Cassian was halfway through yelling at two sparring males when he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

A figure in a dark cloak, sprinting toward his tent like he owed her money. And from the way her wings fluttered, she was either out of breath or out of nerve.

He squinted. Yrena.

Oh, fuck.

It’d been months — a night soaked in mead, blood, and bad decisions. He thought she’d moved to Devlon’s side of the mountains. Or married. Or died in a glorious rage-fueled training accident. You know, the usual Illyrian closure.

Instead, she power-walked straight up to him, dropped a basket at his boots, and muttered:

“You’re on your own!”

Then she turned around and booked it.

Like — sprinted.

“Yrena?!” Cassian called after her. “What the hell is this?!”

But she was already airborne, flapping like a bat out of child support court. She didn’t even look back.

Cassian blinked. Looked down.

The basket wiggled.

“Oh, gods no.”

He crouched. Lifted the cloth.

Baby.

Tiny. Warm. tan-skinned with a mess of dark curls. Wrapped in a ridiculously fluffy blanket that said “Daddy’s Little Wingmate” in glittery thread. Someone had embroidered that shit.

And then—

She opened her eyes.

Big, golden-hazel. Familiar.

Cassian leaned back like he’d been slapped.

“Oh, come on.”

The baby gurgled. Smiled. And—exploded into a scream so high-pitched he swore it cracked his eardrum.

“I fought in the War, I’ve battled gods,” Cassian muttered, scooping her up with the grace of a man holding a bomb. “But sure. Let’s add ‘surprise fatherhood’ to the trauma roster.”

The baby burped directly onto his chest.

“Yeah. No. That’s perfect. Just spit up on the leathers. Rhys loves when I reek like baby vomit.”

He stared into her tiny, furious face, and something inside him cracked.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’ve got my temper, too.”