Page 308 of May: Bloom & Bane

“He always wins the argument,” I chuckle. “Unless there’s food involved.”

Andrik stops beside Lumi, and she tilts Vaelína gently toward him. Andrik angles his chest, lowering Eirlys. And the two of them—The first Rhavari and Solvernah babies in the history of the world—regard each other. Eirlys’s mittened fist rises, waving with the drunken precision of three months’ practice. It lands on Vaelína’s cheek. Vaelína’s shadow uncurls and wraps around Eirlys’s wrist, claiming her back.

“Oh,” Lumi whispers, tears starting all over again. “They’re going to be terrible together.”

“The forest isn’t ready,” Andrik says.

By the window, Therael’s hand slowly rises to his mouth. The roses climb his shoulders again. Arteus doesn’t tease him. He only watches in silence, letting him bloom.

Andrik studies Vaelína a moment longer. “Thank the six gods she looks like her mother.”

“Yes. The green skin is clearly from her mother,” Sage drawls.

“And the mismatched eyes,” Ashán adds.

“And the wings,” they say together.

“CHIRP,” Droot agrees from Andrik’s antlers.

And then—because His Majesty has waited hours and will wait no longer—he descends, picking his way down the antler like a mountaineer. He hops to Lumi’s shoulder, and leans over the bundle with his ears at maximum attention. His light cycles slower and softer than I’ve ever seen it. He looks at Vaelína for a long, long moment before reaching out one tiny paw and patting her, very gently, and lets out the softest chirp.

“He says welcome home,” I whisper. Vaelína’s shadow curls around his little paw. Droot immediately purrs and plops himself down in the petals beside her. He shoots the entire room one warning look. The nest has a guard now. Clearly.

“Well,” Damon’s voice drifts in from the hallway, rich with wounded patience, “if the children are quite finished, some of us have been waiting with jewelry.”

He slinks into the room as though the room has been waiting its whole existence for him to arrive. The charms in his hair chime softly.

“Little Empath,” he greets me warmly. Then his golden eyes drop to the bundle in Lumi’s arms. I can see the joke flickering behind his mouth, something silky and outrageous the way it always is. But it simply never comes. Whatever he prepared simply dies in his throat. The smoothest god of all stands in my bedroom, in the early morning light, looking at my daughter with an unreadable expression.

“Ah,” he says thickly. “Well.”

“Would you like to hold her, Damon?”

“Obviously,” he manages. “I have been ready since dawn.”

One elegant hand cradles her skull, gold charms chiming as his thumb makes one small circle at her temple.

“Hello, Smallest Reaper,” he murmurs. “I am your Uncle Damon. I am the fun one. We will discuss the details when you’re older, over pastries your fathers do not approve of.”

Vaelína considers him. Her fist rises, wobbles, and closes unerringly around one of his braids.

Damon stills. “... She may keep it,” he announces. “She may keep anything she likes.”

“Damon—” Sage starts.

“Anything,” Damon repeats, gazing down at the tiny fist in his hair. He clears his throat and blinks hard, twice. He produces his other hand from behind his back. A small velvet box.

“Absolutely not,” Ashán says.

“You haven’t even seen them.”

“She is two hours old.”

“They are CLIP-ONS,” Damon says, deeply offended, opening the box to reveal two minuscule golden clovers. “I would never pierce an infant—there is a waiting period. It’s called etiquette.” He tilts the box toward me, suddenly, disarmingly earnest. “For when she’s ready. However long that takes. Every royal lady of the Afterlife needs her jewels.”

The room stays silent.

“And…” he adds. “I could not forget my other little lady of the Afterlife.” He produces a second tiny box and cracks it open. Two tiny snowflakes rest on top of a pink velvet pillow.