Page 107 of Enslak

Charick joined us at the viewport, his hand settling on my shoulder. "He likes you," he said quietly. "I wasn't sure how he'd react. He's usually shy around new people."

"I'm not new people," I said, warmth blooming in my chest. "I'm family."

"Yes," Charick said, his grip tightening briefly. "You are. And I'm glad you're here to be part of his life. To be his uncle. To teach him things, the way Father taught us."

The memory surfaced—Father showing us how to track, how to read the forest, how to move silently through the underbrush. His patience. His pride when we succeeded. His gentle correction when we failed.

The warmth in my chest twisted suddenly, becoming something sharp and painful.

"I wish..." The words caught in my throat. "I wish I could have seen him again. Before."

Charick's hand stilled on my shoulder.

The silence stretched between us, heavy with shared loss.

I closed my eyes against the pain. "I hate that he died not knowing I was alive."

"Don't," Charick said, his voice firm but gentle. "Don't do that to yourself. Father wouldn't want that."

"But I never got to tell him," my voice broke. "That I survived. That I remembered everything he taught me. That those lessons kept me alive when nothing else could. I never got to thank him."

Titus stirred in my arms, sensing my distress.

I forced myself to breathe steadily, trying to calm the storm building inside me.

"He knew," Mother's voice came from behind us—I hadn't heard her approach. "Enslak, he knew. A father always knows what lives in his son's heart."

I looked down at Titus, who had pressed his small hand against my chest, right over my heart, as if he could feel it breaking. His dark eyes were solemn, too knowing for such a young child.

"Un-un sad?" he asked softly.

"Yes," I said, refusing to lie to him. "Un-un is sad. But that's okay. Sometimes we get sad about people we love."

He nodded as if this made perfect sense, then leaned his head against my shoulder in a gesture of pure comfort.

I held him close, feeling his tiny, precious weight as we stood together watching the stars spread across the inky sky above.

After a moment, Titus squirmed, wanting down.

I set him on his feet, and he immediately toddled over to Niki, climbing into her lap with the confidence of a child who knew he'd be welcomed.

"Ni-ni," he said, patting her cheeks. "Pretty."

"Thank you," Niki laughed. "You're pretty handsome yourself."

He giggled and settled against her, his thumb finding his mouth while his eyes grew heavy.

Within minutes, he was asleep, his small body completely relaxed and trusting.

Mother moved to stand beside me, her hand finding mine. "I'm so happy you're here. Alive. Happy." She swiped at the tears welling in her eyes.

The room fell quiet, filled only with Titus's soft breathing and the distant hum of the city.

We stood there—family, old and new, blood and chosen.

And I felt something I hadn't felt in over a century. Peace.

Not the absence of pain. Not the erasure of trauma.