Snow had arrived at last.
The frost had claimed the land where rain once ruled, the familiar sound of it drumming against the glass replaced by a silence that felt almost reverent. Outside Lucas's office, the gardens lay buried beneath a seamless expanse of white, every hedge and statue caught mid-breath in the grip of winter. The Fitzgeralt domain, once alive with motion and sound, seemed to sleep under its own pulse.
Lucas stood by the window, one hand resting absently against the curve of his abdomen. The fabric of his black sweater stretched faintly under his palm, the small but undeniable roundness finally betraying what he and Trevor had kept quiet for weeks. The child stirred now and then, as if testing the air from beneath his skin.
He watched the snowfall until his breath misted faintly on the cold glass. The reflection that looked back at him was pale, thoughtful, and tired.
Windstone's words echoed still, looping endlessly through his thoughts: 'You open the door.'
