Chapter 21

Faerson Manor, the Kingdom of Wuthia, 1126

Bridget Laenas (Sesa Faerson)

Morning light crept through the windows of my chamber, soft and gold like honey spilling across the stone floor. The fire from last night had long since died, leaving only the faint scent of smoke and herbs Eudora had burned to ward off ill fortunes. I lay half-sat against the pillows, still wrapped in my nightgown, staring at the cradle beside my bed.

Henry slept soundly within it.

The cradle itself had been brought up hastily from storage, a relic from the previous owner of the estate, probably from some older family member’s infancy. Its wood was dark and carved with faded runes, the sort of marks that once meant protection, now worn by time. But the child inside it made it seem holy again.

Even though he was ... otherworldly.

The morning light touched his small body, showing the faint shimmer of his skin—warm, human, yet carrying a subtle sheen like polished grain. The fine hair that covered his lower body glistened in hues of bronze and soft russet, blending seamlessly into the down along his tail, which lay curled around his thigh like a cat at rest. His chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm, but now and then, when he dreamed, that strange low purr would hum from his throat.

The horns, barely visible last night, were clearer now—two faint nubs pushing through the skin at his temples, dark as sap-stone. His ears, slightly pointed, twitched when the wind brushed through the open window. And his eyes—though closed—held the memory of that molten gold, the kind of light that lingered even after you looked away.

He looked nothing like the children of Men. Yet as I watched him, I could not see monstrosity—only beauty, and mine.

My hand trembled when I reached out to stroke his tiny fingers. He stirred slightly, his hand grasping at the air before finding my fingertip. When he caught it, he didn’t let go.

Something deep within me ached—fierce, protective, and tender all at once. The stories Solomon and I once heard about the offspring of the Manssee came back to me—creatures tied to harvest and life, some called blessings, others omens. But as I looked upon Henry, I could not believe he was cursed.

“Little one,” I whispered, brushing his cheek. “You will change this house. I can feel it.”

I thought of Solomon, asleep somewhere down the hall after the long night; of Eudora, who would rise soon to bring me broth and see how I fared; of Mabel and Richard, still unaware of what child had been born under this roof. A smile tugged at my lips.

They would see soon enough. They would understand.

Henry shifted again, his small tail flicking once before stilling. I leaned closer, inhaling his scent—earthy, like fresh soil after rain, mingled with milk and something faintly wild.

My heart felt too large for my chest.

So, this was motherhood, then. The quiet terror of it. The overwhelming love. The knowing that I would burn every field from Olnfield to the hills beyond if it meant keeping this child safe.

Outside, the manor stirred to life—the faint clatter of pots, the murmur of servants, the caw of a crow on the terrace. The world was moving on. But I sat still, watching the child who had changed everything, my fingers still trapped in his tiny, unyielding grasp.

The morning had ripened into a soft amber hue by the time I rose from bed. The air was cool, laced with that gentle sharpness of early fall—the kind that promised both comfort and change. Henry stirred as I lifted him from his cradle, wrapping him in a thick woolen blanket that Eudora herself had stitched ever since we told her about the unborn child.

Eudora appeared at my door just as I fastened the last fold. Her eyes, though still shadowed from a sleepless night, carried a warmth I’d come to depend upon.

“Going outside, my lady?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

I nodded. “He’s never felt the sun, nor the air. I thought—perhaps he should.”

Eudora hummed softly, the same sound she’d once make when we were children, caught sneaking pastries before dinner. “Then you’ll do it properly.” She stepped forward with a practiced briskness, reaching to adjust the blanket around Henry’s tiny face. “The wind’s cool today. We’ll not have either of you falling ill because you were too eager to see the leaves.”

Her hands lingered longer than necessary, tucking, smoothing, ensuring every inch of him was protected. A faint smile creased her lips as Henry’s tail twitched beneath the wraps, earning a mutter from her: “Spirited already.”

“I think he likes your fussing,” I said, amused.

“Hmph. All children like being fussed over, whether they admit it or not,” she replied, though her tone was fond. Then, with a nod, she stepped aside. “Go on, my lady. The courtyard’s full of sun this morning.”

The manor’s halls felt brighter today—lighter somehow—as if the house itself sensed something new within its walls. As I passed, servants looked up from their work, pausing mid-step or mid-sentence when they saw the small bundle in my arms.

“Is that him, my lady?” one of the maids whispered, eyes wide and shining.

“It is,” I answered, smiling softly. “His name is Henry.”

A murmur rippled through them, gentle and full of awe. No one dared draw too near, though I saw curiosity in every gaze—wonder, too. They bowed slightly as I passed, and I caught snippets of their whispers behind me: ‘Born strong, they say.’ ‘He has her eyes, perhaps.’ ‘Bless the house, bless the mother.’

Even in their uncertainty, they wished us well.

When I stepped into the courtyard, the air kissed my face—crisp and sweet with the scent of apples from the western grove. The leaves of the great ash tree near the fountain were turning gold at the tips; some had already fallen across the stone path.

Henry squirmed faintly in my arms, sensing the shift of air. His little fingers pushed through the blanket, and I loosened it just enough for him to see the sky.

“There,” I whispered. “That’s sunlight, little one.”

He blinked against the brightness, his golden eyes reflecting it like twin mirrors. Then, a sound—a low, contented hum—vibrated from his chest. His tail moved once beneath the fabric.

I laughed softly, overwhelmed by the simplicity of it. “You like it,” I said, swaying gently. “Of course you do. You’re part of the earth, aren’t you? Just like your father’s kind.”

Eudora lingered near the archway, watching us with her arms crossed and that half-disapproving, half-proud look she often wore when she didn’t want to admit affection.

“Don’t stay too long, my lady,” she called. “The sun’s kind now, but the wind still bites.”

I nodded, smiling back at her. “Just a few minutes. He needs to feel it.”

She sighed but said nothing more, only standing guard like an old oak—steady, rooted, and utterly dependable.