Later, when the study had emptied and the wards settled back into stillness, Gabriel sat alone. The fragments glimmered faintly where the lamplight touched them, blackened runes scorched into silence. Rowena's warmth had long since left his arms, but the ghost of her weight lingered, the faint press of tiny fingers curling against his collar.
He leaned back in his chair, one hand absently stroking the swell of his stomach, the other tapping idly against the desk. Alexandra's words clung like perfume.
Lucius.
He could almost picture it: his father in that too-tidy study, shelves immaculate, drawers catalogued with obsessive care, his fingers lingering on the ridges of half-forgotten ward-etchings. Once, the thought of asking him for help would have been intolerable, weakness sharpened into humiliation. Now… it wasn't the same.
Lucius had changed. He smiled now. Patiently. Warmly, even. Gabriel still found it strange, but no longer dangerous.
