Vaeronyx watched the young king crumple over his wife’s still body, the grief striking him like a reflection carved out of centuries, a perfect horrific mirror of the mont he too had knelt beside a woman whose light had once softened the heavens.
Leroy clung to Lorraine with shaking hands and trembling breaths, whispering her na in broken pieces, his entire being collapsing in on itself like a dying star, and for a long heartbeat Vaeronyx could not move, stunned by the sheer familiarity of that sound.
It was the sound a man makes when the soul he had anchored his existence to slips away, leaving him with nothing but the echo of mories that suddenly feel too heavy to bear.
His gaze drifted, slowly, reluctantly, almost as if fearing what new pain waited for him, until it landed on the small bundle lying forgotten near the ritual circle. The baby was wrapped only in a thin blanket, barely shielding him from the cold of the tomb, his tiny chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as though the world had not yet decided whether he was ant to belong to it.
A prince of the realm, born at dawn, orphaned before the sun had finished climbing the sky, discarded at the edge of the chamber as though he were nothing but a shadow of the catastrophe that had taken place.
Leroy had not even looked at him. Vaeronyx doubted he had even acknowledged that the child existed at all, for the only thing Leroy had seen, the only thing he still saw, was his dying wife.
His dead wife.
For the first ti since taking them onto his back, Vaeronyx’s heart tightened in sothing harsher than sorrow, sothing that bordered on pity, for this little boy who entered the world only to be greeted by loss. The child’s mother was gone, and the father who should have gathered him into warm arms and whispered promises of protection could not bring himself to see anything beyond the gaping wound in his own heart.
Vaeronyx, who had watched kingdoms rise and fall and had sat in the ruins of his own love for longer than mortal mory could count, felt sothing cold settle beneath his ribs. This tiny prince, with his fragile breaths and faint cries, would suffer for this night.
If Leroy lived, grief would twist him, as it had twisted Vaeronyx once, and the child might grow beneath the shadow of bla, carrying the weight of a death he had never ant to cause.
Vaeronyx shifted, his great body folding inward, divine fire ebbing as he let go of his dragon form, scales folding into skin, talons turning into fingers shaped with the faint glow of his celestial nature.
When he finally knelt beside the infant, his hands trembled, not from fear, but from the mory of another mont, centuries old, when he had knelt beside another child—his child—and whispered promises he had never been allowed to keep.
He lifted the baby carefully, cradling him against his chest, and the small, warm body curled instinctively against him, seeking comfort with a faint sigh that pierced sothing deep and ruinous inside the demigod.
It might have been the first genuine embrace the child had received since entering this world.
He carried the baby to Leroy, whose grief had hollowed his face until he looked like a man carved from the ashes of a fire that had burned too long. Leroy was whispering to Lorraine, his voice raw and disjointed, muttering words that barely held their shape, falling apart between sobs that shook him so hard his shoulders trembled uncontrollably.
Vaeronyx waited, letting the young king drown in his grief for a mont longer before he placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, urging him to lift his head.
"Your son," he said softly, offering the small prince toward him.
But Leroy did not react. His unfocused eyes stayed locked on Lorraine’s still face as if refusing to accept any reality that did not include her waking. Vaeronyx pressed again, firr this ti, "You need to hold and raise your son."
Sothing cracked in Leroy’s expression then, a sudden violent tightening around his eyes as he finally turned, dragging his gaze toward the infant. The mont he recognized what he was looking at, his face twisted into sothing jagged and dark.
"He is a murderer," Leroy whispered hoarsely. "He is not my son."
Vaeronyx inhaled slowly, feeling neither shock nor anger, only the weary ache of inevitability. He had expected this.
Love is a strange creature, one capable of resurrecting hope and yet equally capable of poisoning the heart when it is ripped away, twisting everything it touches into sothing dark and vicious. Grief had broken Leroy open, and all that remained inside him now was raw, festering agony, too wild to be soothed by reason.
Even the innocent face of his own blood seed monstrous to him, a reminder of the woman he had lost and the future she would never witness.
Leroy stared at the baby blankly, seeing nothing but the thing that had taken his wife from him, the tiny splashes of blood staining his skin, the faint, unsettling newborn grin, the pale eyes that mirrored Lorraine’s too closely. He did not see his child. He saw a monster.
Yet sothing flickered in his expression when he leaned a little closer, when his gaze caught the faint streak of dried white coating on the baby’s skin, the residue of birth that had not yet been washed away, and recognition whispered through him like a thin crack of light.
He is my blood...
Lorraine’s voice, soft and stubborn and full of the fierce love only she possessed, echoed through his mory, shattering him further.
Will his blood work in place of Lorraine’s blood? He’s living, right?
Before Vaeronyx could understand the shift, Leroy lunged forward, snatching the baby from his arms with a desperate, trembling fury, rushing toward the ritual circle with a staggering, unsteady gait.
Vaeronyx followed instantly, alarm rippling through him as he realized the change in Leroy’s breathing, the feverish glint in his eyes that promised danger.
Leroy pulled out his dagger.
And brought it to the baby’s throat. His blood might bring Lorraine back.
Vaeronyx moved, lightning-quick, divine instincts roaring inside him, but Leroy had already lowered the blade, grief driving him, rage guiding him, madness whispering in his ear that the child was the root of his suffering.
His hand shook violently as he tightened his grip on the dagger, ready to strike.
But then...
He is my blood. He’s our blood.
Lorraine’s voice echoed again, deep enough to tremble his bones.
His hand faltered. His breath caught. His entire body froze with sudden clarity.
What was he about to do?
He was about to kill the only remaining fragnt of her, the tiny heartbeat that carried half of her soul, the child she had fought through agony to bring into the world. Lorraine would never forgive him.
His fingers trembled so violently the blade rattled.
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