Page 11 of The First Child
“I don’t know.” He reaches out as if to touch my hand, then stops himself. “How do you feel?”
It’s a fair question. I should feel drained, overwhelmed, maybe even traumatized by experiencing Margot’s death so directly. Instead, I feel oddly peaceful. Complete in a way I’ve never experienced before.
“Different,” I tell him honestly. “But not a bad different. Like I’ve been missing a sense I didn’t know I had, and I suddenly perceive things that were always there.”
“That’s…” He trails off, shaking his head slightly. “Everything I know about human empathic development suggests that level of integration should take months or years of training.”
“Maybe everything you know is wrong.”
The comment earns me what might be the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you’re more remarkable than either of us realized.”
The warmth in his voice makes something flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with empathic connection and everything to do with the way he looks at me. Like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve, or a discovery that changes everything he thought he understood about the universe.
“We should let her sleep,” I say, though I’m reluctant to break the peaceful moment.
“Yes.” But he doesn’t move, and neither do I. We stand on opposite sides of Aniska’s crib, connected by shared responsibility and something else I’m not ready to name.
“Sylas?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For trusting me with this. For helping me help her.”
His markings shift to warm amber, a color I haven’t seen before. “Thank you for showing me that Zephyrian techniques aren’t the only path to empathic healing. Your approach was… elegant in its simplicity.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. My people tend to overcomplicate things that humans approach with remarkable directness.” He pauses, studying my face in the soft light. “It’s one of the things Lieutenant Altell mentioned about you. Your ability to cut through complexity and focus on what truly matters.”
“She talked about me that much?”
“More than you might think. She was… proud of you. Proud of the soldier you’d become, the friend you were to her.” His voice grows quiet. “She said you were the strongest person she knew, but that you’d never believe it if someone told you directly.”
The words hit harder than I expect, partly because they sound exactly like something Margot would say. She always saw qualities in people that they couldn’t see in themselves, always believed we were capable of more than we thought possible.
“She was wrong about the strong part,” I say.
“Was she? You just formed an empathic bond with a traumatized child and pulled her out of a psychological spiral that could have damaged her permanently. You did it knowing the risks, accepting pain that wasn’t yours to bear, because she needed you.” His eyes meet mine across the crib. “If that’s not strength, what is?”
I don’t have an answer for that. Strength, to me, has always been about endurance—surviving whatever the universe throws at you and keeping moving forward. This feels different. More like… love, maybe. The kind of fierce protectiveness that makes you willing to do anything for someone who can’t protect themselves.
“I should probably try to get some sleep,” I say finally. “Tomorrow’s going to be complicated enough without being exhausted.”
“Yes. The council session begins at 0900 local time. I’ll arrange for Aniska to remain here with trusted caregivers during the proceedings.”
“You trust me to speak for her interests?”
“I trust us to speak for her interests. Together.” He straightens, and suddenly he’s the commanding officer again instead of the man who just guided me through my first empathic healing session. “Rest well, Hada. Tomorrow, we change the future of human-Zephyrian relations.”
“No pressure or anything.”
“None at all.”
But he smiles as he says it, and something about that smile makes me think maybe—just maybe—we might actually pull this off.
I give Aniska’s hand one last gentle squeeze before heading back to my room. The empathic connection between us settles into a quiet background presence, like a radio turned down low but never quite off. Even with three rooms between us, I know she’s sleeping peacefully.
It should be strange, carrying another person’s emotions alongside my own. Instead, it feels like coming home to a place I never knew existed.
