Chapter 3 Hada
HADA
Sylas’s guest room looks like it was designed by someone who’s never actually slept anywhere that wasn’t perfectly calibrated for optimal rest. The bed adjusts to my body temperature and weight distribution, the lighting shifts automatically based on circadian rhythms I’m pretty sure it’s guessing at, and the walls emit some kind of harmonic frequency that’s supposed to promote deep sleep.
All of which would be great if I could actually manage to fall asleep.
Instead, I lie here listening to Aniska’s soft breathing through the baby monitor, hyper-aware that she’s three rooms away in a crib that’s probably worth more than my annual salary.
Every time she stirs, my heart rate spikes.
Every time she settles back into sleep, I wonder if I should check on her anyway.
This is insane. I’ve led combat missions through hostile territory, maintained operational security during deep-cover assignments, and kept my squad alive through three separate planetary bombardments. I should be able to handle one sleeping baby.
But those missions had protocols. Clear objectives and defined parameters for success. This is just me, trying not to break the most important thing Margot ever trusted me with.
The baby monitor crackles with static, followed by a soft whimper that makes me bolt upright.
Not crying yet, but the kind of restless sound that usually precedes a full meltdown.
I’m out of bed and halfway to the door when I hear footsteps in the corridor—measured, quiet, unmistakably Sylas moving toward the nursery.
By the time I reach Aniska’s room, he’s already there, standing beside the crib with his hands clasped behind his back. His bioluminescent markings pulse with soft blue light, creating patterns I can’t read but somehow find soothing.
“She’s dreaming,” he says without turning around. “Zephyrian children often experience empathic echoes during sleep. Fragments of memory and emotion that don’t belong to them.”
“Whose memories?”
“Her parents’, most likely. The empathic bond between Zephyrian partners includes shared consciousness to some degree. That connection doesn’t sever completely at death—it leaves traces.”
I move closer to the crib, where Aniska’s tiny face scrunches with distress even as she sleeps. Her small fists clench and unclench, as if she’s fighting something in her dreams.
“Is that normal?”
“For full Zephyrian children, yes. But Aniska…” He trails off, his expression troubled. “Her human genetics may amplify the effect rather than buffer it. She could be experiencing her parents’ final moments.”
The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. This tiny child, reliving her parents’ deaths every time she closes her eyes. No wonder she’s been inconsolable.
“There must be something we can do.”
“Traditional methods involve empathic shielding, but that requires training Aniska doesn’t have. The techniques aren’t designed for hybrid physiology.”
I watch her struggle against whatever phantom pain she’s experiencing, and something protective and fierce unfurls in my chest. Margot used to have nightmares too, after particularly brutal missions.
I’d learned to recognize the signs—the restless movements, the way her breathing changed, the small sounds of distress that meant she was trapped in memories she couldn’t escape.
“What did you do for Margot?” I ask.
Sylas turns to look at me, surprise flickering across his features. “I beg your pardon?”
“When she studied with you. When she had empathic overload from her connection to Krel’lun. You must have taught her coping techniques.”
“I… yes. Basic grounding exercises. Meditation practices to help her process the additional sensory input.” His markings shift to a deeper blue. “But those methods require conscious participation. Aniska is too young to—”
“But I’m not.”
The words are out before I fully think them through, but they feel right. If Aniska is experiencing her mother’s memories, maybe she needs someone who knew Margot. Someone who carries their own empathic connection to her.
“Captain Blaxton—”
“Hada.” I reach down to stroke Aniska’s cheek, and her restless movements quiet slightly. “If we’re going to be co-parenting, you might as well use my name.”
“Hada.” He says it carefully, as if testing the sound. “What you’re suggesting is theoretically possible, but extremely dangerous. If you attempt to form an empathic connection with Aniska while she’s experiencing traumatic memories, you could become trapped in the same psychological loop.”
“Or I could help her break free of it.”
“The risk—”
“Is mine to take.” I look up at him, noting the way his silver-gold eyes reflect the soft light from his markings. “You said yourself that she responds to my empathic signature. Maybe that’s exactly what she needs right now.”
Sylas studies my face for a long moment, and I practically see him weighing the risks against potential benefits. When he speaks again, his voice carries the careful tone of someone explaining something dangerous to someone who might not understand the implications.
“Empathic connection requires absolute emotional honesty. You would need to open your mind completely—not just to Aniska, but to whatever memories she’s experiencing. Her parents’ final moments, their fear, their pain. Are you prepared for that?”
Am I? The thought of experiencing Margot’s death firsthand makes my stomach clench, but Aniska whimpers again and the sound cuts through every other consideration.
“Yes.”
“Very well.” He moves to the other side of the crib, his expression grave. “But we do this together. If you become lost in the connection, I’ll need to guide you back.”
“Together?”
“Zephyrian empathic techniques work best with a trained facilitator. I can maintain the link while you provide the emotional anchor Aniska needs.”
The idea of sharing that kind of mental intimacy with Sylas should be terrifying. Instead, it feels oddly natural—like stepping into a role I was always meant to play.
“What do I need to do?”
“Place your hand over her heart. Focus on your breathing and your intention to comfort her. When you feel the connection form, don’t fight whatever emotions surface. Let them flow through you without resistance.”
I settle my hand gently on Aniska’s tiny chest, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat beneath my palm. Her skin is warm, softer than anything has a right to be, and I’m struck again by how impossibly small she is.
“Close your eyes,” Sylas instructs. “Focus on your breathing. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four.”
The rhythm comes naturally, a variation on the combat breathing techniques they taught us in basic training. But this feels different—deeper, more intentional. As if each breath opens pathways I didn’t know existed.
“Now think about Lieutenant Altell. Not her death, but her life. The moments when she was happiest, most at peace.”
Images flood my mind without conscious direction. Margot laughing at some ridiculous joke during a supply run. Margot singing off-key while cleaning her rifle. Margot showing me pictures of Aniska for the first time, her face glowing with pride and love.
The connection hits me like warm water closing over my head—sudden, encompassing, completely unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Suddenly, I’m not just feeling my own emotions, but Aniska’s as well. Her confusion, her fear, her desperate need for comfort and safety.
And underneath it all, like an echo in a vast chamber, I sense them. Margot and Krel’lun, their consciousness bleeding through whatever quantum connection binds empathic minds across impossible distances.
The transport shudders around them, systems failing in cascade failure that no amount of training can overcome.
Margot’s hands fly over the emergency controls while Krel’lun tries to reach the backup communication array, but they both know it’s too late.
The planet rushes up to meet them, gravity and physics and the cruel mathematics of terminal velocity.
“Aniska,” Margot whispers, and her love for her daughter blazes through the connection like a star going nova. “Tell her we love her. Tell her we’re sorry.”
Krel’lun’s hand finds hers as the transport begins to break apart. “She’ll be safe. Hada will keep her safe.”
And then—
Pain explodes through my consciousness, but it’s not physical agony.
It’s the complete severing of connection, the empathic equivalent of having a limb torn away.
Aniska’s parents, ripped from existence in an instant, leaving only echoes and fragments and a baby who doesn’t understand why the voices in her mind have gone silent forever.
I drown in grief that isn’t entirely my own, choking on loss and abandonment and the terrible weight of being left behind. Aniska’s anguish mingles with my own until I can’t tell where her pain ends and mine begins.
But then—warmth. Steady, grounding presence that feels like being wrapped in sunlight. Sylas, his consciousness touching mine with careful precision, offering stability without trying to control or direct my experience.
You’re not alone, his voice whispers through the empathic connection. Neither of you is alone.
And suddenly I understand what Aniska needs. Not just comfort, but connection. Not just human warmth, but the assurance that even though her parents are gone, she isn’t abandoned. That there are people who will love her and protect her and never leave her to face the darkness alone.
I pour everything I have into that promise—every protective instinct, every fierce emotion Margot ever inspired in me, every determination to honor her trust. The love flows from me to Aniska like water finding its proper channel, carrying with it the certainty that she is wanted, valued, cherished beyond measure.