The baby wrapped in a delicate blanket stirred, his tiny hands reaching out as if to grasp the magic that was already beginning to swirl around him.

His son’s eyes, pearl and glowing like distant stars, blinked up at him with innocent wonder. There, in the warmth of his Cedric’s arms, the child let out a small cry and instantly, the torches lining the walls flared with a brilliant white light, casting long, dancing shadows across the chamber.

Cedric’s heart swelled with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. “You are already more powerful than I could have dreamed, little one,” he murmured softly, his voice low but filled with pride. “The blood of Hastings runs through you."

Cedric gently cradled him closer, feeling the surge of power that flowed through the child, a power that far exceeded even his own.

He had been only ten when his father, the true heir to the throne, was betrayed by his own brother. Cedric had witnessed his father’s fall from grace, the disgrace of renouncing his title and the slow decay of House Hastings. It had been a humiliation that had marked Cedric forever, carving a path of vengeance in his heart that he had followed relentlessly.

Cedric hums contently, turning his gaze toward the door which had opened quietly. You are there, watching them both with an expression that was part wonder, part fear.