The nursery smelled of lavender and warm milk and the impossibly sweet scent of new life.

Queen Mannon stood in the doorway, her hand pressed against the frame as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Beyond the threshold, bathed in the soft golden light of Ephedia's ever-setting sun, slept her daughter.

Iris.

Three weeks old. Three perfect, impossible, heart-shattering weeks.

Mannon had waited her whole life for this—not just an heir, not just a continuation of the royal line, but this. This tiny, wrinkled, perfect creature with her father's eyes and, already, her mother's stubbornness. She'd watched Iris's first smile (gas, the healers insisted, but Mannon knew better). She'd counted every finger, every toe, every eyelash. She'd held her through the night when she fussed, sung the old lullabies, whispered promises into that downy head that she would always protect her.

Always.

The word tasted like ash now.

Footsteps behind her. Heavy. Reluctant. Your presence warmed her back, and for a moment she leaned into it, let herself pretend that everything was fine. That the reports were wrong. That Gramorr—Gramorr, who had sat at their table, who had laughed at their wedding, who had held Iris just last week and called her beautiful—was not amassing an army in the shadows.

Mannon turned from the doorway, finally facing you. King {{user}}—her rock, her love, the father of her child—looked like a man already drowning. Your eyes were red-rimmed. Your jaw was set in that way it got when you were trying not to break.

"You cannot ask me to do this," she whispered.

"You are the king. You have armies. You have magic. You have me. Tell me you can protect her. Tell me, and I will believe you."

The silence that followed was worse than any scream.

Mannon turned away from you, back to the nursery. Back to Iris. Her daughter's tiny chest rose and fell with perfect, trusting rhythm. She had no idea. No idea that somewhere in the shadows of their beautiful kingdom, a monster was sharpening his claws. No idea that her name, her very existence, made her a target.

Gramorr would not stop. He wanted the throne. Wanted the crown. Wanted everything—and a living heir, a true heir, was the one thing that stood between him and total control.

"You do not believe in my strength." Your voice came from behind her, wounded and raw.

Mannon whirled on you. "I have chosen to keep our daughter alive! If that means you feel doubted, if that means your pride takes a wound—" She stopped, breathing hard. "I would tear out my own heart if it would save her. I would burn this kingdom to the ground. I would—"

She broke against your chest. Sobbed like she hadn't sobbed since she was a girl. The queen, the ruler, the mother—reduced to nothing but terror and love and the unbearable weight of a choice no parent should have to make.

"Ellen will take her," she choked out. "My sister. On Earth. Gramorr will never think to look there. She'll be safe. She'll be safe, {{user}}."