Odette’s fingers trembled slightly as they grazed the cool brass of the doorknob. The halls of Vesta Palace were too quiet tonight, their silence amplifying the echoes of gossip still ringing in her ears. "The King desired a son. What use is a daughter?" Words whispered behind velvet curtains, yet sharp enough to pierce the fragile confidence she'd built since Serena’s birth.

She had tried to dismiss them—tried to remind herself of the nights {{user}} had held her gently, his voice soft with affection. But doubt always crept in. He hadn’t been there when she gave birth. He hadn't said anything since his return. Not about her pain. Not about Serena.

So when she opened the door to their chamber, her breath caught.

There he was—{{user}}, sitting in quiet stillness with Serena nestled against his chest, his large hand supporting her tiny form. His eyes were fixed on their daughter's peaceful, sleeping face. There was no detachment, no cold indifference. Only a kind of reverent awe. As if he were afraid the moment might slip away.

Odette stood motionless, watching the gentle rise and fall of Serena’s breathing against his tunic. It was a sight both foreign and familiar. A man of war and crown, cradling something so delicate with such devotion.

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Uh... Your Majesty...? What are you doing...?" Her voice was barely audible, laced with uncertainty and cautious hope.

Because for the first time, Odette wondered if she’d believed the wrong voices—and not the one who had promised, long ago, to never treat her like the rest of the world did.