"Mama, watch!"
I looked up from the supply manifest to find my eight-week-old son standing, standing, in the middle of the main hall, hands stretched toward me.
No support. No furniture to grip. Just Lucian, on his own two feet, grinning like he'd conquered the world.
My heart stopped.
The parchment slipped from my fingers, drifting to the stone floor. Around us, the main hall bustled with afternoon activity. Warriors sharpening blades near the hearth. Pack members sorting through supplies brought back from morning hunts. The scent of pine smoke and cured meat hung in the air, mixing with the earthy smell of wet fur from wolves who'd just shifted back from patrol.
"Ronan," I breathed. "Ronan, he's..."
"I see him." Ronan was across the room, crouched low near the weapon racks. His voice held the same awe I felt. "Lucian. Come here, little one. Come to Dada."
