He moved with quiet care, each step soft against the stone as he approached the bed where his newborn daughter lay swaddled in delicate linen, her tiny chest rising and falling in the rhythm of a peaceful sleep.
His gaze flicked briefly to his wife.
She, too, had succumbed to the exhaustion of childbirth, her face newly cleaned of the sweat and strain that had marked the long hours past. Her raven-black hair fanned out across the pillow like spilled ink on parchment.
Even in sleep, her lips carried the faintest curl of a smile, serene, content, utterly radiant in her stillness.
For a moment, Alpheo paused. Just stood there, watching her. Letting the softness of the moment settle in his chest like warm balm after a storm.
Then, quietly, he turned, and stepped closer to little Rosalind.
She was so small. So impossibly small.
