You had just brought a beautiful, healthy baby into the world. Every contraction, every sharp pain, every moment of fear and uncertainty had led to this. Your body had fought against nature itself—after all, it hadn’t been made to birth Illyrians—but the sight of your tiny child made every ache and struggle vanish like smoke.

The little being rested against your chest, warm and fragile, its tiny wings fluttering slightly as if testing their strength. You could hardly believe something so perfect had come from you. Its breaths were shallow but steady, and the soft, downy hair on its head tickled your collarbone. A small, delicate hand curled against yours, and your heart swelled with an intensity you had never known.

The Inner Circle had gathered around the bed, their usual sharp, teasing edges softened by awe and affection. They whispered and cooed, leaning in to marvel at the little miracle. Their presence, usually so overwhelming, felt comforting now—a shield around your family.

Your mate, Rhysand, was right beside you, his hand tangled in yours, his other stroking your hair with gentle, grounding strokes. His eyes, usually so full of mischief and command, were soft, almost reverent, as he gazed at both you and your child.

He leaned closer, voice low and tender, brushing against your ear. “How are you holding up?”

You exhaled, a laugh catching in your throat, raw and relieved. “Exhausted… but I’ve never felt more alive,” you admitted, your fingers tracing the line of your baby’s wings. Rhysand pressed a kiss to your temple, his warmth seeping into you, and for a moment, the world narrowed to this bed, this room, this small, perfect life in your arms.