Page 31 of Crown of Storm and Silence
Another kick, and this time I feel it—a golden thread of connection, fragile as spun glass but real. My child recognizes me. Knows me. The bond I thought was lost forever pulses weakly through this tiny life we created together.
"Don't move," I breathe, pressing my other hand to her belly as she gasps above me. "Please,hatun. I can feel—I can feel it."
She's trembling, her hands hovering over mine, torn between pulling away and pressing closer. "Kaan, what's happening? I can feel something—like lightning under my skin?—"
"The bond," I whisper, and then it hits me—really hits me—what this means. Decades since I last felt anything close to this, decades since Isil drew her final breath in my arms. Something wet tracks down my face, and I realize with shock that my eyes have betrayed me. "Through the baby. It's bridging us."
My hands tremble against her belly as I fight to hold onto this impossible connection. Words spill from me unbidden in Gümüsce—half-remembered prayers, desperate promises, fragments of devotion I thought had died with my capacity for hope. My voice fractures on each syllable, the Shadow Lord reduced to a man begging the universe for mercy he doesn't deserve.
Above me, Nesilhan is crying, tears streaming down her face as she feels what I feel—that golden thread pulling us together through our impossible child. Her hands finally settle over mine, not pushing me away but holding me there.
"I don't understand," she gasps between tears.
"Neither do I," I admit, looking up at her with my heart completely shattered and rebuilt. "But I can feel you again. Through it. Through this miracle we made."
The connection pulses stronger, and for one impossible moment, I feel what she feels—confusion, fear, but underneath it all, a recognition so profound it steals my breath. She knows me. Her soul knows mine, even if her mind has forgotten.
"Sana çok muhabbet ederim," I whisper against her belly, my voice breaking on every syllable."Hem seni hem valideni"
Above me, Nesilhan's breath hitches, and somehow, impossibly, she understands. Through the bond that runsdeeper than memory, she knows I just told our child in Gümüsce I love them both.
She slides down the stone wall until she's kneeling with me, her forehead pressed against mine, both of us crying as our impossible child moves between us—the bridge that brought us back together.
"Tomorrow," I finally manage, my voice wrecked. "I'll be here tomorrow."
She nods, her tears still falling. "Tomorrow."
When she finally pulls away and walks back to the village, I remain on my knees by the river, utterly destroyed.
For now, for this moment, I know what it feels like to touch my child's soul and find love staring back at me.
It might be enough to keep the monster at bay for one more day.
11
The Dream That Wasn't
Nesilhan
I can't stop shaking.
My hands tremble as I light the lamp beside my bed, the small flame casts dancing shadows across the cottage walls. Every shadow makes me think of him—of Kaan kneeling before me by the river, his face wet with tears as he pressed his palms against my belly and spoke to our child in a language that somehow made perfect sense even though I don't remember learning it.
Yavrum. Benim küçük mucizem.
The words echo in my mind, and I know—somehow I know—they mean "my little one, my little miracle." But knowing that terrifies me almost as much as the golden thread of connection that blazed to life between us when he touched me.
The baby hasn't stopped moving since we returned to the cottage. Restless kicks and flutters that feel different now, purposeful in a way that makes my breath catch. As if my child is searching for something—or someone—that's no longer there.
I press both hands to my belly, and the movement settles slightly. But it's not the same. Whatever that connection was, whatever I felt flowing between Kaan and the life inside me, it was real. Undeniable. And it changes everything I thought I knew about my situation.
"Shh, little one," I whisper, rubbing gentle circles over my belly. "I know you're confused. I am too."
The baby continues to flutter restlessly, and without thinking, I find myself humming—a soft, lilting melody that rises from somewhere deep in my memory. The tune feels familiar on my lips, comforting in a way that makes my chest ache with longing.
Words follow the melody, spilling from my mouth as naturally as breathing, though I have no memory of learning them:
Sleep now, my starlight, my precious one
