Chapter 27 #3
Reiya flinched, the words striking her harder than he expected. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them thickened—fraught and heavy.
Then, hesitantly, her fingers brushed against his forearm. Just the lightest touch, tracing one unfinished ray of the sun. He let her, though some stubborn part of him recoiled against the intimacy, against the way her gentleness threatened walls built long ago.
Her voice, when it came, was low, almost tentative. “Your father . . . did he agree to the trial?”
Alarik’s jaw tightened.
“No. He thought it cruel. Foolish.” His breath left him in a sharp exhale. “But my mother . . . she was difficult to deny. She promised him again and again he wouldn’t regret it. I think he agreed in the end just to spare me her anger.”
The words hung between them—bitter and unadorned.
He hadn’t meant to share this much. Hadn’t meant to crack open the parts of himself he had long ago locked away. But Reiya’s presence—the quiet way she listened, without pity or judgment—dragged the truth from him like a current pulling free the wreckage buried beneath the tide.
Reiya’s fingers tightened slightly. “No child should have to prove their worth like that,” she said. The steel in her voice made him glance at her. “Children deserve to be loved for who they are, not for what they can prove. Not for being Sunborn, Alpha, or Omega. It’s not fair.”
Her words lodged in his chest, pressing against wounds he’d taught himself to ignore.
“It’s done,” he said simply, though the faintest crack in his voice betrayed the lingering ache. “I learned early not to expect fairness.”
“You say that like it’s natural. Like it’s something to accept.”
He shrugged. “Isn’t it? The world doesn’t care about fairness. It gives and takes as it wills. It cares about strength—about who rises and who falls.”
Reiya’s brow furrowed, her expression hardening with quiet defiance. “I don’t think strength is about rising or falling. It’s about standing, getting back up when everything tries to tear you down. Strength is something earned through persistence, through choice.”
Her conviction caught him off guard. He studied her for a moment, taking in the slight frame brimming with resilience that felt startlingly familiar.
“Spoken like a true survivor,” he murmured, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles.
She tilted her head, her fingers brushing lightly over the unfinished tattoo. “Kaelen is brilliant, it’s true. But you balance each other well. He’s the light, the one everyone notices. But you . . .” She glanced up, her voice softer now. “You’re the one who keeps him grounded.”
Alarik frowned, unsure what to make of her words. “You think so?”
“It’s clear to me,” she replied without hesitation. “You’re not as loud as Kaelen, but that doesn’t make you invisible. The way you are gives him the freedom to be who he is, because he knows you have his back. Always.”
Her words settled over him, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He’d spent years admiring Kaelen’s effortless charisma, the way his brother shone in ways he never could. But he’d never considered the possibility that his own presence—his character—was what allowed Kaelen’s brilliance to flourish.
“He’s the one people notice,” he said slowly. “I’ve always been content to stand in his shadow.”
Reiya shook her head, her curls brushing softly against her cheeks. “Shadows only exist where there’s light. He may shine, but your presence gives his light meaning.”
Alarik’s throat tightened, her words striking chords he hadn’t known were there.
She shifted slightly, standing closer, and for a fleeting second, he thought she might say something more. But instead, she rose onto her toes and pressed a featherlight kiss to his cheek.
The world stilled.
Her warmth lingered, the whisper of her touch sending something sharp and restless through him. But before he could react—before he could even form a thought—she stepped back, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.
“You think this unfinished tattoo defines you,” she said. “But you’re not unfinished, Alarik. Far from it. You’ve already proven more than most ever will.”
And just like that, she turned and walked away, curls bouncing in the late afternoon sunlight.
Alarik stood frozen, a sweet ache settling deep in his chest.
For the first time, he felt truly seen.
Not as Kaelen’s brother. Not as the Tazahriv—the Lesser Prince. Not even as the failed Sunborn. She had reached into the shadowed places he long called home and pulled him into the light—not to judge, not to pity, but simply to see .
His gaze followed her as she disappeared into the camp. And as he watched her go, her voice echoed in his mind.
‘No child should have to prove their worth like that. ’
He hadn’t understood the depth of her words until now. She didn’t say them from principle—she meant them, fiercely, with every fibre of her being. She didn’t simply speak for him, or Kaelen, or the children they’d been—she spoke a truth she would live by.
He pictured her with a child in her arms, whispering soft reassurances.
Guiding small, unsteady hands. Kissing away scraped knees and furrowed brows.
And he knew, with a certainty that gripped him to his bones—whether her child was Alpha, Beta, or Omega, they would never have to wonder if they were enough.
They would never have to earn her love.
A dangerous kind of longing twisted through his chest, the kind he had spent his whole life pretending he didn’t need. He hadn’t let himself dream beyond survival. But now, looking at her, he realized—if he ever dared to build something more, it would look a lot like this.
It would look a lot like her .
His fingers flexed at his sides, the thought lodging itself deep, immovable.
The road ahead remained uncertain, as it always had.
But now, for the first time, he knew precisely what he would fight for.
And why .