Deep in the midnight blue—
Cold winds are rushing through.
Sleep now, my flower child,
Dream where the warm sun shines.
A white bird drifts above you—
Angels watch over you.
Sleep now, my flower child,
Dream where the warm sun shines.
A sweet lullaby drifts through the cozy parlor—a silky thread of breathy sound weaving through the crackle of the fire and the faint hiss of snow.
The honeyed scent of beeswax candles mingles with the earthy notes of burning wood, coating the golden room in a cocoon of warmth and comfort.
"Deep in the midnight blue..." Neva sings, her voice sweetening the melody as the warm, pliant weight of her daughter's tiny body settles against her chest—
cradled in the soft, yet steady embrace of the fabric wrap, the velvety forest-green shawl enfolding them snugly in its warmth.
"A white bird drifts above you," Neva continues singing,
as she sways slowly, holding her daughter a little farther from the fireplace, its warmth fending off the frosty chill of December.
Inaya's breathing steadies—soft, growing shallow and serene until her lashes still—drifting toward dreamland where the living Sun breathes spring into the garden.
Neva's eyes drift toward the window, where sharp gusts of wind rattle the snow-frosted pane,
the harsh blue night of winter pressing close, threatening to drown out her soft lullaby.
Her brows knit into a gentle frown—Rhett still isn't home. The hands of the vintage clock hanging on the wall edge toward six, as the world outside lies veiled in a bleak, deep-ocean hue, the whooshing air driving the snow into a rising, rushing white roar.
And he isn't aware that Inaya has suddenly caught a fever again. It was during the children's noon nap that she found her daughter shivering in sleep, her small body burning far beyond its normal temperature.
She had fed Inaya her medicine with as much food as the little girl could take, the fever easing slowly.
If Neva could, she would soak up every ache from Inaya—but all she can do is pray for the sickness to fall away from her sweet child.
"Sleep now, my flower child," she whisper-sings, turning her head just in time to see Sky entering the parlor—
only to stop short in the doorway.
"Am I disturbing?" Sky asks softly, her brows creasing at the sight of the little girl bundled close against her mother's chest.
Neva shakes her head, offering her a small, reassuring smile.
Sky returns the smile and moves toward the dining table, her steps careful, reverent of the hush in the room. "Has the fever gone down?" she asks, pouring herself a glass of warm water from the floral-printed steel jug.
"It's slowly improving,'' Neva replies, glancing down at her daughter,
with her nose blocked,
she breathes softly through her parted lips.
"That's better." Sky carefully pulls out a chair so as not to disturb the sleeping child.
She takes a slow sip of her water before settling into the seat,
facing the fireplace, the flames painting amber shadows across the room.
"Neva," Sky says after a quiet moment.
"Yes?" Neva replies, gazing toward Sky.
"May I ask, how old is your daughter?" Sky asks,
setting the half-empty glass on the table.
"She and Isaiah are three years old," Neva says, tender fingers brushing a few strands of curls from Inaya's damp forehead.
"Almost four now," she adds in a whisper.
Sky nods, a gentle smile playing on her lips. "Children do grow up fast, huh?"
Neva returns the smile. "They do."
"I'm home." A low, familiar voice, muffled by the thick stone walls, reaches her ears, followed by the soft thud of a door closing.
.
.
.
Rhett settles on the hallway step a couple of feet higher than the foyer, fingers working at the laces of his waterlogged leather boots. He loosens them,
slips his feet free, and pushes the boots aside—the damp leather leaving a faint, cold smear across the wooden floor.
"Dada!" The familiar voice rings out— warmth, joy,
home wrapped into one little call.
Rhett glances over his shoulder to see Rhean racing toward him, eyes glinting with pure delight at the sight of his father.
Rhett opens his arms, a smile tugging at his lips as his son barrels into him, crashing against his chest with a soft, eager thump.
"Dada, you're late!" Rhean protests, his voice muffled against his shirt—even as pure happiness threads through the tiny hint of displeasure in his tone.
"Am I?" Rhett murmurs with a deep sigh, his arms tightening around the tiny body pressed to his chest.
Rhean nods against him, then pulls back just enough to look up, lips curling into a small, dramatic pout.
"Can I make it up to you later?" Rhett asks, his eyes soft.
"But I want my Iron Man repaired right now, Dada!" Rhean insists, chubby cheeks puffed in mild agitation. "He still hasn't got an arm!"
"Dada must be tired, Rhean," another voice chimes in—warm, dipped in the sweetest honey, melting in the soft light of dawn, weaving itself through the core of his soul.
Neva steps toward them with a towel in her hands,
her footsteps hushed against the floor, even as she carries a little bundle of joy wrapped snugly in a swaddle against her chest.
"Thank you," Rhett whispers, reaching for the towel—his fingers brushing against her skin, warm and soft even through the woolly white fabric.
Rhean whines and reaches for his mother, wrapping his tiny arms around her legs.
He presses his face into her skirt,
his voice muffled as he grumbles his complaints against them.
"I'll help you fix it later, Rhean," Rhett replies instead, tossing his socks into the waterlogged boots he's just pulled off as he straightens.
His gaze shifts to the boy leaning against the bedroom doorframe, a small distance slipped between them.
His chest tightens as he catches a flicker of envy—and quiet longing—flickering in Isaiah's soft, chocolate eyes.
"Why don't you go play with Isaiah until then?" Rhett suggests gently.
"Promise?" Rhean asks, pulling away from his mother, his wide eyes lifting to search his father's for reassurance.
Rhett smiles, playfully ruffling the boy's soft, thick curls. "I promise."
A bright smile blooms across Rhean's face, sweeping away the frown once etched in his delicate,
pretty brows—so much like his mother's.
Neva watches the boys scurry back into the bedroom, then turns to meet his gaze.
"How was your day?" she murmurs, hands resting gently against the child cradled close to her heart, before moving to help him shrug off his soaked jacket.
"Just the usual," he replies, leaning in to steal a quick, tender kiss from her lips.
"A slip of trouble," he whispers against her, her sweet breath warm against him.
"Without you."
Before he can dive in for another kiss, she presses a hand to his chest, gently nudging him back—the child, a slight interruption, whimpering softly in her sleep.
"You must be hungry," she says, offering him a small, gentle smile. "I'll heat up the food while you warm yourself by the fire."
A small frown creases his brows, the concern softening the sharp lines of his features as she steps back and turns toward the bedroom.
But he offers no prompting, silent and steady, watching her step into their bedroom. Still, the quiet ache of lost warmth lingers in his grim eyes.
He steps toward the nearest door, lifting a fist to rap gently against the wooden slab.
"Knight, to the living room. Now."
He doesn't wait for a reply before moving toward the parlor,
where he finds Sky seated cross-legged on the wooden chair before the fireplace.
Sky glances at him just as the soft scrape of boots against the wooden floor echoes from behind.
"What is it about?" Knight asks, his voice thick with displeasure, before collapsing onto the couch. His eyes are swollen and heavy—clearly roused from a nap.
"What about Jack and Ace?" Rhett counters. "When are they checking in?"
"No contact yet," Sky replies flatly, rising to her feet. "Radio silence since dawn."
"Break it," Rhett snaps, his voice edged with irritation. "Get the message out—regroup within seventy-two hours. This isn't a damn vacation."
Knight yawns with complete abandon, tossing his head back as if to shake off the grim cold of the room—or Rhett's sharp, unrelenting glare.
"Focus, Knight," Rhett's voice cuts through, cold and edged with barely veiled resentment.
"Please, continue, Boss," Knight drawls, a shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips, deliberately provoking him.
Rhett's jaw tightens as he drags a chair out from the dining table, its legs scraping lightly against the floor before he lowers himself onto the waiting seat.
"Four hundred people have taken refuge in an unmarked, abandoned village—not the one on our route," Rhett says, cutting straight to the point.
Sky frowns. "Off-grid?"
"Yes. Houses repaired. Streets swept clean," Rhett replies, his face set in cold restraint.
"But the operation to relocate them wasn't even scheduled until next week," Sky adds, moving toward the couch across from a solemn-looking Knight.
"I checked the village myself," Rhett continues. "They weren't aware of the rescue scheme."
Sky tilts her head, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans back against the couch.
"Have they been chased from home?"
"They were," Rhett replies.
"But they'd already escaped—before the ambush."
Knight raises a brow. "Let me guess—some divine intervention, angels and all that, isn't it?" he sneers.
Rhett ignores him, straightening as his gaze darkens.
"It was Raka who warned them."
A sharp silence freezes the room.
For a moment, all Rhett hears is the gusting wind rattling against the windows over the crackling fire—the weather churning into an impending, disastrous gale.
Much like the situation about to unfold—unless a stronger strategy is forged for the tempests to come.
"And how do you know that?" Knight asks, his gaze sharpening—more serious than at any point in the conversation.
"I figured that much when they mistook me for their saviour," Rhett replies, his voice low, expression unnervingly calm and unreadable.
"Hah." Knight lets out a short, bitter laugh. "What a sick-ass freak."
"How many escorts did he have?" Sky asks.
"None," Rhett replies. "He was alone. Unarmed—but we don't buy it."
"He's laying groundwork for something bigger," Sky mumbles, her brows drawing together, her gaze guarded as she tries to piece it together.
"Of course he is," Knight interjects. "Probably caught wind of Czar's plan and decided to compete for our goddess of Love—Mrs. Prophetess' affection."
"Oh… this is fun." Knight smirks at Rhett, who fixes him with a glare jagged enough to fracture bone.
"It'll be up to her to choose the more heroic one, alright—Mr. Rhett Lei?" He tilts his head, a grin creeping onto his lips, mischievous as the prince of evil himself.
"Knight," Sky snaps, shooting him a sharp, warning look.
"All right. All right." Knight folds his arms behind his black‑blue tousled hair, the grin stubbornly stitched to his lips.
"So, what's the move?" Sky asks quietly.
"The villagers are both bait and hostages—and likely his leverage with the king," Rhett states evenly. "He'll surface soon."
"And I'll be the one to catch him," Knight cuts in. "Alive, or dead," he adds, conviction glinting in his eyes.
"No direct pursuit," Rhett counters coldly. "We won't risk the people. Track him quietly—until we find a way to evacuate them."
"Okay." Knight rises slowly, stretching his arms with languid ease.
"I'm off to bed. But before that, I've got a little present to prepare—to welcome our dear Czar's twin brother." He winks at Rhett, then crosses his arms behind his head, whistling through the parlor with unnerving serenity.
"We'll discuss the details later," Rhett says, heading toward the door.
Sky only hums in response, her gaze following the tall silhouette of her leader—shoulders slouched beneath a burden heavier than he will ever allow himself to show.