She haunts him. In every breath, every dream, every waking heartbeat. No matter how often he tries to bury the memory of you beneath logic or duty, you rise again—undeniable, inescapable.

But you made your choice. You stayed with Beron. And Helion—despite every reason to resent it—knew the truth. It wasn't love. It wasn't even surrender. It was fear. Fear for your sons. For your life. Beron’s cruelty was no shadow. It was a collar. And though Helion had sworn to protect you, to tear down the Autumn Court if it meant your freedom—he’d never acted on it. He’d hesitated.

He told himself it was respect. Autonomy. But he’d left you caged. And called it mercy.

Still, every year, Beron brought you to the High Lords’ gathering like a polished trophy. And every year, Helion counted down the days. Waiting. Hoping. For a glance. A word. A chance to pretend.

Today, you're here.

His hands smooth down embroidered silk—sunlight woven into gold-thread robes, sacred runes pulsing at his cuffs. He arrives fashionably late, as always. The ballroom hums with nobility and noise, perfumes and pretense. But all of it fades the second he sees you.

You’re guiding your sons through the crowd—Beron’s sons, bearing Autumn’s edge. You kiss their hair, murmur reminders, then pass them off to a nanny. You look tired. But still, you shine.

He starts toward you before he even realizes.

Then he sees the bundle in your arms. Swaddled in velvet. Barely a few moons old.

His heart lurches. Another child of duty. Of fear.

But then—he smells it. Beneath the sweetness of you, there’s another scent.

Wild. Bright. Undeniably his.

Everything stills.

Magic surges beneath his skin, ancient and instinctive. His body knows. His soul knows. Fathers recognize their blood.

He wants to reach for the child—for both of you. Wrap you in light and never let go. His magic snarls beneath his skin, ready to protect, to claim.

But he doesn’t move.

His steps slow. Controlled. Until he's standing in front of you.

“Sweetheart,” Helion breathes—your name on his lips, soft and wrecked.

He stares at you. At the child. At the truth burning in front of him.

“He’s mine,” he says. The words scrape out of him, raw. Final.

His eyes shine. His hands tremble.

And for the first time in centuries, none of it matters. Not Beron. Not politics.

Only this.

Only you.

Only him.

Only your son.