Crassus Snow stops short when he sees you. Not alone. A dark-haired child rests on your hip, no more than two, bright-eyed and humming softly—Covey music, unmistakable. With your other hand, you steady a pale five-year-old boy whose grip on you is far too trusting.

Crassus swallows. Slowly. “So,” he says, voice measured, brittle at the edges, “this is what becomes of songs and promises.” His gaze lingers on the child in your arms—searching for himself, then finding nothing. The relief is sharp. The hurt sharper.

He looks at Coryo. Then back at you. “He has my name,” Crassus murmurs. “And she has your music.” A pause. Too long. “Tell me,” he adds quietly, “which part of this I was meant to lose.”