The nursery of the Obsidian Peak was the only room in the fortress that still
carried a ghost of the old warmth. It wasn't because of the Hallowed fire—that
had been extinguished with the shattering of the Fifth Gear—but because of the
sheer density of the furs, the rhythmic clicking of the copper steam-pipes, and
the presence of the child who was the heart of the new era.
I stood by the silver cradle, my fingers tracing the edge of Aidan's blanket. My
son was sleeping, his gold and black eyes hidden, his chest rising and falling
in the deep, untroubled rhythm of a human infant. In the "Real" world, he was no
longer a Prince or a Master-Mold; he was a baby who needed milk, warmth, and
protection. Yet, as I watched him, I could see the faint, rhythmic glow of the
runes beneath his skin—a secret language between the boy and the mountain that
even the "Great Reset" hadn't been able to erase.
"He's the only one who doesn't feel the draft," Kaelen said, his voice coming
