"Stop counting my grey hairs."
"I'm admiring them. Distinguished."
"You're a terrible liar." But he's smiling into the pillow, and the bond hums with sleepy contentment.
From the nursery down the hall, a small voice starts fussing. Then another, harmony to the first—our twins waking in tandemthe way they do everything, never quite in sync but never far apart.
"Your turn," I tell him.
"It's always my turn."
"It is, I agree."
He groans but rolls out of bed anyway, yanking on pants with the efficiency of a man who's learned that babies wait for no one. I watch him go—watch the play of muscles across his back, the scars I've memorized, the easy way he moves now that the curse isn't weighing him down.
He's lighter these days. We both are.
-
By the time I make it to the nursery, Rhystan has both twins in his arms.
Sera is gnawing on his finger with her four new teeth, drool everywhere, her gold eyes fixed on his face with fierce concentration. Cade is asleep again—he does that, fusses himself awake and then immediately passes back out, like consciousness is too much effort. They're six months old and already developing personalities that make me want to laugh and cry in equal measure.
"She's hungry," Rhystan says, handing Sera over. "And I think he needs changing. Again."
"How does someone so small produce so much?—"
"Don't." He takes Cade with practiced ease, heading for the changing table. "Don't even finish that sentence. I've been asking myself the same question for months and there are no good answers."
I settle into the nursing chair with Sera, guiding her to my breast. She latches on with the same fierce determination she brings to everything—eating, crying, grabbing fistfuls of my hairand refusing to let go. Warrior omega blood, the mystic says. It shows early.
The scales on my arms catch the light as I adjust her position. I've stopped noticing them most days—the patches of black and gold that cover maybe a third of my skin, the claws I've learned to retract, the eyes that will never be human again. The curse is a weight in my bones, but a manageable one. Most days.
Some days are harder.
Some days I wake snarling, divine rage pressing against the inside of my skull. Those days Rhystan holds me until it passes, talks me through breathing exercises he developed over three centuries. Those days I understand what he carried alone for so long, and I love him more for surviving it.
"Stop thinking so loud." He's finished with Cade, settling into the chair across from me with our son tucked against his chest. "I can feel you brooding through the bond."
"I'm not brooding. I'm reflecting."
"You're brooding. You always brood when you're nursing. Something about sitting still for more than five minutes."
He's not wrong.
"I was thinking about the curse," I admit. "About carrying it. About what happens when—" I stop. This is an old fear, one we've discussed before. "What if I pass it to them somehow? What if the transfer wasn't complete?"
"It was complete." He says it with absolute certainty—the same certainty he's offered every time I've asked. "The mystic confirmed it. I can feel it through the bond. The curse is in you, not them. They're free."
"But what if?—"
"Kess." He catches my eyes, holds them. "They're free. Whatever else happens, whatever comes next—we gave them that. A life without divine punishment. A childhood that isn'tshadowed by three centuries of death." His voice softens. "That's worth everything. Even on the hard days."
I look down at Sera, still nursing with single-minded focus. At Cade, asleep on his father's chest, tiny fist curled against dragon-scarred skin. At the life we've built from the wreckage of everything that came before.
He's right. It's worth everything.
Even on the hard days.
