Chapter 78 Lucian
— · —
Lucian
Solian had my wife’s temper and Solomon’s refusal to sleep on schedule.
It had been three weeks since the birth, and the royal chambers had transformed into a warzone of burp cloths, mismatched swaddles, and the perpetual low-grade chaos of three newborns who’d apparently agreed to operate in shifts so that at least one of them was crying at any given moment.
Mireille was the easiest.
She slept when held and screamed when put down, which meant someone was holding her at all times, which meant we’d developed a rotation.
Percy had the morning shift. Solomon took afternoons.
I covered the nights. Mireille seemed to find my heartbeat personally soothing, which I refused to be emotional about and was absolutely emotional about.
Percius was the wildcard. He slept through anything: howling wolves, slamming doors, his brother’s screaming. Nothing woke him.
“He sleeps with commitment,” Percy had said. “I respect it.”
Solian was the problem.
Solian didn’t sleep, he observed. His silver eyes tracked movement across the room with a focus that had no business existing in a three-week-old, and when the movement stopped, he cried.
Solomon was the only one who could settle him. He’d lift Solian from the crib, hold him against his chest, and walk the length of the chamber in measured steps, and the boy would go quiet.
Silver eyes tracking his father’s jaw, his collar, the scar on his face, analyzing the world with a methodical intensity that made Mira say, “He’s going to be exactly you and I’m going to need therapy.”
“He’s three weeks old,” Solomon had replied.
“He timed my feeding schedule yesterday. I saw him tracking the intervals between his sister’s cries and adjusting his own accordingly.”
“That’s not possible.”
“He’s your son. Everything impossible is on the table.”
I stood on the balcony and drank coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago because I’d been interrupted by Mireille, then by a messenger from the council, then by Edgar landing on the railing with a note from Farmon that simply said: “The creature remains unconscious. No change.”
Thiago. Still in containment, suffering.
The mindless monster his own formula had made him.
I tucked the note into my pocket.
“Your parents are here.”
Mira appeared in the balcony doorway. She wore one of my shirts, the collar slipping off her shoulder, her copper hair in a knot that had started intentional and devolved into chaos. A burp cloth was draped over her left shoulder. Dark circles lived under her eyes.
She was the most beautiful thing in my kingdom.
“Already?” I said.
“They’re early. They’re always early. Your mother brought a trunk.”
“A trunk of what?”
“I didn’t ask. I was afraid.”
The fear was justified.
My mother swept into the nursery with the energy of a woman who’d been waiting five centuries for grandchildren and intended to make up for lost time in a single morning.
The trunk contained: fourteen hand-knitted blankets; three separate volumes on lycan child development that she’d annotated personally; a dietary plan for Mira that was six pages long; and a formal petition, already signed by both my parents, requesting permanent nursery access.
“A petition,” Mira said, holding the document. “You petitioned us. For baby access. In our own home.”
“Formality is important,” Mother said, already lifting Mireille from the crib. “The kingdom recognizes proper channels.”
“Rheda, you’re the former queen. You could just ask.”
“I did ask. In writing. With a witnessed signature.” Mother settled Mireille against her shoulder, and my daughter went silent, pressing her face into Mother’s neck. “See? She knows her grandmother.”
Father entered behind her carrying a second, smaller trunk. His expression was the particular blend of joy and bewilderment that had been his default since the birth announcement.
“More blankets?” I asked.
“Weapons.”
“Altun,” Mother said without turning around.
“Training weapons. Wooden. Age-appropriate.”
“They’re three weeks old.”
“It’s never too early to assess grip strength.” Father set the trunk by the wall and crossed to the crib where Solian was conducting his usual surveillance of the room. “This one. He has Solomon’s eyes.”
“And his sleep schedule,” Mira said. “Meaning he doesn’t have one.”
Father leaned over the crib. Solian’s silver eyes locked onto his grandfather’s face. Father stared back. Neither blinked. The standoff lasted eight seconds before Father straightened with a nod of approval.
“Strong will. Good. He’ll need it.”
“For what?” Mira asked.
“Everything. Being a Valdris is not for the faint-hearted.” Father caught my eye across the room with pride in his expression. “You’ve done well, son.”
Percy appeared in the doorway holding Percius, who was, predictably, asleep.
“Is that the child?” Mother descended on Percy, the way a hawk spotted prey. “Let me see him. Percy, you’re holding him too low. Support the neck. Like this.” She adjusted his grip with one hand while holding Mireille in the other. “Better. He has your coloring.”
“And my ability to sleep through anything,” Percy said. “Watch.” He clapped beside Percius’s ear. The baby didn’t move.
“Don’t clap near the baby,” Solomon said from the doorway.
“He can’t hear it. That’s the point.”
“He’s still a baby.”
The morning dissolved into the particular chaos that only occurred when my parents were in the same room as my children and my mates.
I found Mira on the balcony. The same spot I’d stood that morning, but the afternoon light changed the view.
She held Mireille against her shoulder. My mother’s knitted blanket wrapped around both of them, the Veyndral pattern catching the light.
“Your mother wants to move into the east wing,” Mira said.
“She already lives in the east wing.”
“She wants to move into the nursery wing of the east wing. She presented a floor plan.”
“Of course she did.”
“I said yes.”
“You don’t need my permission.”
“I know. I’m informing you as a courtesy. The way your mother informed us about the baby access petition.”
A smile pulled at my mouth. Mira caught it and smiled back, and the moment was so ordinary it felt sacred. Because ordinary was new. We’d had danger and near-death, the kind of love story that left scars. Ordinary was the reward.
“Lucian.”
“Mm.”
“I want to be turned.”
The words landed with no buildup or hesitation.
“I’ve been thinking about it since the coronation,” she said. “Watching the kingdom, our children. Watching you, Solomon, and Percy move through a world that you belong to, and knowing that I’m the only one in this family who ages.”
“Mira.”
“I’m not being morbid. I’m being practical. You’re five hundred years old. Solomon and Percy will live for centuries. Our children are lycan. I want to be there for them.”
“The transformation is not simple. It’s painful. The body restructures itself on a cellular level, and there’s no guarantee...”
“There’s never a guarantee. There wasn’t a guarantee when I walked into that compound.” She looked at me. Mismatched eyes both steady. “I’m asking for a chance to keep this. Forever.”
Mireille squirmed against her shoulder, making the small snuffling sound that preceded either sleep or screaming. Mira adjusted her grip without looking, the motion already instinctive.
“You’re asking me to trigger a transformation that will rewrite your biology,” I said. “It will be the most painful experience of your life.”
“I’ve given birth to triplets. I have a high bar for pain.”
“This is different.”
“Everything’s been different since I met you.” She stepped closer. “I choose you. All of you. For as long as I can have you.”
The Glowwood pulsed and the sea glinted as the kingdom held its breath.
“When?” I asked.
“After I’ve recovered fully from the birth.” She paused. “So... soon.”
“Soon.”
“Don’t say it twice. You’ll jinx it.”
“I don’t believe in jinxes.”
“You believe in fated mate bonds and interdimensional portals and magical ravens, but jinxes are where you draw the line?”
Edgar landed on the balcony railing, as if summoned by the word raven. He clicked once, head tilted, and Mira raised an eyebrow at me.
“Professional relationship,” I said.
“He came when I said his species’ name. That’s a pet, Lucian.”
“It’s a coincidence.”
“He’s leaning into your hand.”
Edgar had, in fact, sidled along the railing until his feathered head pressed against my fingers. I withdrew my hand. He followed. Mira’s laugh carried across the balcony and startled Mireille, who began the warning squirm that preceded the scream.
I took my daughter from Mira’s arms.
“Soon,” Mira repeated. Softer now, looking at the kingdom.
“Soon,” I agreed.
And this time she didn’t tell me not to say it twice.