Pain was a drumbeat. Relentless. Merciless. Waking wasn’t light, it was a blade—searing, blinding, cutting through every nerve. Lavender. Linen. Home. Your room. But the weight pressing down wasn’t the duvet.

Two small faces swam into focus. Invictus first. Ten years old and already carved with worry lines, knuckles white where he gripped the blanket. Marcella pressed against you, her little palm cool on your cheek, her necklace wound tight in her fist. To anyone else she looked blank. You knew better. The strain in her silence screamed louder than words.

And then—him.

Festus. Kneeling like a soldier at your side, not daring to sit higher than you. Late light caught in his auburn curls, eyes stripped bare of their usual spark. No jokes. No smirk. Just fear, raw and unguarded, heavy enough to break you. His hand hovered, brushing damp strands from your temple again and again—as if steadiness could be willed into you by touch alone.

Memory slammed back. The fog. The world tilting. Knees buckling. Stairs rushing up. Black.

“Uncle Festus came,” Invictus whispered. His voice shook, pitched low, like even sound might hurt you. “Dad’s phone… it just rang and rang. He was at some fancy dinner.”

Of course he was.

Festus’s thumb lingered at your temple, tracing calm where there was none. His voice was a murmur, steady, a shelter you could crawl into.

“Easy, love. You’re safe. Tell me—are you any steadier?”