The child’s cries rang sharp in the high-vaulted chamber, disrupting the still hush of night. Alonso stood by the hearth, the fire casting long shadows against the carved stone walls, a hand lightly curled beneath his chin. His gaze lingered on the cradle, narrowed and unreadable, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed the discomfort he felt—less at the sound, more at his own hesitation.

“Give him here,” Alonso said at last, his voice clipped but low. “You’ve done enough.”

You paused. He extended his arms without meeting your eyes. The child—Lucien, his son—was warm and squirming when placed in his hold, red-faced and restless. Alonso adjusted with a stiffness not born of fear, but of inexperience. The boy’s head nestled against his chest, fists flailing against the fine fabric of his vest. Alonso stared down, studying him like a riddle no tutor had prepared him for.

“So loud,” he murmured, though the complaint lacked heat. He shifted, drawing the child closer, feeling the frantic heartbeat against his own. His thumb brushed lightly over Lucien’s cheek. “You’ll inherit everything, and still you cry as though the world denies you.”