A/N: FINALLY getting around to updating. Slowest one yet, I think! Sorry it took longer than normal-someone broke into my car recently. Between losing some important stuff to theft and arguing with insurance, I wasn't in the right headspace to write this fluffy stuff. But here we are!

Chapter 29

The Jewels of Mor Ardain

"Lady Mòrag, which schematic seems best to you? The Gormotti in charge wants your approval before proceeding with any of the construction."

Mòrag stared at the four different blueprints strewn out across the meeting table: all variations of the same plan to build a shared outpost along the new Gormotti-Ardainian border. With the new year come, transferring independence to the Gormotti was well underway. But like any government arrangement, it was proving time-consuming. Too many meetings. Too many discussions. Simply getting the Senate to agree to a mutually beneficial, amiable way to maintain the borders had proved difficult. Most argued for an arrangement that profited Mor Ardain far more, but the Emperor insisted on a method that would establish a precedent for fairness and respect to the newly-independent region of Gormott. Which left them here, approving plans for the least militaristic border outpost Mor Ardain had ever constructed.

Mòrag glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes past the scheduled end for the meeting. The consequence—the affair was now eating away at the single hour of free time on her agenda.

"At two in the afternoon we'll have an audience with the Imperial council, so we'll need to take a quick lunch. Immediately following, General Baird wants you to speak to this year's training corps. At 4."

Mòrag could almost hear Brighid reading through what remained of the daily agenda. How she missed that voice—and her ability to repair that schedule when an overtime meeting sent it into disarray. She hadn't been to see Brighid yet today. This ought to be her one opening to visit, and yet...damn meetings. It was bad enough having to slip out several times to use the restroom more frequently.

Zeke must have noticed her checking the time, because he met her gaze from across the council table. "Go. I'll finish things up here," he whispered.

She nodded gratefully and excused herself; Zeke could handle the rest. When she got to Brighid's room, everything was as she left it the afternoon before: the Blade still unconscious, a nurse nearby in case she woke up, flowers in a vase on the bedside table. The nurse muttered something about "no changes from yesterday, ma'am" followed by a simple "I'll be back in an hour." Mòrag simply nodded and sat in her customary place at Brighid's bedside.

Her afternoons at Brighid's bedside had become something of an escape. After all, with nothing more than a single needle and tube feeding liquidized ether into the Blade's circulatory system, she looked almost like her old self. Even the damage to the core crystal had repaired itself, leaving behind the familiar tongue of crystal blue flame. If Mòrag ignored the one needle, she could fool herself into thinking that the Blade was merely asleep...almost. Regardless, she felt at ease here. Or at least as calm as she could be without her constant companion.

"You missed a really extravagant party," Mòrag commented at last. "I can hardly believe Niall's fifteen already. Next year it'll be his coming-of-age ceremony instead. I...I wish you had been there, Brighid. I didn't know what to wear, and my dress uniform doesn't fit anymore. And I'm not about to let Pandoria choose my outfits, either."

She went on aimlessly describing the evening: notable people in attendance, the gifts brought to the Emperor, even the unexpected challenges of dancing while pregnant. The press had a field day verbally rehearsing the entire roster of young women who'd danced with Niall. Not one reporter had missed the names and backstories of those who earned more than one dance. Then there was the baby shower the others were planning for her next month, which Pandoria was spearheading, leaving Mòrag to wonder exactly what that party would entail. And, of course, Zeke insisted they take a miniature vacation for their anniversary—as one last chance to get away before the baby arrived.

"There are so many good things happening, Brighid. You need to be here for them," Mòrag urged.

She made that statement every day, like a closing salutation before heading back to work. But nothing ever seemed to change. Brighid never seemed to respond. Her chest rose and fell as it always did, light gleaming off her core crystal every time it caught the sun streaming through the window. If only she could wake the Blade somehow—like resonance, but this time to bring Brighid into consciousness, not into being. For no particular reason, Mòrag reached out and touched the Blade's core crystal. It tingled beneath her fingers. What happened next she could hardly explain; it ran counter to everything everyone knew about Blade physiology.

The familiar pull grabbed at Mòrag's chest, like something had lodged a large fishing hook in her heart. The unseen force tugged on her, aching and burning and freezing and soothing all at once. Her fingers never left Brighid's core; she couldn't have pulled away even if she wanted to. Not that she did. Instinct told her that this moment—anomaly though it might be—this moment mattered. So she pressed her fingers firmly into the core, letting the ether course through her. It felt like standing atop the water slides at Fonsa Myma's gardens: trying to stand firm against the current, always on the brink of being washed away.

Then all at once, the sensation ended. Brighid stirred.

For a moment, Mòrag simply stared at the Blade, who stared right back. It seemed too good to be true. Too implausible after all the time she'd been unconscious.

"You're finally awake. Architect, I've been so worried," Mòrag said at last, her hand still hovering stupidly above the Blade.

"Wh-what happened? Where are we?"

Brighid sat up abruptly, only to be rewarded with a wave of dizziness for her sudden movements. Mòrag propped pillows behind the other woman. Then she collapsed back into her chair. She grinned in relief, her hands falling to their new customary position across the top of her belly. There was so much to say. But where to begin? How much had Brighid even heard from her bedside ramblings? Best to start with the basics.

"We're home, Brighid. Thanks to you, we all made it back safely. We owe you a debt of eternal gratitude."

Brighid massaged her temples, as if the motion might somehow stimulate her brain to make sense of it all. "I-I can't seem to remember anything after jumping out of the airship with...him. Is...is he dead?"

Mòrag nodded. "We all saw Ciaran return to his core crystal. And, well, I saw his body. I decided to leave him to the feris. What was left of him, at least. I suspect he was dead even before he hit the ground."

"...The day he escaped, I swore I'd burn him alive. At least I managed that much," Brighid muttered. "I take it you were the one who came to find me, then?"

"Of course. He damaged your core crystal somehow. I suspect you were on the verge of returning to your core when I found you. But thanks to Mythra and Nia, all of your wounds healed. It took some time, though."

"You should have left me to die."

Mòrag paused. Perhaps Brighid was fixated on the last thing her Driver had said to her: she's made it quite clear that she doesn't deserve my trust. Such a betraying statement from a friend would leave anyone reeling. Knowing Brighid's tendency to analyze every stray word or phrase, Mòrag realized that she must have mentally rehearsed that entire conversation over and over. Architect, she'd probably written the whole thing down.

"This is about what I said. Isn't it?" Mòrag said at last. Not for the last time did she scold herself for losing her temper.

Brighid wrung her hands. "No. It's about what I didn't say. I failed you, Lady Mòrag. You were right to be angry with me. I don't deserve your trust. And after such a terrible failure, I'm not sure how I can ever be worthy of it again. I-I had hoped that killing him would at least help repay my debt, to assuage my guilt. But it hasn't."

Guilt. On that much, they could agree.

Mòrag rolled up one of her sleeves and held up her forearm for Brighid to see. She traced one of the scars with her fingers. "Do you remember when you gave me these?"

"Yet another way I failed you. If I had protected you, you would have never been driven to such an act of desperation," Brighid said bitterly.

"And if I hadn't lost my temper and tried to banish you, you would not have felt desperate enough to throw yourself out of an airship," Mòrag countered. "I-I realize now how it must have felt for you all those years ago, to wait by my bedside, praying and hoping that I would wake up. Because that's how I've felt all this time. Even before we met Klaus, I never considered myself much of a praying woman. But since we carried you in here, I've prayed over and over that you'd wake up...Do you really not want to live on Elysium anymore? Brighid, what about me? I'm not better off without you."

The Blade's gaze fell as Mòrag's last words registered in her mind. She recognized them. After all, she had said the same thing to her Driver when she woke from her own desperate act.

"You shouldn't be able to forgive me for what I did."

"That's not true. I can choose to forgive you, Brighid. And I am. But I'd have to beg your forgiveness, too. By all rights, you shouldn't be able to forgive me for what I said. Let's face it. We both wronged each other."

"Of course I forgive you. But after everything I did—I'm sorry."

"All is forgiven, Brighid. I mean it. I was a fool to push you away. I'm nothing without my Jewel...If I recall correctly, this is the first time you and I have ever fought. Considering the fact that we've been together for seventeen years, I daresay that's impressive. And when we did finally fight, we made a royal combustion out of it."

A wry, half-hearted smile formed on the Blade's face. "What a pair we make."

At last, the tension in the room dissipated, as if Brighid's stress had been manipulating the ether flow, constricting it. Driver and Blade sighed in perfect unison. Mòrag finally did what she'd been hoping to do for months: wrap her arms around her Blade and soak in the Jewel's warmth. Over time, today's mistakes would seem less painful. As long as they were together. What a comforting thought.

"Lady Mòrag, if I may, since when are you so touchy-feely? You used to hate hugs," Brighid said, laughing.

Mòrag withdrew from the embrace, certain that her expression matched her Blade's. Brighid's laugh—how she'd missed it. "They're growing on me, I suppose."

All at once, Brighid's smile faded. "Mòrag, your—"

Her eyes widened, bold purple and no longer glazed over with the last vestiges of her coma. Mòrag followed her gaze and discovered that Brighid's eyes had settled resolutely on her abdomen. Her eyelids remained open in unwavering surprise.

Oh. That. Brighid would need an extensive briefing to be caught up on everything she'd missed. That covered a lot of things, uniform changes included. Mòrag ran a hand over her knit blouse. Brighid would have loved the chance to buy her maternity wardrobe, she realized. Maybe tomorrow she could rearrange her Inquisitorial duties to head into the shopping district with her Blade. They could use some time together. And letting Brighid add one outfit to her collection wouldn't hurt. Brighid would certainly jump at the opportunity.

"Ah. I suppose it is a bit bigger than the last time you saw it."

"A bit bigger? Mòrag, when I last saw you, you were just barely starting to show. Now you're quite visibly pregnant...J-just how long have I been asleep?"

"Tomorrow would have marked thirteen weeks."

"...Thirteen weeks? Thirteen? Surely you jest. That can't be."

"It's the truth. I daresay the baby's growth is proof, is it not?"

"I certainly can't argue when the evidence is so irrefutable now, can I?" Brighid shook her head, as if the gesture might help the pieces click together in her brain. "Please tell me you've had a healthy pregnancy this time."

Mòrag felt a little foot or elbow jab at her side for what must have been the hundredth time that morning. She rubbed at the spot, prompting more little kicks. It was becoming a little game of sorts—at her touch, the baby would kick even more. Like his or her father, the child seemed incapable of sitting still. More than once during a routine checkup, Amelia had commented on the "internal tapdance" happening beneath the surface—usually something to the effect of, "If the kid's this antsy now, imagine how much of a handful you'll have at the end of your pregnancy." Meanwhile, Zeke himself had been overtly dramatic when he first felt a kick, even dragging over Rex and Pyra (who were visiting at the time) to, despite his wife's glare, "check out the kid I made! Strong already!"

Between Amelia's proactive medical advice and Zeke's tendency to smother her with attention, the pregnancy had been calmer than the Cloud Sea (although at times a bit annoying). The difference between then and now...it was night and day, really.

"It's been perfect. I feel wonderful."

"Is it a boy or girl? The palace has the technology to find out, right?"

"We decided not to ask. It'll be a surprise for all of us. I-I'm so glad you woke up in time, Brighid. I want you there when the baby comes."

She hesitated. Should she tell Brighid Zeke's idea? It would certainly cheer her up and help her know that she'd truly been forgiven—that their grievances were completely forgotten. But no. It was still too soon. And then Brighid might be disappointed if the baby turned out to be a boy. The idea certainly only fit a girl. And Zeke seemed oddly protective of the potential names they'd chosen; apparently he hadn't even told Pandoria.

"If you truly want me there, then I'd be honored."

Mòrag slipped her hand back into Brighid's. "I always want you by my side, Brighid. No matter what."

"Roger that, Lady Mòrag."

If there was one thing about Zeke that Mòrag envied, it was his uncanny ability to sleep through...well, anything. In her moodier moments, she hoped that fatherhood would lighten his sleep a tad. Because of now of all times was not the moment she wanted him to dream his way through every sound.

"Zeke," she called again, shaking him a bit harder. "Zeke!"

He finally stirred and rolled over. Even without lamplight, she could see the scowl on his brow. It didn't disappear as he rubbed his eyes.

"What are you craving this time?" he groaned. "I swear, if you ask for more snowbaby potato salad, I'm going to lose my mind. The shipment is supposed to arrive tomorrow. And I am not traveling to Leftheria to get any beforehand."

Mòrag scowled in return. As appetizing as the starchy food sounded, that was the exact opposite reason she'd woken him. And he made it sound so inconvenient. Although, come to think of it, he had trekked to Leftheria a couple times for her when the cravings first hit. He'd been putting on his boots for the third such trip when Pandoria asked the obvious question: "why not just ship the stuff in?" He doted on her—overbearingly so at times—throughout the entire pregnancy. No wonder he was getting a bit impatient, especially in the middle of the night. Poor man had probably been counting down the days to their due date.

"Anything but potato salad, I'll get. Embercakes. Rainbow Parfait. Quoteletta. Anything, just not the damn potato salad. Now what do you want?"

"You'll be relieved to know that this isn't about cravings, actually. In fact, I think after tonight the cravings will be over."

"Good," he retorted, jamming his face back into the pillow. "Now unless you actually need something, please go back to sleep."

She paused—both waiting for the pain to subside again and waiting for her statement to click in his brain. He shot back up as quickly as he'd plopped down.

"Wait. What do you mean, the cravings will be over? Mòrag, why'd you wake me up?"

"I-I woke you because I need you to go get Amelia."

She could tell the precise moment her statement registered; his normally dramatic movements became fidgety, and his volume rose. His composure, on the other hand, dropped.

"The b-baby's coming? It's time?"

"Yes. And now the contractions are close enough together that it's time to get her." She leaned over and turned the lamp on as she spoke.

He jumped out of bed and went through the motions of putting on a shirt—only to realize he pulled the pillowcase off his pillow and attempted to wear it. He grinned sheepishly and found his real garment. Mòrag failed to stifle a laugh. So much for all those conversations with Amelia about what to expect (and how to react calmly) when this moment came. By some small miracle, he managed to notice that his pants were backwards before he actually put them on.

"Now what am I doing again?" he asked once dressed—although Mòrag decided not to tell him he was still barefoot.

"Go get Amelia."

"And tell her…?"

"That I'm in labor, Boltbrain. And if she asks, tell her that the contractions are about five minutes—" the pain and dizzying pressure cut her off. Zeke was back at her side in an instant, panicking. She waved him off. If he was like this now, he'd be no help during hard labor. "Oof, make that four and a half minutes apart. Get her, please."

Mòrag half expected him to scold her for not waking him sooner. But he merely nodded, repeating his task to himself over and over again as he left the room. In between contractions, Mòrag took advantage of his absence to do the tasks he would have insisted on doing himself: turning on the room lights, getting a glass of water, fetching something to tie back her hair with, changing into something a bit more comfortable, and propping up pillows for herself. Amelia would probably have a fit if she spotted her patient up and about—especially if she had caught her pulling a chair over to the bedside, too.

How nice it would be to do things for herself again. The past month, people had insisted on carrying things for her, getting objects off shelves, and so many other menial tasks. The lack of self-sufficiency was driving her mad; she'd taken to sneaking in little tasks like moving books from her desk when no one was around just for the sensation of doing something for herself.

Before anyone could return, she eased herself back into bed and took several long, cleansing breaths. The entire pregnancy, dozens of women had pestered her with unsolicited advice about labor, delivery, and navigating life with a newborn. Some had even warned her—ironically—that the first labor was painful, the second much easier. Oh, if they only knew. But they were right, in part: the second was easier. And not just physically, either. Emotionally, too. As annoying as the unwanted advice was, Mòrag found herself enjoying each ridiculous tidbit of so-called wisdom. It was freeing, somehow.

"I'm excited to meet you, little Flamebolt," she whispered. "And to see your little feet instead of feeling them."

"Of all the habits you had to pick up from Zeke in a year of marriage, you had to pick up his propensity to nickname things."

"Brighid! Just how long have you been there?"

Brighid simply smiled. "I won't tell Amelia you were up and about."

Of course Brighid had been the first to arrive. "How'd you know? Did Zeke go to your room by mistake? He's a wreck."

"I felt it through the ether. But even if I hadn't, I would have guessed by the noise he's making in the halls. I believe it's safe to assume that half the palace knows by now."

Mòrag simply shook her head and laughed. By the time Zeke finally did return, half the palace did know. But they kept a respectful distance, eager for their insider-access news. Doubtless one of the staff would leak the information to the press within an hour of the baby's arrival. Not that it mattered, really.

"Alright, Flames! Let's get this birthday party started. I mean, let's meet our—are you ready to—"

"Oi, daddy-to-be! Shut it! Quit making such a racket and go sit with your wife. I know it's your first time, but you're about to make a bloody fool of yourself."

"Why is it that every healer we know likes to sass me?" Zeke asked the other women around him. But he did as he was told.

Later on, Amelia would describe the labor and delivery as, "Perfectly textbook for the mother and baby. The husband and father? Not so much." The reason: Zeke managed to pass out not once, but twice during the whole affair. Thanks to a friendly wake-up zap from Pandoria (who showed up halfway through), he was able to return to consciousness in time for the babe's arrival.

Mòrag had always thought that Niall's first cry was loud and strong. But this child's first dwarfed his many times over, as if the babe were trying to shake the room to match the Zekenator's ability to make a dramatic entrance. There goes any hope of a good night's rest anytime soon, she thought. And yet she didn't care—that obnoxious little voice was theirs. And boy or girl, she didn't care. There was no throne at stake. There never had been. Just the ever-growing sphere of love that no one quite ever managed to put into words properly.

"It's a girl!" Amelia shouted over the baby's cries. "Mor Ardain has itself a new princess."

Zeke punched the air in excitement, then grinned sheepishly when the room gave him a questioning glance. "What? I was hoping for a girl."

"All right, princess. Let's go meet your mommy."

Brighid had never managed to adequately describe the moment when Mòrag first held Niall. No words quite fit that mix of emotions: the fear, the relief, the wonder, and the regret all rolled up into a beautifully complicated first meeting. This first touch, however, had none of the negative connotations. And yet Brighid couldn't describe it, either. The most at peace I've ever seen her. That was the best description the Blade ever managed to write.

"Oh, look at you," Mòrag whispered—the infant had finally settled into a series of contented whimpers instead of her ear-splitting cry. She traced a finger over the baby's cheek, marveling at the bright eyes staring back up at her. "Such a pretty little girl, aren't you?"

A sniffle beside her prompted her to look over at Zeke. He'd moved to sit beside her on the bed the moment Amelia handed the newborn off, but not a word had come from his mouth. A little tear spoke for him instead. Without warning, Mòrag slipped the baby into his arms—there were still a few post-delivery details to account for, after all—and the only response Zeke made was a loud, stunned exhale. A second tear joined the first.

Pandoria broke the awed quiet that had filled the room. "Well dad, whatcha think?"

His gaze never left the infant in his hands. "Wow. Wow. Wow."

Brighid grinned. "For once, the Zekenator's speechless."

Zeke kissed his daughter's head, his lips brushing against a tuft of silvery hair. A moment later, his satisfied little smile faded, replaced by a scowl.

"What's wrong?" Mòrag asked.

"I think she just peed on me."

The room erupted in laughter. Fatherhood, it seemed, did not erase Zeke's bad luck. Mòrag didn't have the heart to tell him it would probably happen dozens of times along the way. As would other messes. But that could come later. For now, she relished watching his innocent tenderness. Just how many times had he shown the same tenderness to her? Inexperienced with babies or not, he was genuine. Kind. Loyal. A bit protective. More nurturing than he let on. And that was all a good father needed.

"All right Mòrag, you get to teach Zeke how to put a diaper on that little Flamebolt. Good luck with that." Pandoria smirked.

"Oi! You're probably gonna change a diaper or two along the way, you know."

"So have you two decided on a name yet?" Brighid interjected. "Or are you going to call her Flamebolt indefinitely?"

Mòrag looked to Zeke, questioning. "Go on. Tell her," he urged.

"Are you sure?"

"It was my idea, wasn't it?"

"I don't want Pandoria to feel left—"

"I think it's perfect, Mòrag," Pandoria interjected, grinning. "Don't worry about me."

Good. Zeke had talked it over with his Blade after all. As long as there were no hard feelings, then…

"Come hold her, Brighid."

If the baby was bothered by the heat of the fire Blade's hands, she didn't show it. She simply stretched into a new, comfortable position and stared at the unfamiliar face above her. Perhaps her heritage gave her some built-in heat tolerance. Brighid glanced back and forth between her Driver and the child in her arms; judging by her expression, she could tell something was afoot.

Of course she suspected. They weren't exactly being subtle about this. It wasn't a subtle name, either. Quite frankly, it was rather "on the nose." Mòrag had said as much when Zeke first suggested it. But it grew on her, especially when the baby began kicking in force. A spunky name for a spunky baby. And without Brighid, this baby wouldn't be here. None of them would, really. Deep down, Mòrag knew she could spend her entire life trying to properly thank Brighid and never come close. This was just a tiny little gesture in the grand scheme of things.

Mòrag slipped her hand into Zeke's; he returned the motion with an encouraging little squeeze. "Nothing about our relationship has been traditional," she began. "Certainly not how we got married and fell in love. Or how quickly this little one came along. So we've decided to go with an untraditional name. But we also agreed that it was only fitting that we name her after someone worthy. Someone brave, heroic, wise, fiercely loyal. Someone who we'd be proud to see her emulate...Brighid, with your permission, we'd like to name her Jewel."

A disbelieving gasp was the only response the Blade could muster at first. "...I-I don't know what to say."

"Please say yes. Because it's the only girl's name we actually agreed on. Our fallback is Konstantina," Zeke added.

Mòrag, Brighid, and Pandoria all scowled in perfect unison.

"Come off it," Pandoria retorted. "That's your fallback. Mòrag probably had something more sensible in mind than Konstantina. I'm telling you, that's too many syllables. Poor kid wouldn't be able to say her name until she turned six!"

"Konstantina was my grandmother's name, I'll have you know."

"So you proposed an old lady's name for your kid. Good going."

"Well, Brighid?"

The Blade looked down at her proposed namesake, studying her shaky, uncontrolled movements. Tiny hands jerked open and shut, as if the infant were still exploring her new roomier environment. One of her little fists clenched around a strand of Brighid's hair, unperturbed by the warmth. The Blade smiled.

"Well, then," she whispered, disentangling the lock from the girl's fingers. "Nice to meet you, Jewel."

Armed with a name, gender, and time of birth, the busybodies on staff at Hardhaigh Palace made quick work with the news. And so began a long string of visitors and well-wishers—all of whom Mòrag was too polite to shoo away. To Zeke's own surprise, their first out-of-town guest was his father; apparently a grandchild was the only thing that prompted spontaneity in Tantal's king. Niall stole away from his imperial duties whenever he could. And of course, Rex, Pyra, Nia, Tora, and all their other companions trickled in for visits.

Despite the fact that Brighid and Pandoria had volunteered to handle their Drivers' duties for several weeks, the new parents found themselves busier than ever; visits from friends and family and Jewel's erratic sleep schedule never seemed to sync perfectly. More often than not, visits were dramatically shortened or lengthened thanks to a hungry or cranky baby. Only when Brighid created a formal, strict schedule for visits did things calm down a bit.

"Normally, I'd complain about Brighid being really uptight with that dumb agenda of hers. But she's a miracle worker keeping people at bay," Zeke commented. "I swear, this is the first time we've been alone since she was born."

"That's an exaggeration. We've had time to ourselves every night."

"Yeah. And all we've done is fall asleep or feed the little milk processor. Or change her diaper."

"She'll get on a schedule eventually," Mòrag pointed out, shifting Jewel into a more comfortable position. Unlike Niall, Jewel was a voracious little eater. It was hard to keep up with the demands of her stomach. Especially running on fumes as they were. "And you're getting better with the diapers."

He smirked. "At least she hasn't peed on me again. Come here."

Before Mòrag could protest or even warn him not to disrupt the baby's current meal, he pulled her into his lap. Jewel continued suckling, unperturbed by the slight shift in positioning. Mòrag relaxed against his chest and willed herself not to fall asleep. How long had it been since they'd even cuddled without konking out from exhaustion? Hiding in Gormott had been emotionally difficult, but without interruptions from overeager visitors, getting Niall on a feeding and sleeping schedule had been relatively simple. Jewel? Far from it. Military maternity leave gave her just six weeks to settle into life with a newborn, and three of them had already ticked past. As things were, she dreaded going back to work. She couldn't just break protocol simply because she had the authority to. Somehow they would have to find an adequate way to balance the rigors of work and quality time as a family. That much was non-negotiable. Considering how many key moments she'd been forced to miss with Niall, she was not about to miss out on being Jewel's mother.

Too many imperial and royal children over the years had been raised by governesses or only one involved parent. She and Zeke vowed not to let that happen. But would it prove easier said than done?

"What's on your mind?" she asked. Judging by how still he was—with his chin resting against her shoulder and one arm wrapped around her waist—he was just watching the baby eat. In quieter moments like this, he had a tendency to simply sit and stare, enraptured.

"I don't want ten anymore," he replied quietly.

Mòrag couldn't stop herself from giving one relieved exhale. She suspected he'd change his tune on that front eventually, but hearing him say it was another matter. "Children are a lot of work, especially when they're this tiny."

"Well yeah, but that's not what I meant." He ran his fingers over Jewel's sparse tufts of hair. "I just, well, whenever I look at her, my heart feels like it's gonna burst. This beautiful little bundle of life and innocence—we made this. She's ours, and I've never felt so lucky. This feeling...I don't think I could handle it ten times over. I'd explode."

She nuzzled a little deeper into his chest. Zeke insisted that he wasn't the most well-spoken or romantic man. But at times like this, he could be so eloquent that she wondered why she'd taken so long to give him a second look. Would she have ever even considered him if fate hadn't forced her into a political marriage? No. That much she knew for certain. How remarkable it all was—that a scenario that had seemed so terrifying at the time had evolved into such solace—that her nightmares disappeared and became dreams she'd never even dared to hope for. Wishes she never realized she had.

"It's amazing how something so small can instill such a sense of purpose," Mòrag said.

She felt him nod. "That reminds me of something I've been meaning to ask. A while ago, when we defeated Malos, you said you were a little envious of him because he'd found the meaning to his life. At the time, I was baffled why someone as strong and influential as yourself would have her doubts about her purpose. But I came to understand once we tied the knot. So that meaning to your life—have you found it yet?"

She paused. So much of her life she'd faced criticism or even pity for her role. Pity after Niall's birth because she'd been raised to take the throne, only to lose her identity as heiress two years before she came of age. Even further sympathy from those who knew or suspected why she'd lived in Gormott for so long. Criticism for her choice to live as a warrior, to lead in a military position historically held by men. Cruel glares and sideways glances from the traditionalists who insisted her only remaining job as a non-ruling member of the royal bloodline was to produce children. And of course, the cutting voice inside her head that had screamed over and over for more than a decade: worthless, liar, fraud, unlovable. For years, she'd always ignored the external critics, only going along with what society expected of her when it directly benefited Niall. Niall, whose birth had burned away the destiny Mor Ardain demanded she fulfill.

Yet somehow, she found beauty in all the ashes.

"People used to tell me that a crown princess lost her purpose when a prince was born. And for a while, I believed them. But now...I think one's purpose isn't something that's dictated for them. The meaning to our lives—we create it together, one choice at a time."

"So are you happy with the meaning you've made for yourself?"

Jewel gave a satisfied little sigh, her little tongue slipping into lazy little tickles as she drifted off into a milk coma. That feeling Zeke had of nearly bursting inside—she had it too, she realized. It didn't seem like much, but if together they could do right by this little girl...then that was enough.

She smiled. "I believe I am."

A/N: Just one little epilogue left to go-completely fluffy. I'll leave a longer note when I close that one out.