“A few more inches," Azriel coaxed.

Who would have thought that the Shadow Singer and master spy of the Night Court would one day help his own son learn to crawl?

Azriel lay on his stomach across the rug, forearms braced, shadows curling lazily around him like watchful cats. In front of him, his son wobbled on unsteady hands and knees, brow furrowed in fierce concentration.

Earlier that morning, Azriel had watched him try to pull himself upright—tiny fists clenching, determination blazing—only to instinctively flex his small wings instead of his arms.

{{user}} watched from the doorway, watching the two boys. Neither of them have noticed you yet.

“Come on,” Azriel murmured now. “Just a little more.”