Page 10

10

ROLFO

I wake to the sound of Sephy's cries slicing through the predawn darkness. My body moves before my mind fully registers what's happening—feet hitting the floor, hand already reaching for the door. The transition from sleep to full alertness takes less than a heartbeat, an old guardian reflex I've never been able to shake.

Her wails grow more insistent as I cross the hallway in three long strides. The nursery door is already open, and I find Aurelie inside, her face drawn with worry as she clutches Sephy to her chest. The baby's cries have a different quality tonight—sharper, more distressed.

"She won't settle," Aurelie says, voice taut with fatigue and concern. Dark shadows hang beneath her eyes. "I've tried everything."

I move closer, observing the flush on Sephy's normally pale cheeks, the way her tiny fists ball up in frustration. "How long has she been like this?"

"Almost an hour." Aurelie rocks back and forth, her movements growing desperate. "I fed her, changed her, rocked her... nothing helps."

I extend my hands wordlessly. Aurelie hesitates, just for a moment, before passing Sephy to me. The weight of her—so light yet somehow so substantial—settles against my forearm. Her skin feels too warm through the thin fabric of her sleeper.

"She's running a fever," I mutter, placing my palm against her forehead. Not dangerously high, but enough to make her uncomfortable. Enough to worry.

I cradle her against my chest, feeling her tiny heart hammering against mine. The cries quiet momentarily as she registers the change in who's holding her, but then resume with renewed vigor.

"Let's try something else," I say, heading toward the main room. "Ada left some mint balm. Might help."

We move through the darkened house, Sephy's cries echoing off the walls. I keep my voice low, a constant stream of nonsense meant to soothe.

"Easy there, little warrior. You're giving your mother gray hairs before her time. That's not very considerate of you, is it?" I murmur against the top of her head. "The fiercest fighters know when to rest."

The mint balm does nothing. The rocking only seems to agitate her more. Even my humming—rough and off-key as it is—fails to produce the usual calming effect. Aurelie watches from the doorway, her fingers twisting anxiously in the hem of her nightdress.

"Maybe we should send for Ada," she suggests, voice tight with worry.

I shake my head. "I don't think there's much she can do." I glance down at Sephy's flushed face. "But if her fever climbs more we will."

But there's something in her cries that cuts through my usual pragmatism. Something that makes me want to fix it, to ease whatever discomfort has her so distressed.

An old memory surfaces—something I'd seen years ago, during a mission in the eastern territories. A warrior father with his sick child, skin to skin, the most basic kind of comfort.

Without overthinking it, I pull my shirt over my head in one fluid motion and adjust Sephy against my bare chest. Her skin is feverish against mine, but her cries hitch slightly at the contact.

Aurelie's eyes widen. "What are you?—"

"Body heat," I explain, positioning Sephy so her head rests against my collarbone. "And heartbeat. Reminds them they're safe."

I begin to pace slow circles around the room, bouncing slightly with each step. Sephy's cries gradually soften to whimpers, her tiny body molding against mine.

"My sister told me that," I elaborate, though Aurelie hasn't asked. "She would've been a great mother."

If her baby hadn't died during the birth.

Aurelie sinks onto the couch, drawing her knees up to her chest. "I didn't know you had a sister," she says softly.

"Don't." The word comes out rougher than intended. "Not anymore."

Sephy stirs against me, threatening to start crying again, and I resume my slow, steady pacing. Left foot, right foot, slight bounce, turn. A rhythm as old as parenthood.

"Sleep," I tell Aurelie, noticing her eyelids drooping despite her concern. "I've got her."

"I should stay up too," she protests, but her body betrays her with a heavy yawn.

"Pointless for both of us to wear tracks in the floor."

She curls up on the couch instead, pulling the throw blanket over herself, eyes still fixed on Sephy and me. "Wake me if her fever gets worse."

"Will do," I promise, continuing my steady circuit around the room.

Sephy alternates between fitful sleep and fussing throughout the night. She sleeps for twenty minutes, then wakes crying for thirty. I don't sit, don't stop moving. The constant motion seems to soothe her, and I've endured far worse discomforts than a night on my feet.

I hum sometimes—old battle songs stripped of their lyrics, slowed down to lullabies. I tell her stories of stars and distant cities, my voice pitched low, more vibration than sound. I promise her things I have no business promising—that she'll never know fear or hunger, that she'll grow up strong and free, that no one will ever use her or discard her.

My legs grow numb, then painful, then numb again. I ignore it. The weight of her against my chest becomes an anchor, the only thing that matters. Her fever ebbs and flows like the tide, her breath hot against my skin.

In the darkest part of the night, when even the nocturnal creatures have gone quiet, she looks up at me with those violet eyes—bright with fever but somehow lucid. Like she's memorizing my face, deciding something important.

"You're a stubborn one," I whisper to her. "Good. You'll need that."

Hours pass, measured only by the changing shadows on the wall. I lose track of time, focused only on the steady rhythm of movement. Left foot, right foot, slight bounce, turn. When Sephy's breathing finally deepens and her body relaxes fully against mine, I don't dare stop.

Dawn creeps in through the windows, painting the room in pale gold light. I'm still standing, knees locked to keep myself upright, when Aurelie stirs on the couch. She blinks awake, disoriented for a moment before her eyes find us.

"You're still up," she says, voice husky with sleep. "You've been standing all night?"

I shrug the shoulder not supporting Sephy's head. "She's sleeping now."

Aurelie rises, crossing to us with tentative steps. She places her palm gently against Sephy's forehead, then releases a shaky breath. "Her fever's broken."

The relief in her eyes mirrors something in my chest that I'm not ready to examine too closely. I continue swaying gently, the motion now as natural as breathing.

"You should have woken me," Aurelie chides softly. "Let me take turns."

"Wasn't necessary." My voice comes out rougher than intended, scraped raw from hours of low murmuring. "She knows your scent, your heartbeat. She would've woken fully if I'd handed her off."

Aurelie's gaze shifts from Sephy to my face, lingering there with an expression I can't quite decipher. "Thank you," she whispers.

I nod once, uncomfortable with her gratitude. Thanks isn't needed for doing what's necessary. For doing what's right.

Aurelie steps toward me, her movements fluid with that new mother's grace, eyes fixed on Sephy.

"She looks deep enough in sleep now," she whispers, arms extending. "And she'll need to feed soon anyway."

I hesitate—not from reluctance to surrender the baby, but from the strange fear that the moment I let go, Sephy's fever might return. Ridiculous. I know better than to believe in such superstitions.

As I transfer Sephy to her mother's waiting arms, our hands brush—her fingers cool against my overheated skin. The contact, brief as it is, sends an unexpected jolt through my system. I attribute it to exhaustion, nothing more.

"Careful," I murmur, though Aurelie needs no instruction on handling her own child. "She's finally settled."

Aurelie cradles Sephy with practiced ease, her movements gentle but confident. "You did well with her," she says, her voice barely audible. "She trusts you."

I watch as she crosses to the crib I built, the dark purple-black wood gleaming softly in the morning light. She lays Sephy down with infinite care, tucking the blanket around her tiny form, her hand lingering a moment longer than necessary on the baby's chest—feeling the rise and fall, reassuring herself.

The night catches up with me all at once. My legs, locked in position for hours, suddenly refuse to hold my weight. I make it to the couch before my knees buckle, dropping onto the cushions with none of my usual control. Every muscle aches with the peculiar hollow pain of extended vigilance.

Aurelie turns at the sound of my collapse, concern flashing across her features. Without a word, she disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later with a glass of water. She extends it toward me, and I take it, our fingers not quite touching this time.

The water is cool and sweet, washing away the grit in my throat. I drain the glass in three long swallows while Aurelie settles beside me on the couch. Not at the opposite end, maintaining the careful distance she's kept since arriving, but close enough that our shoulders touch. The contact is light—barely there—but in the quiet of early morning, it feels significant.

Neither of us speaks. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but weighted with something I can't name. Or perhaps don't want to.

I lean my head back, eyes closing briefly against the intrusion of morning sun through the windows. My body wants sleep, but my mind remains alert, hyperaware of Aurelie's proximity, of the subtle scent of meadowmint that clings to her hair, of the steady rhythm of her breathing.

"I don't want you to think I expect you to do all of this," she says finally, her voice breaking the silence. "You shouldn't have stayed up all night with her on your own."

I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling. "You needed the rest."

"And you don't?" A hint of challenge enters her tone.

I turn my head slightly to look at her. The morning light catches the auburn in her hair, bringing out copper highlights I hadn't noticed before. "I'm used to it."

"Going without sleep?"

"Standing guard."

Something shifts in her expression—understanding, perhaps. Or recognition. She knows what it is to remain vigilant, to prioritize another's safety above your own comfort. She's been doing it for months.

"Still," she says, quieter now, "you're not alone in this anymore."

The words hang between us, carrying more weight than their simple meaning suggests. I'm not sure how to respond, so I don't. Instead, I close my eyes again, feeling the solid warmth of her shoulder against mine, the surprising comfort of her presence.

The house settles around us, creaking softly with the warming day. Sephy's breathing remains deep and even from her crib. For the first time since bringing Aurelie and Sephy home, the atmosphere feels different—less like a temporary arrangement and more like... something else. Something I'm not ready to name.

Trust, maybe. The fragile beginning of it, at least.

Or perhaps something more.

Whatever it is, it settles between us like a third presence in the room—unspoken but undeniable. And for this moment, with exhaustion pulling at my limbs and Aurelie's shoulder warm against mine, I allow myself not to question it.