The Matten estate was filled with a quiet joy in the days that followed Aurora's birth.
It wasn't loud or exaggerated. No celebrations were thrown and no banners were raised. The joy was quieter than that. Warm, steady, and sacred, like a fire that never stopped burning at the hearth.
Ezra stood in the doorway of the nursery, arms crossed, leaning against the arched wooden entrance.
His eyes trailed to the center of the room, where three women, his wives, gathered around a cradle carved from the best wood in the Republic, and reinforced with power from the weave itself.
Inside it, wrapped in pale blue silk and swaddled with wool, lay his daughter, Aurora.
Olivia sat closest, her posture regal even when cradling the baby. Her long dark hair was loose for once, tumbling around her shoulders like a black waterfall, and her eyes, which were often cold and blank, now brimmed with awe.
