As Derek’s voice drifted over the bed, a miracle of muscle and memory flickered across Lemon’s pale face. It was as if she had heard him through the heavy fog of the anesthesia. Her tiny mouth, parched and cracked, twitched upward. It was a faint, fleeting smile—the kind of expression a child wears when they are dreaming of a sunny day at the park—but in the dim light of the VIP ward, it was more radiant than a thousand suns.
To Derek, that smile was a blade through the ribs. He was the Reaper of the Northern Front, a man whose name was whispered in fear by the enemies of the Empire, yet he felt his knees weaken at the sight of his daughter’s joy.
"Do you have any idea?"
The voice was low, rasping, and heavy with a decade of unshed tears. Serena was still looking at Lemon, but her words
