The sun had just begun to rise over Velaris, painting the city in soft gold, when the knock came.

It was gentle—almost reverent.

Nyx didn’t move at first. He sat beside you on the couch, your newborn son cradled carefully in his arms, both of you watching the quiet rhythm of the baby’s breathing. So small. So new.

The soft knock came.

The door opened before either of you could answer.

“Is it—?” Feyre stepped inside, her voice catching as her gaze landed on the child. Rhysand followed close behind—and then both of them simply stopped.

For a moment, neither High Lord nor High Lady existed. Only parents.

Only grandparents.

Rhys exhaled softly, something raw and unguarded breaking through his composure. “Cauldron… Nyx.”

Nyx stood, careful as if the world itself might shatter, and placed the baby into Feyre’s waiting arms.

She held him like he was made of light.

Tears slipped freely down her cheeks as she took him in. “He’s perfect,” she whispered. “Look at him…”

Rhys moved beside her, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other brushing a finger so lightly against the baby’s tiny hand it barely touched. His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Our boy has a son.”

Feyre let out a shaky laugh, eyes still fixed on the baby. “I remember when Nyx was this small.”

“And now he’s made something just as extraordinary,” Rhys murmured.

Nyx returned to your side, his hand finding yours, grounding, steady—but his gaze never left them.

Never left his son.

“He’ll be loved,” you said quietly.

Rhys looked up at that, eyes bright with something ancient and endless. “He already is.”