POV: Riley
Damieon did not cry the way other babies did.
There was no panic in his voice when he woke in the night—no fear, no hunger-driven wail. When my son stirred, the air itself shifted. The shadows softened. The ward flames bent inward like they were listening.
Tonight, he woke just before the third bell.
And the veil answered him.
I was already sitting upright in bed when his silver eyes opened.
Not baby-blue.
Not newborn-dark.
Silver.
Pure Moonblood.
The candles along my chamber walls flickered violently as if a wind had passed through stone. The protective sigils flared once, twice—then steadied under his gaze.
“Riley?”
Mason’s voice came from the shadows near the doorway. He never slept far now. None of them did.
“He’s awake,” I whispered.
Damieon made a soft sound
