Page 94 of The Warlord's Secret Heir

Jaela stands, brushing something from her cheek. She gently lifts a blanket over him. I stay kneeling. I trace a path across his face — his brow, his cheek. I taste everything: fear, relief, hope.

The technicians drift in: medics, nurses, protective suits peeling away. They begin soft steps to check his vitals, attach monitors to me, to Jaela. Their voices are distant. A nurse says, “Stable. Vitals good. No rejection signs yet.” Another murmurs, “This hybrid physiology is astonishing.”

I glare at them. This ismychild. Their words are facts, not miracles. I nod once. I press my lips to Kel’s forehead. He twitches, murmurs in sleep.

I whisper, “I’m here, Kel. I am here.”

Jaela kneels beside me and takes both my arms. We kneel together, silent, weighted by everything we’ve lost, everything we fight for now.

I look at her. Her eyes so human and worn. I whisper, “We have him.”

She squeezes my hand. “We do.”

The hum of life-support, the soft breathing, the cold sterile room—it’s all real now. I close my eyes, pressing my cheek to Kel’s. And I promise again: I won’t leave. I won’t hide. I will carry him through whatever comes.

Everything changes in that stare. Everything becomes salvageable.

I come awake to voices I don’t understand — soft tones, clipped accents, machines humming low, glass doors sliding. My skull throbs, pain radiates from my ribs as though someone smashed them and then left me to bleed. I taste antiseptic and metal on my tongue. I blink. The room resolves.

White walls. Overhead lights too harsh. Beeping monitors. Sterile smells. A bed too small. Two beds, maybe — but I see only one, and it holds three lives.

I see Jaela first. She’s curled beside Kel, her cheek pressed into his back. Her hair is damp, matted. Her eyes snap open when I shift. Recognition — fear — relief. She leans over him and brushes back hair that’s spilled over his pillow.

Then I see him. My son.Kel. He lies pale and small, tubes trailing, wires attached. His golden-red hair shines under hospital lights, freckles shimmering on his arms — soft little scales that catch flecks of light. He’s thinner than any child should be. Fragile. Yet breathing.

I try to speak. My throat is raw.

“Jaela?” I croak.

She looks at me, tears in her eyes. “Kyldak.” Her voice is soft, trembling. She reaches out a hand.

I shift, wince in pain, and lean closer. The monitors beep faster. My vision flickers. She grips my hand.

Kel stirs, shifting under the blankets. He opens one eye. It’s slow, heavy with medicine and media that pulses in behind him. He blinks at me, uncertain.

I kneel by the bed, every muscle screaming. The bed is narrow, the sheets cold. I press a hand to Kel’s forehead — warm, soft. Anxiety and awe tangle in my gut.

“Dad…” His voice is small, fragile. He must strain for each syllable.

Tears flood me. I can’t stop them. They run down my cheeks, salt on my lips. I shake.

“I’m here, Kel,” I whisper, voice raw. “I’m your father.”

He nods, eyes half-lidded. “You came.”

I swallow. The words hit me harder than any weapon ever did. “Yes, I came.”

Jaela pushes aside, gestures toward him. “Kel, say hello.”

He blinks. “Hello, Dad.”

I laugh — broken, racked — but it’s real. My chest aches. I touch his hand. He grips my finger.

I don’t move. I can’t. The world is too big, too alive. The beeps of machines, the hiss of airflow, the sterile scent — they press in on me.

The doctor enters — scrubs, mask, eyes cautious. The nurse follows. Medical instruments in hand.

Jaela stands. She faces the doctor, voice quiet but firm. “Is he stable? Will he recover fully?”