I woke up to the sound of arguing.
Not loud—muffled, like two people trying very hard not to wake a child.
My son was a warm weight against my side, hair a tangle on the pillow, mouth slightly open. Wolfie crouched on his chest like a watchful guardian.
The bond between us thrummed steady. No spikes of fear. No foreign tug.
Good.
I slid carefully out from under him, tucking the blanket around his shoulders. He murmured something about dragons and rolled onto his stomach.
The voices were clearer in the sitting room.
“…not sustainable,” Mara was saying, low and fierce. “Palace guards in the hallway, Council sniffing around, you buried in war rooms. This is not a life for a child.”
“Elbow‑deep in fruit salad at seven a.m. is also not a life for a child,” El shot back. “But here we are
