Nearly a month had passed since the incident when Lady Ariana found her son—alone in the west wing library, asleep among scrolls and military treatises far beyond a child's reach or reason.
He had dragged a fur-lined cloak across the stone floor and curled up beneath it beside the fire, a wooden practice sword still clutched in one small hand. His face was pale, drawn tight even in sleep, and the firelight carved shadows along his features that made him seem older than his years. Not a child. Not truly.
Ariana knelt beside him.
For a long moment, she did not speak, did not reach for him. She only looked. This boy—her boy—whom she had cradled in blood and magic and desperate prayers, who had cost her everything and more, was slipping away like mist before dawn. And there was nothing she could do to hold him.
Her fingers brushed a strand from his brow. He didn't stir, not even a flicker. As if sleep was the only place left where he could breathe.
She should have scolded him—for wandering so far from his chambers, for sleeping on cold stone like a stray. He'd catch a cold.But the words withered on her tongue.All she could do was watch him breathe.
"You're only three," she whispered, as if saying it aloud might make it true again.
Her voice broke.
The weight of all she hadn't said, hadn't dared to feel, pressed against her chest like stone. She bowed her head over him, and silent tears fell—threading down her cheeks, catching the firelight like molten glass before disappearing into the thick wool of her sleeves.
"I would give anything to take this burden from you," she said, barely audible. "I would make the pact myself, if it meant your soul stayed untouched."
He stirred then—not fully awake, not quite dreaming—and murmured something unintelligible. His hand opened, searching, and brushed against her knee. Reflexively, she caught it in hers, held it tight. Afraid that if she let go, he would drift away forever, into some place she could not follow.
In that moment, she was not a lady. Not a wife. Not the daughter of proud bloodlines.
She was only a mother.
And she was afraid.
Arion's lashes fluttered. The haze of sleep clung to him—warm, thick, and slow—but the presence beside him tugged gently at the edges of his dreams. He knew that scent: lavender and parchment, the perfume of old books and clean silk. His mother.
His eyes opened, heavy with sleep.
She was kneeling at his side, her face half-lit by the hearthfire, half-shadowed by something harder to name. Grief, perhaps. Her hand clutched his as if afraid it might vanish. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lips parted mid-prayer, or perhaps mid-thought. Her thumb moved in slow, unconscious circles over his knuckles.
He said nothing.
He could have closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Part of him wanted to. But something in her stillness unsettled him more than any nightmare. His mother was never still. She was composed. Controlled. Always moving forward, always one breath ahead of the world.
Now she looked lost.
"…Mother?"
Her hand tensed. Slowly, she met his gaze. A flicker of panic crossed her face—then, just as quickly, it was buried beneath a soft, practiced smile. The kind adults wore when they didn't want children to worry.
"You should be in bed, darling," she said, brushing his hair back again. "The floor's cold."
"I had a dream," he murmured, sitting up. "The sky was cracking."
Her breath caught.
She covered it with a quiet hum and began to gather his scattered papers, but Arion's gaze didn't leave her face. His small brow furrowed, uncertain. He had seen her fierce, seen her angry, weary, even triumphant.
But never like this. Never undone.
He reached out and touched her sleeve—not to stop her, not even to comfort her. Just to say: I see you.
And for a moment, she froze.
"I'm not afraid anymore," he said, a lie wrapped in a child's resolve. "I've been training. Commander Marius says I'm improving."
Her eyes shimmered.
"That's good," she whispered. "That's… very good."
He let go of her sleeve.
She stood then, composed once more, and helped him up with care. But as they walked back toward his chambers, hand in hand, something fragile moved between them. Not quite closeness. Not quite distance. A thread of understanding—thin, trembling, but not yet broken.
And in the dark, Arion glanced up at her and said, "You don't have to be afraid either."
Ariana didn't answer.
But her fingers tightened around his, just a little. And this time, when she looked down at him, it was not with the eyes of a falcon—but with the quiet ache of a woman trying to remember how to be a mother to a boy already walking the path of a man.