A year later, after too many overlapping crises and too many nights where Chris's sleep was measured in minutes instead of hours, Chris had become exactly what he'd threatened to become.
The godfather.
Ethan's son was born loud, furious, and healthy - an alpha baby with strong lungs and an even stronger grip, no trace of 'anomaly,' no shadow of the word 'experiment,' nothing that matched the imperial poison Caelan had tried to drip into the world. If anything, the child looked like a rebuttal made flesh: living proof that the Emperor's cruelty had been nothing but a man trying to control what he couldn't own.
Of course, Caelan tried to use the newborn the moment it was born.
It had been almost impressive, in the way a snake was impressive: fast, silent, and absolutely convinced the room belonged to him.
