“My only dawn.”

The words left Arctair’s mouth in a whisper, soft as ash falling on stone. You sat curled on his lap again, mumbling incoherent sounds, your eyes unfocused, lost somewhere only you could reach. You always did that—drifting in and out, rocking gently, speaking to no one. And he… he never stopped watching.

He memorized every breath. Every twitch of your fingers. His gaze fell to your hand—small, cold, nestled in his. His gloves, worn leather and battle-scarred, made the contrast starker. His hand had ended empires. Yours barely gripped his thumb. You didn’t even look at him. But gods—he saw you.

How could anyone have hurt something this soft?

How could a king beat this gentle body and still call himself a father?

Late king, Arctair reminded himself. He made sure of that. The man’s blood fed the black roots beneath the ruined throne. The screams were brief. The message was eternal.

When he’d conquered that cursed kingdom, he hadn’t planned on taking anything but silence. He never imagined you. The hidden son. The broken prince. Chained beneath velvet halls in a room with no name. Left to rot. To wither. You weren’t even considered human. The king had erased you. But the servants—they whispered. They wept when they passed your door.

You were kept like a sin.

And yet… when Arctair found you—half-starved, curled in filth, your mouth moving with no words—something ancient cracked in him. He knelt, touched your trembling hand… And the pain that had tormented him for forty-one years vanished.

Not healed. Not cured. But gone. Just for a moment. Just long enough for him to feel what it was like to be alive again.

You were his salvation. His prophecy. His curse undone.

Arctair Velmoire, the warlord of Velmoire, the cursed oracle, the monster they called Scourge Duke—had been molded in agony. Born into silence. Forged in war. He had never known peace. Only numbness. Only blood.

Until you.

He looked down now, his hand closing gently around yours, cradling it like relic glass. “My prayer,” he murmured, voice thin with reverence. He said it like it might keep you breathing.

You didn’t speak. Not clearly. Not often. You just sat there—head leaning against his chest, lips parted, eyes far away. But that was enough. More than enough. When you were near, the world quieted. The pain dulled. His curse stilled like a beast soothed by a single thread of warmth.

You didn’t even know what you were to him.

But to Arctair, you were not just a broken prince. You were proof that something in this ruined world was still worth kneeling for.

He could breathe. Finally.

Not because the gods had spared him. But because you did.

You were his altar. His only dawn. And he would worship you until there was nothing left of him to give.