Arwen
The scent hits me first.
Not cold. Not cruel. Not Bode.
Something warm. Familiar. Impossible.
The figure steps into the moonlight, and my breath stutters, body going rigid with shock.
I gasp. ‘Mother?’
“Auntie!” Círdan says at the same time.
My mother stands there, pale hair loose around her shoulders, eyes bright with exhaustion and fierce determination. But she is not alone. She’s holding a toddler. A little boy — no more than two — clinging to her tunic, his tiny face buried in her neck.
What is this?
His small fingers curl into her hair as he flinches from Viggo’s growl, whimpering softly.
‘Viggo. Enough.’ I whisper sharply, grabbing his arm. ‘Stop. I understand your anger, but you’re scaring him. He’s just a baby.’
His growl dies instantly, though the tension in him d
