Page 24 of The First Child
“Partners.”
“In the Zephyrian sense. Individuals whose consciousness complement each other, whose empathic signatures create harmony rather than interference.”
I look from the glowing crystal to his face, noting the careful way he watches my reaction. “And that means?”
“It means the universe has been trying to tell you something for three years. You were just waiting for the right person to hear the message.”
The crystal’s resonance intensifies, filling our improvised living space with harmonics that make Aniska clap her hands in delight. Her empathic field sparkles with pure joy, as if she’swaited for this moment of recognition between the two people who love her most.
“Hang it on the tree,” Sylas says softly.
“Are you sure? If it means what you think it means…”
“Then it belongs exactly where it will remind us of what we’re building together.” His smile carries enough warmth to power the entire light display. “Our family. Our future. Our chance to give Aniska the magical Christmas she deserves.”
I hang the crystal near the top of the tree, where its glow can cascade through the other ornaments and blend with the twinkling lights. The effect is immediate and profound—our chaotic collection of decorations transforms into something that looks like it belongs together, like every piece was chosen specifically to create this moment of perfect harmony.
“Now it’s Christmas,” I breathe.
“Now it’s home,” he corrects, and when I turn to look at him, his expression holds everything I’ve been afraid to hope for.
This is what Margot wanted for her daughter. Not just safety or security or even love, but the kind of belonging that comes from being part of something bigger than yourself. A family that chooses each other every day, that creates magic out of ordinary moments and turns chaos into beauty through the simple act of caring.
Aniska reaches toward the glowing tree with both hands, her empathic projection painting the room with contentment so pure it brings tears to my eyes. She’s home. We’re all home.
And Christmas is still ten days away.
CHAPTER 8
SYLAS
The meditation chamberhas become my refuge from the chaos that now defines my existence, but tonight even its carefully calibrated harmonics cannot quiet the storm raging through my consciousness. I sit cross-legged on the polished stone floor, eyes closed, attempting the breathing exercises that have anchored my spiritual practice for over a century.
Instead of inner stillness, I find only awareness of her.
Hada moves through our shared living space three rooms away, and somehow I feel every step, every gesture, every shift in her emotional state. The empathic connection that formed between us during Aniska’s healing has grown stronger rather than fading, creating a constant low-level awareness that infiltrates every moment of supposed solitude.
She washes dishes in the kitchen—I sense her contentment mixed with the kind of domestic satisfaction she’d probably deny if confronted directly. The water runs hot against her hands, and through our bond, I feel the simple pleasure she takes in completing ordinary tasks that contribute to our household’s function.
Our household. As if we’re truly a family unit rather than two strangers thrown together by circumstance and forced to cooperate for a child’s wellbeing.
Except we’re not strangers anymore, are we? After two weeks of shared meals and collaborative decision-making and the hundred small intimacies that define cohabitation, I know things about Hada Blaxton that I doubt she’s shared with anyone else. The way she hums off-key when she thinks no one’s listening. Her habit of talking to Aniska in the gentle voice she reserves for moments when her military facade drops completely. The dreams that make her restless in the deep hours of night, echoes of combat trauma she refuses to discuss but cannot entirely suppress.
I know she takes her coffee with synthetic sweetener but no cream. That she double-checks the locks on every door before sleep. That she maintains weapons she’ll probably never need with the meticulous care of someone who survived because her equipment never failed when it mattered most.
I know the sound of her laughter and the way her eyes light up when Aniska reaches developmental milestones ahead of schedule. I know she still grieves her friend with an intensity that sometimes overwhelms our empathic connection, filling my consciousness with loss sharp enough to steal breath.
And I know that watching her care for our daughter with fierce protectiveness and surprising tenderness has awakened feelings I thought I’d successfully suppressed decades ago.
The desire hits me in waves—not just physical attraction, though that’s certainly present, but deeper longing for the kind of connection that exists between true partners. The recognitionthat Hada represents everything I’ve denied myself in service of spiritual discipline and community responsibility.
She’s strong where I am contemplative, practical where I tend toward theoretical, emotionally direct in ways that challenge my carefully maintained equilibrium. She approaches problems with the kind of straightforward determination that cuts through complexity like a blade through silk.
She’s also completely unconscious of her own appeal, which makes the attraction even more difficult to manage. When she emerges from sleep-cycles with mussed hair and yesterday’s clothes, when she curses at malfunctioning kitchen equipment with creative profanity, when she holds Aniska with the careful reverence of someone handling something precious beyond measure—in all these moments, she’s simply herself. Unguarded and authentic and utterly captivating.
The meditation session is clearly hopeless. I open my eyes to find the chamber’s focusing crystals pulsing with chaotic patterns that reflect my internal state rather than promoting the spiritual calm they’re designed to encourage. Even my environment responds to emotional turbulence I can’t seem to control.
“Sylas?”
