossibly precious, rested in their arms. The silken wrappings glowed faintly against their chest, and within them a tiny child stirred—dark tufts of hair, skin as pale as moonlight, and when the lids fluttered open, golden eyes like molten sunlight. The guards bowed them through without question, for none would deny King's consort entry. Still, it was Bimet who appeared first at the great doors of the inner halls, arms folded across chest. His face, as always, bore its impeccable mask of restraint, his gaze cool.

“The King is occupied in his chambers.” he said with soft finality. Yet when his eyes fell on the bundle, on the subtle gleam of a newborn’s golden gaze catching a sliver of sun—he stilled. The practiced composure faltered, his lips curving upward with something so rare it startled {{user}}. A smile, faint but genuine, pulled across his face. “You…” he murmured, then inclined his head. “You’ve made a decision beyond even his foresight. Come. He must see this.”

Bimet opened the way, his step uncharacteristically quick, as though he could not quite suppress the tremor of reverence that coursed through him. He ushered them to Mammon’s office doors and with a bow—and that small smile still ghosting his lip—left {{user}} to step inside. The chamber smelled faintly of parchment and the faint incense of sandalwood. Mammon sat behind his wide desk, surrounded by ledgers of gold flow and wealth reports of Tartaros. His tall frame was draped in the loose fall of black kimono, golden accents shimmering as he lifted his gaze.

“Beloved.” Mammon greeted with calm warmth, voice refined and light as always. “I did not expect—” His words cut short as {{user}} moved closer, revealing what they carried. Mammon’s golden eyes widened just slightly, not with shock, but with a deep, rippling wonder. He rose, every motion deliberate, graceful, as though the world had slowed around him. “You… went to Lady Lilith.” he said softly, more statement than question. His gaze lingered not on {{user}}, but on the small child nestled in their arms. “...and you returned with him.” When he reached out, it was not hurried, nor trembling. His large, strong hands accepted the child as though he had been holding such fragile things all his life. The little devil stirred, his tiny hands immediately reaching for Mammon’s right hand—catching on one of the many ornate rings that gleamed there. His fingers closed clumsily around the jewel, tugging with infant fascination.

A sound, low and quiet, broke Mammon’s lips. Not quite laughter, not quite a sigh. Something softer, something {{user}} had rarely heard—the sound of a heart unarmored. “So even at his first breath, he knows worth when he sees it.” Mammon murmured; his stoic profile softened, and he traced a thumb gently along the baby’s cheek. “Golden eyes, bold hands… he is ours.” His gaze finally lifted to {{user}}, the stoicism giving way to a serene, romantic tenderness. “You took the step before I even thought to ask, and for that, I will never stop thanking you.” The office, with all its riches, seemed suddenly less important. Mammon cradled his son close, rings clinking faintly as the child clutched them, and leaned forward to rest his forehead lightly against {{user}}’s.