Page 10 of The First Child
The idea of sharing that kind of mental intimacy with Sylas should be terrifying. Instead, it feels oddly natural—like stepping into a role I was always meant to play.
“What do I need to do?”
“Place your hand over her heart. Focus on your breathing and your intention to comfort her. When you feel the connection form, don’t fight whatever emotions surface. Let them flow through you without resistance.”
I settle my hand gently on Aniska’s tiny chest, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat beneath my palm. Her skin is warm, softer than anything has a right to be, and I’m struck again by how impossibly small she is.
“Close your eyes,” Sylas instructs. “Focus on your breathing. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four.”
The rhythm comes naturally, a variation on the combat breathing techniques they taught us in basic training. But this feels different—deeper, more intentional. As if each breath opens pathways I didn’t know existed.
“Now think about Lieutenant Altell. Not her death, but her life. The moments when she was happiest, most at peace.”
Images flood my mind without conscious direction. Margot laughing at some ridiculous joke during a supply run. Margot singing off-key while cleaning her rifle. Margot showing me pictures of Aniska for the first time, her face glowing with pride and love.
The connection hits me like warm water closing over my head—sudden, encompassing, completely unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Suddenly, I’m not just feeling my own emotions, but Aniska’s as well. Her confusion, her fear, her desperate need for comfort and safety.
And underneath it all, like an echo in a vast chamber, I sense them. Margot and Krel’lun, their consciousness bleeding through whatever quantum connection binds empathic minds across impossible distances.
The transport shudders around them, systems failing in cascade failure that no amount of training can overcome. Margot’s hands fly over the emergency controls while Krel’lun tries to reach the backup communication array, but they both know it’s too late. The planet rushes up to meet them, gravity and physics and the cruel mathematics of terminal velocity.
“Aniska,” Margot whispers, and her love for her daughter blazes through the connection like a star going nova. “Tell her we love her. Tell her we’re sorry.”
Krel’lun’s hand finds hers as the transport begins to break apart. “She’ll be safe. Hada will keep her safe.”
And then?—
Pain explodes through my consciousness, but it’s not physical agony. It’s the complete severing of connection, the empathic equivalent of having a limb torn away. Aniska’s parents, ripped from existence in an instant, leaving only echoes and fragments and a baby who doesn’t understand why the voices in her mind have gone silent forever.
I drown in grief that isn’t entirely my own, choking on loss and abandonment and the terrible weight of being left behind. Aniska’s anguish mingles with my own until I can’t tell where her pain ends and mine begins.
But then—warmth. Steady, grounding presence that feels like being wrapped in sunlight. Sylas, his consciousness touching mine with careful precision, offering stability without trying to control or direct my experience.
You’re not alone,his voice whispers through the empathic connection.Neither of you is alone.
And suddenly I understand what Aniska needs. Not just comfort, but connection. Not just human warmth, but the assurance that even though her parents are gone, she isn’t abandoned. That there are people who will love her and protect her and never leave her to face the darkness alone.
I pour everything I have into that promise—every protective instinct, every fierce emotion Margot ever inspired in me, every determination to honor her trust. The love flows from me to Aniska like water finding its proper channel, carrying with it the certainty that she is wanted, valued, cherished beyond measure.
The traumatic memories don’t disappear—grief like that doesn’t just vanish—but they lose their sharp edge. Instead of reliving her parents’ final moments in an endless loop, Aniska experiences them as part of a larger story. A story that includes love and sacrifice and the promise that she will never be forgotten or abandoned.
Her breathing evens out, the restless movements fade, and her empathic field shifts from chaos to peaceful sleep. But the connection between us remains, warm and steady and somehow permanent. As if something fundamental has changed in the quantum structure of our consciousness.
I open my eyes to find Sylas watching me with an expression I can’t quite interpret. His markings pulse with soft gold light now instead of blue, and his silver eyes hold depths I didn’t notice before.
“Remarkable,” he says quietly.
“Is she okay?”
“More than okay. You’ve given her what no Zephyrian technique could provide—the direct emotional experience of being chosen and loved. She’ll still grieve her parents, but that grief will no longer define her.”
I look down at Aniska, who sleeps peacefully with one tiny hand curled around my finger. The empathic connection between us has settled into something that feels natural, permanent. Like a phone line that will never disconnect.
“I still feel her,” I admit. “Even with my eyes open, I know what she feels.”
“The bond you’ve formed is… unprecedented. Human empathic connections typically fade without sustained contact, but this feels different. Stronger.”
“Is that bad?”
