Jesenia rested her forehead against his, letting his promise settle into the silence between them.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jesenia and Val-Theriswalked the inner cloisters of the palace gardens, where the roses grew thickest and the fountains drowned out all other noise from the city.
Jesenia paused to steady herself near the fountain, her hand pressing instinctively to her stomach at a sudden wave of exhaustion and nausea. Val-Theris noticed at once, his brow furrowing as he reached for her elbow, his touch gentle but protective.
“You should not be walking so much,” he said, his voice low, almost a gentle scold.
Jesenia smiled faintly, shaking her head. “If I sit too long, the child will think I am weak. And I will not raise a weak heart.”
He stilled. For a moment, his eyes softened, and he bent to press a kiss against her hand. The gesture of a man whose world had narrowed to her and her alone.
“Come,” she said. “This is important.”
He followed her to the fountain where they mourned those lost in Lunareth together. Val-Theris helped Jesenia to the ground and sat cross-legged beside her, his wings folded loosely behind him. Between them rested a small, delicate paper lantern dipped in wax so it could float without soaking through.
“It’s a Lunarethian tradition,” Jesenia explained softly, tracing a fingertip along the rim of it. “When a child is expected, we set lanterns on the river to carry their names to good fortune. It’s…a journal of sorts. A way to communicate with them beyond words. The river holds thousands of stories the mothers share with their babies. I’ve been told my own mother made hundreds when Danyel and I were in her belly.” Her smile faltered briefly, but she steadied it.
He handed her the lantern and his fingers brushed hers briefly before lingering there. She looked up at him, startled, lips parting faintly before curving into a soft smile. Together, they lit the tiny wick inside, lowering the lantern into the rippling fountain that sat in the center of the palace’s gardens.
Jesenia watched it with intensity, her thumb brushing the inside of Val-Theris’s hand in a slow, unconscious rhythm. She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering.
“My little one,” she murmured, the words soft but sure, “this light is for you. It carries our hopes, not our fear.” Her breath hitched faintly. “You come from a people who endured without becoming cruel. Who learned that mercy is not the absence of strength, but its truest form.” Her hand pressed more firmly to her stomach, grounding herself in the warmth there. “I don’t know what kind of world will greet you. I only know that I will teach you how to love it anyway.”
Val-Theris’s throat ached with emotions he had never felt before. He had faced battlefields without flinching, had watched cities burn in visions he could not change—but her words for their unborn child undid him in ways no prophecy ever had. He shifted closer, lowering his head until his forehead brushed Jesenia’s temple. His voice, when he spoke, was uncharacteristically gentle.
“And I will teach you,” he said, “how to carry what is heavy without letting it hollow you.” His hand slid to rest over hers,over the curve of her stomach. “You will inherit a crown that was never meant to be a burden, but I fear it may become one for you. But you also inherit my vow—that you will never be alone beneath it. You are already braver than I am,” he whispered, voice thick. “You exist without knowing fear or war or pain. I envy that innocence.”
Jesenia turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing his shoulder. “You don’t have to protect them from everything,” she said. “Just teach them how to stand tall when the world tries to push them down.”
The lantern reached the edge of the fountain, its light briefly reflecting in Val-Theris’s eyes before slipping beyond the curve of stone and out of sight. Jesenia watched until it vanished, then leaned back against him fully, allowing herself the rare luxury of being held without fear of interruption.
Val-Theris wrapped his wings around them both, a pale arc of feathers closing like a sanctuary. He lowered his lips to her hair, breathing her in.
“Sleep well, little light,” he murmured, not to the water, but to the life growing between them. Jesenia closed her eyes, her fingers tightening briefly around his. “We will see you soon.”
As they were lost in their moment, neither of them noticed the servant boy carrying linens at the far edge of the cloister. He froze at the sight, eyes wide, the linens nearly slipping from his arms. He had seen enough: the King of Seraveth, his hand lingering on the belly of a refugee woman, a kiss pressed to her temple with tenderness that spoke louder than any proclamation.
By the time the boy reached the lower halls, his whisper had already spread. By nightfall, the palace was alive with it. Whispers slithered through kitchens, barracks, merchant halls. By the next dawn, the city hummed with the tale.
And by the third day, the council spoke of little else.
The lamps burned low,their light pooling gold across the silk of the bed. Jesenia slept beside him, her breathing slow and even, the faintest rise and fall beneath the thin sheet marking the secret she now carried between them.
Val-Theris lay awake. He turned onto his side, watching her face in the candlelight.
Jesenia had never looked so peaceful. There was a soft warmth about her now, something he had no language for. Her hand rested loosely against her stomach, as though even in sleep she knew what she carried there and sought to protect it.
This was something he had believed impossible, but there it was, resting between them for him to admire.
He reached out, brushing a lock of hair from Jesenia’s cheek. “Do you remember,” he whispered, voice barely a sound, “the gardens?” Her eyelids fluttered but did not open. “You told me you wanted as many children as your body could carry.” His throat ached. “I thought the Light had cursed me to rule, but not to create. That I was meant to guide life, never give it. And yet here you are, defying the divine again.”
He pressed his lips to her hair, breathing her in. His voice trembled against her skin. “I’ll give you as many as I can,” he murmured. “As many as time allows before death finds me. You’ll have a house full of laughter and noise and little hands tugging at your skirts. You’ll have every dream you ever whispered to the wind, Jesenia.” He exhaled slowly, eyes burning as his voice broke. “Even if I am not there to see it.”
She stirred slightly. His hand tightened around hers. When sleep finally took him, he dreamed not of fire or ruin, but of sunlight and small voices calling his name.
And somewhere beyond the reach of dawn, the god who had made him watched, and said nothing.
