Page 93 of The Warlord's Secret Heir

In the center of the room lies a single bed, surrounded by machines that beep rhythmically in soft blue and white lights. And on that bed, under sterile sheets, a child sleeps. Golden-red hair flares out like a halo. Pale skin — too pale for this world — quiet and smooth. On his arms, tiny freckles that catch the light: scaled, shimmering, like dusted gemstones. My breath catches.

Jaela stands at the foot of the bed, backlit by floodlamps. Her face is gray, hollow, tear-streaked, but her eyes blaze with all the things she’s held in. She whispers, barely audible: “Kel, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

The child stirs. The machines soften. His eyelids flutter. I feel like every breath in the room has gone slow. I kneel down besidethe bed, knees clicking on cold tile. My hands hover, unused, trembling.

I look at him. That face — so much hers, so much me — it hurts. My voice is a rasp: “Kel… it’s me.”

He blinks once. He studies me, his eyes sliding from Jaela to me, confusion and curiosity mingling there. Then—and this slams me—the corner of his mouth lifts in a small, shy smile.

“You look like my drawings,” he says.

My head snaps. My throat is dry. I swallow hard, trying to force words through the dam of emotion.

“I look like your dad,” I whisper.

He nods, faintly, as though that little phrase is all he needed to confirm something he already knew.

“You came,” he says.

Silence crashes down. I can’t breathe. My heart tears open.

Tears break. I can’t stop them.

“Kel… son,” I choke. “You—and me—this… I’m here.”

He watches me, wide eyed. I reach out, trembling, and touch the back of his hand. His skin is warm. Softer than I expected.

Jaela slides beside me. Her voice cracks as she says, “He’s been waiting.”

I press my thumb over Kel’s scaled freckles. The pattern is faint but real. A heritage. A marker. A promise.

The machines hum. The lights flicker. Instruments hum life around us. Yet in this space, it is just us.

I lean closer. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice ragged. “I’m sorry for being gone. For every moment you had to wait.”

Kel’s eyes water, small tears sliding down thin cheeks. He lifts a hand and wipes them away.

“I waited,” he says, fierce in that soft voice. “I drew you. I said to the sky, ‘If Dad sees me one day, he’ll know me by my pictures.’”

The memory of her drawings — nights she showed me his sketches of a strong man with gold eyes, half-shadowed — that memory burns inside me now. That she kept them, showed him, nurtured hope in the void.

I break. My body folds, tears wet, voice raw. “I am your dad. I’m here now.”

Jaela presses a hand on my shoulder. Quiet. Strong.

Kel’s fingers grip mine. Small strength. Trembling.

“I want to know you,” he says.

I nod. So hard it shudders in me. “I’ll tell you everything. I’ll hold you. I will never leave you again.”

He stares at me, bridges between childhood and manhood flickering in his eyes. The monitors beep. Air tastes of antiseptic and tears. I take a breath, steadying myself.

Jaela leans in softly, whispering in his ear, “He’s come back for you, Kel.”

Kel nods again, a serious gesture, and exhales. He drifts sleepily, eyelids heavy.

I watch him, chest tight. My tears fall freely.