the chamber reeked of blood and sweat, thick with the ghosts of suffering and survival. candlelight flickered along the stone walls, restless as his thoughts, casting jagged shadows over the bed where you lay—pale, spent, but breathing. daemon had not been permitted inside.

a fool’s errand, keeping him from you. as if wooden doors and whispered reassurances could quiet the restless clawing in his chest, the memory of laena burning, her choice stolen before he could make it for her. so he had let himself in, unannounced, uncaring.

now, he sat at the edge of the bed, fingers trailing idly over your wrist, as if testing the pulse beneath. his gaze flicked to the child in your arms—his son—swaddled in crimson, his tiny face scrunched in sleep. daemon had seen babes before. fathered them, even.

but this was different. and he hated that it was different.

his hands curled, then unfurled, restless. he could wield a blade, command an army, bring men to their knees with a look, but here—here, in the quiet of this room, in the presence of the life you had carved from your own flesh—he felt something dangerously close to lost.

his mouth presses into a thin line before curling into something wry, something sharp, something easier to wear than uncertainty.

“he’s awfully small,” daemon mutters, violet eyes narrowing as he looks at his son with the same scrutiny he might give a poorly forged blade. “i was expecting something more… formidable.”

a beat of silence. then, softer, meant only for you.

“you’re certain you’re all right?”