Two weeks passed in a blur.
Elena recovered swiftly from her incision, healing spells closing flesh over bone with sacred ease. The Behike whispered blessings while Niegal held her hand through each wave of recovery. His awe was unspoken but ever-present. He kissed her every morning as though seeing her for the first time. He whispered her name like a prayer. He kissed his daughter's soft curls like she was holy.
He had always been a soldier. A strategist. A storm.
But now? He was a father.
And the war felt different.
More personal.
More urgent.
He trusted Phineus and his commanders to hold the line. Niegal had long since earned the loyalty of the Matteo forces: even the oldest warhorses and grizzled generals followed his lead without question. The Lion of the South, some called him now. A general forged in blood and flame, wielding tenderness like a sword in this new life.
And still, he practiced changing linens.
Still, he asked to be shown, again, how to wrap Esperanza in the silk sling.
"She's my daughter," he'd say, matter-of-factly. "Where I go, she goes."
And she did.
Bundled tightly to Elena's chest or Niegal's broad shoulders, Esperanza witnessed strategy meetings and morning rituals alike. A future born to power. A tiny ember destined to become a blaze.
On the 14th night Niegal fasted beside the cradle fire, as was custom for the fathers of storm-born daughters. He whispered oaths in a tongue he hadn't spoken since boyhood, promises inked in breath and shadow.
But even as he cradled his daughter close, Niegal kept his sword beside the crib.