Bruce thought it was ridiculous—every last bit of it. A little baby Godling had handed him a mission, but what could a being like that expect from someone like him? He wasn't clever; he wasn't gifted at sports. Strength had been his only clear contribution, and kindness—he realized—was probably to his own detriment. He simply couldn't be unkind; the idea of being mean to anyone hurt. That was who he had been: a big man who would step aside for a snail crossing the road—or pick it up and help it over. How was he supposed to fulfill the Godling's mission? Mystery.
Whatever the intent or grand design behind this new life, the course of it—start to finish—would still be his to steer. He'd fulfill the Godling's mission, yes, but one small step at a time, and in his way, because that was the only way he knew.
Thinking this while doing floating baby jumping jacks tired him. He wasn't even a full human shape yet—stubby limbs, soft ribs, everything under construction—and still he chose to stop whining and start training, running through warm water, working in mid-air inside his new mother, Lili.
He tried to grit his teeth the way you do at the gym on a heavy set—but he didn't have any—so he produced a stubborn fetal pout instead. Fine, he thought, and pushed the water. This time there would be no room for softness, no place for weakness. Only the steady and the strong made big changes in the world—so he would try to be that, and maybe, finally, a little smart, too.
Then, like an answer, a pulse moved through him.
Something at his center brightened. The light-heart listened to his will and moved with it—a small sun waking behind bone and not-yet-bone. It gathered at a thought, held at a breath, released at a decision. Even here, he told himself, I can fight for someone. He turned his wanting outward, toward the woman who carried him. You're not alone, he wanted to say. I'm here—right here—okay? Keep fighting.
At the thought, the light within sparkled—happy, warm—a spark running along a wire. It rose from the quiet place inside his red, growing heart and matched his defiance beat for beat: calling, answering, calling again. It aligned with his intent the way a muscle aligns with effort—focus, and it tightened; believe, and it brightened.
The world beyond the tummy of his mommy didn't flinch, but for Bruce everything seemed to. Wow, he thought, flexing this new thing, testing it, experimenting. He might not be a wizard… but he was, undeniably, a magic baby in training. And maybe—just maybe—he could help his mother like this.
Lili, unaware of the quiet weather building in her womb, ate in solemn sadness from the tray the maids had left at her bed. Meat and eggs, a handful of greens, a wooden mug of milk—she would not touch the ale most here drank. Tears slid from eyes too bright for Albion—violet, unheard of in these parts—while her long platinum hair fell forward, the ends brushing the rim of the cup she barely sipped.
Her thoughts were a churned sea. To save her tribe, she had offered herself as a price of peace to Duke Leo Lionheart. Her father had bargained and reasoned—why sail so far to the Northern Wildlands to trouble a people with nothing to steal, no stone towns to sack, only reindeer and their stubborn pride? The Duke had listened with that maddening calm and sailed away with Lili on his deck. He wanted a northern wife, he had said—blood that might bear him an heir with his blue eyes, or rarer eyes still. To avert worse, she had gone.
They had returned to this southern island and its blue-roofed banners. By now her people would have moved camp; they would be safe. She had only to make herself safe—leave this place, carry the child inside her back to the tribe, and be free of the smiling certainty of a man who thought the world bent because he wished it to.
She pictured that smile—the confident, winning line of it—and felt heat climb her face. She hated that blush. Stop it, Lili; he's a big, mean fool of a man. Yet when she remembered the gentleness of his large hands, the way his voice softened when he forgot to be Duke, her treacherous cheeks warmed again, and anger followed on its heels. Roar or weep? She couldn't decide. He had a wife already. He wanted to set her beside the first as if a crest entitled him to a second life. No. She would not be a man's side-story to satisfy a fancy for a particular heir. And anyway—she pressed a palm to her flat belly—she was certain the child was a girl. Or perhaps she only wanted it so, to laugh in his stupidly handsome face when the time came.
She bit a strip of bacon with more fury than hunger, chased it with a swallow of milk, and then froze. From low in her middle a warmth rose—soft at first, then certain—spreading through ribs and throat and face, a steadying tide that made her set the cup down and breathe.
At the same time, Bruce felt it plainly—the light inside him. If he focused, it moved the way a muscle obeys a thought. He pushed a little warmth outward along the thin cord that tied him to his mother—nothing fancy, just a you've got this, Mom sort of hug sent by pulse.
His world stayed the same: water hush, slow sway, the thrum of two heartbeats—hers a steady drum, his a smaller echo nested inside it. Still, he could sense her mood shift: breath easing, pulse smoothing. Good. Encouraging worked.
Lili's tears ebbed; her mind cleared like a pond when wind dies. She wiped her cheeks, pressed a palm to her belly, and whispered, hopeful and baffled, "Baby—was that you? Are you comforting Mamma?"
Bruce sent another gentle glow. At that exact moment, a breeze nosed through the slightly open shutter and lifted Lili's hair.
"Oh," she breathed, eyes widening—as if the night itself had nodded. An idea struck with the click of a latch. "Right."
Wait, Bruce thought. Not a sign-sign. Just… morale!
She slid the tray aside and hurried to the great oak chest and hanging press. Inside: no silks, no foreign sheen—this was Albion. There were good wools and linens, fine by local measure, dyed in sober colors; a few simple pieces of jewelry—a bronze brooch chased with a lion's head, a string of blue glass beads, a narrow silver torque. To Lili they were small treasures; to put them on would be to say yes to the man who'd caged her.
Her hand hovered over the brooch, traitorously delighted at the thought of being beautiful. She snatched it back as if from a hot stove.
"No," she told the box. "Not tonight. Not for him."
(She's refusing jewelry? Bruce marveled, hearing only the tiny clink as a lid shut. Is that… good? Bad? He listened: her heart thudded quick with fear, then steadier with resolve. He guessed "good.")
She dressed for shadow, not ceremony: a plain dark wool gown; a deep hooded cloak that swallowed the moonlight; a white linen veil to hide the platinum blaze of her hair should the hood slip; fingerless mitts tucked into a hidden pocket; soft-soled slippers for silence. She thumbed a little soot from the hearth and streaked it at cheekbones and brows—war paint in a land that didn't know the word. A narrow leather belt drew tight around a slim waist, the line of it revealing the hourglass truth her loose garments often concealed.
(*Clothes? Rustle rustle. Belt tug… * He pictured armor buckles and nodded gravely, very much the tactical fetus.)
From the supper tray she took the small knife, looped it to the belt with a twist of linen, then hid it beneath the cloak. She left the jewelry—a victory that tasted like defeat and resolve at once.
No maids would come; she'd sent them away. At first light they'd fetch the tray. By then she meant to be a rumor on the road.
She dragged a stool to the narrow window. It was just high enough that, on tiptoes, her fingertips kissed the stone sill. She hooked them over, pulled, and eased the shutter wider. Moonlight washed her face; salt and cool slid in over her skin.
Outside, the world stacked itself in terraces of shadow and silver. Directly below: the inner courtyard, pooled dark between torch-islands; the gatehouse clamped shut but yawning toward dawn. Three wagons stood in a row—refuse and broken gear to trundle out at first light, the sort of cargo men hate re-stacking, which is why it rarely gets checked on the way out. On the walls, blue-tabarded figures made their rounds—lanterns bobbing, spears tick-ticking merlon by merlon. Beyond the castle: the town, roofs painted Lionheart blue, lanes chalk-pale under the moon. Farther still: the stone bridge, a gray stitch over black water to Albion's mainland, where the forest lay like a sleeping beast.
Also, a long way down.
Lili's stomach turned at the drop. Twenty-odd meters of stone, a courtyard, and a plan stitched mostly from nerve. Her breath hitched.
Sensing her falter, Bruce offered another warm push—the same simple encouragement as before.
The breeze nudged her cheek again.
"Right," she whispered, half-laughing at her own madness, half-praying. "Another sign."
(Not a sign! Bruce thought, scandalized. Coincidence. Motivational coincidence!)
But her heartbeat steadied. Her hands grew precise. And even if the gods had nothing to do with it, courage did.
She set her palm to her belly. "Okay, little one. You're right. Let's do this—for freedom."
Inside, Bruce glowed with pride. Inspiration: achieved. He had no idea what she was doing, exactly—he could guess wagons from the creak and the snort of sleepy draught-horses; he could feel watch-steps, catch snatches of the gate captain's mutter—but the map was fog and his mother's feelings were his only compass. Happy, determined, heart like a drum?
That sounded like victory.
(Probably not window-related, he reassured himself, and sent one last encouraging hum.)