By the time dinner was over and they made it back to their room, Serene, their ever-wise little advisor offered her father a nugget of golden advice.
"Papa, you should convince Mama the way I do," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "Just pepper her with kisses and tickles until she gives in."
Kalix had never received such straightforward counsel before. It sounded almost too simple. Kisses? That was easy—he'd been doing that religiously, sneaking them in every chance he got. But tickling? That was foreign territory.
Having grown up in a world where affection was a luxury and laughter a rare sound, Kalix's childhood had been filled with the scent of gunpowder, not giggles. Playtime meant target practice. Toys were replaced with weapons. Smiles were earned through survival.
