Page 138 of Aryn

Ronan snarls, posture tense. “A joke? You accuse me of traveling all this way, half my friends nearly dying to get here, just to pull some elaborate scheme? For what?”

Ailynor’s three tails lash behind her, the tips snapping like whips. “I won’t pretend to know your intentions, but you are no blood of mine. I have only carried one child, and he was killed nearly a century ago.”

“So you were told,” he retorts.

She lets out a harsh laugh and tosses her head again, slamming her palms on the table as she leans closer. “His entire settlement was destroyed. I saw the reports myself. I checked the wreckage myself.” Her tails thrash harder, one of them smacking against the leg of the table with a loud crack. “Do you truly expect me to be so naïve? I could throw you in the dungeons for the insult.”

Ronan’s jaw tightens. “My village was attacked, yes. Everyone was killed except me.”

“And you were special enough to be spared? For what reason?”

“Punishment for my mother, apparently. My rebel mother. They took me as payback for her desertion, and it took me a lifetime to learn it.”

Her eyes narrow dangerously. “I won’t stand for deceit in my house.”

He stands, baring his teeth as the guards inch closer. “Deceit? I’m not lying, you just refuse to hear the truth!”

“What truth?!” she demands. “Speak plainly and choose your words carefully. I don’t have time for riddles.”

“My name is Ronan,” he says, voice steady despite the tension rolling off him. “My father was Regalis, and my mother was called Ailynor.”

The Vaelor stares at him, her brown eyes burning. Her body is rigid, shoulders squared and ready for a fight as the silence stretches. “If you are truly who you claim, prove it.”

“Prove it?” he growls. “I was a child when you disappeared. Five years old!”

“You think you’re the first to step into my house and claim to be my blood?” Ailynor demands. “Others have come before you and tried my patience, and it did not end well for them, either.” She stands and gestures towards the guards as she storms towards the door. They turn towards Ronan as one and take a synchronized step forward.

Ronan’s nostrils flare as he shouts towards her retreating back. “When Father fled with me, it was night.”

The Vaelor stops and goes completely still.

“I didn’t have time to bring any of my toys,” Ronan continues as the guards exchange a glance, unsure of their next move. “But there was one I carried everywhere, and it was already tucked in my pocket. It was a little karvox made from a fallen Dirdira branch.” Ronan releases a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “I hated their tusks… thought they looked mean with them, so you—”

“—carved them crooked,” she finishes in a whisper, turning to face him with wide eyes. “Because crooked tusks meant they were friendly.”

Ronan’s eyes are full of emotion as he glances down at his hand, like he’s picturing the toy in his palm. “I was too little to realize all karvox had crooked tusks. Every time I saw them, I’d check. I thought I was the luckiest person in the world because every one I ever saw had crooked tusks.”

The color drains from her face as she stares at him. An obvious battle plays out behind her eyes—logic and disbelief fighting the proof standing right in front of her as she searches for some way to refute his story. A heavy breath rushes out as her expression goes slack, sounding as though she’s been punched. Her hand trembles as she lifts it to her mouth.

“By the Fates…” she whispers, voice breaking. “Ronan?”

Ronan gives a single, shaky nod, and for a heartbeat no one moves. Ailynor surges forward, rounding the table in three powerful strides before pulling Ronan into a crushing embrace. Her tails wrap around him in a desperate, possessive tangle, refusing to leave even an inch of space between them.

Ronan stiffens for half a second before he relaxes into her arms. He buries his face in her shoulder as a broken sound escapes him—a pained thing, somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

Aryn’s hand finds mine under the table, and I squeeze it as I glance between him and Brihn. Out of everyone here, they’re the only two who really understand the weight of this moment. The rest of the group watches the reunion with varying expressions—shock from the guards, awe from our side, and something cautiously emotional from Cameron. There’s fear in his eyes, I realize. He’s scared of Ronan getting hurt.

Ailynor pulls back to cup Ronan’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks as tears spill freely down hers. She’s a few inches shorter than him, so she tilts his head down in order to press her forehead to his, tails coiled protectively around him.

For the first time since she entered the room, the Vaelor isn’t a leader or a warrior.

She’s a mother—no more, no less.

Someone who just got her son back from the dead.

Ailynor shakes her head again, unblinking as her eyes dart across his face. “You were just a tiny thing the last time I saw you.”

Ronan’s face shifts from one emotion to the next so quickly I can barely track them. Relief, frustration, and anger flash in a blur, but what settles is confusion. “Father told me you were killed.”