Then he took her.
The moment Leena left Rhen’s arms, Rhen’s hands fell open in his lap. He stared at the empty space against his chest as though he could not understand why it was there.
Sule pulled her against him. The baby cried again from Cole’s arms.
Rhen’s gaze moved toward him.
For several seconds, he said nothing. When his voice finally emerged, it sounded scraped raw.
“She chose his name.”
Sule did not look away from Leena.
“What?”
“Norse.” Rhen’s jaw tightened around the single word. “She chose Norse.”
The child’s cries broke unevenly through the chamber.
Sule closed his eyes.
“Norse,” he repeated.
The name left him like something sacred and ruined at once.
Cole lowered his gaze to the infant in his arms.
Norse quieted gradually beneath the sound of his father’s voice, his tiny body still trembling beneath the blanket.
Her body yielded with a looseness that made something inside him collapse.
He buried his face in her hair.
No warmth.
No answering movement.
Only the faint scent that remained hers beneath blood and medicinal herbs.
Sule lifted her and carried her the short distance to the bed.
He lowered her onto the mattress with reverence, as though gentleness might reverse violence. His palms lingered as he moved the dark hair from her face and traced the familiar line of her cheek.
The birth medic lowered her gaze.
“I’m sorry, Majesty.”
Sule did not appear to hear her.
She gathered her supplies with trembling hands and moved quietly toward the door, leaving the family inside the chamber.
Sule sank to his knees beside the bed.
His forehead pressed against Leena’s.
The first sob tore from him.
Ragged.
