They turned that den into a fortress built around one fragile little life.
The morning after Ronan's hand staked claim over my belly, Lyra was up before dawn, setting the whole world to strategic work. She mapped out paths I should avoid, flagged snares off limits, and rearranged the kindling so I wouldn't have to bend in risky ways. Selvara took over my meals, boiling roots until the bitterness softened, soaking grains until they gave in, making broths that smelled like iron and healing herbs.
Everything they did screamed that I wouldn't be left to the wild alone.
"Eat," Selvara said, pressing a wooden bowl into my hands. Her voice had that brisk, no-nonsense healer tone. "Small bites, often. Not like you're starving and trying to prove you can still hunt."
I gave a short, raw laugh. "I'm not starving."
"You looked that way for weeks," she said. "Don't undo all that now." She settled across from me, eyes sharp like someone ready to catch mistakes before they happen.
