A few months later, the fragments still sat where Gabriel had first placed them, thin sheets of crystal lined across his desk like pieces of a puzzle that refused to exist. The scorched runes shimmered faintly under lamplight, mocking in their incompleteness. Even with the empire's finest scribes, half the Shadows, and the imperial archivists scouring every trace of old wardcraft, they had gotten nowhere. It was like working with the memory of smoke.
Gabriel leaned back in his chair, one hand pressed absently against the curve of his stomach. The child was steady, quiet for now, unlike the chaos Arik had brought from the first quickening. This time, there was no fire licking at the wards, no shards pulling at his dreams, and no sense of a soul clawing for rebirth. Just a child.
