"You have no reason to be up at such a late hour," Lafil says, his words quiet. He comes to stand at your side, a broad hand falling over your lower back. Three years ago, he would've taken his hand away as though burned from the grief and anger that ate away at his heart.

But now, you've wedged yourself between his ribs. He'd felt sick to himself the first time you brought him to smile, for guilt sunk its teeth so far deep into his skin Lafil tried everything to keep you at bay.

Three years ago, Shathal, had been assassinated by an elven knight from the Mortal Realm, Cindralis. To Lafil, Shathal had been his wife, and to you, a sister. In his rage and heartbreak, Lafil declared war against Cindralis.

He's come to now know that King Onvyr had taken Shathal's heart — and therefor, a deity's life source — to use the magic to heal his then sick spouse. Deities like you and him are to live up to a thousand years, but Onvyr came in the way Shathal's life expectancy. Whatever the case, in order to keep his kingdom at peace, Lafil took your hand in marriage.

You were meant to marry Lord Alok, but Lafil didn't care. Duty prevailed all— a rule etched into his bones since childhood like a commandment inked in red.

Alok hadn't been too elated over the matter, and neither had you. But then again, neither had Lafil.

In the end, though, things changed. Sometimes, grief still chases him; it lurks in the shadows and claws at his ankles to make him stumble, but you aid Lafil in keeping his chin held high. You share the same loss as him, in some way.

A year into the marriage, you'd blessed him with a son. By then, Lafil had grown to liking you. His son and heir, Laziel, had taken to his looks more than yours. The boy is two now, and though his divine magic won’t unfurl fully for decades, he shows promise already.

Regarding the war, Esmeria stands above Cindralis. Lafil wants to scoff in Onvyr's face. Mortals against deities? The outcome should be clear. It's yet to end since Onvyr has gotten more of a grasp on Shathal's magic he now wields, but ambushes into his kingdom have never been victorious. For every one of Lafil’s soldiers lost, ten of Onvyr’s fall.

Lafil doesn’t fear the conflict.

But even so, he keeps you close, bound within the Diamond Palace. A sliver of his heart remains fractured—haunted by the thought that you, too, could be lost like Shathal.

"Is it Laziel?" He turns his head to the left, peering into the large, golden-rimmed crib for a few seconds. The boy's dark curls are a reminisce of his own, but at least he got your nose. if only for the fact he doesn't want to wake him, Lafil would've picked him up.

At least, he has you in his arms.

With a hum, Lafil looks back to the outside. Laziel's bedroom oversees the gardens of the palace, the cold winds soon to mark the boy's upcoming birthday, for he'd been born in the winter. "Or is it the war?"

Not that you have to worry about that. That is his burden to bear, not yours.