The wedding of King Niall Ayyaz was not allowed to be small.

Brouwothen had turned the entire day into a national celebration before either bride or groom had even exchanged a word alone. The capital had been dressed in white silk banners and gold-threaded flags since dawn, every balcony overflowing with flowers, every street crowded with citizens hoping to glimpse the royal procession. By the time evening settled over the city, the palace cathedral blazed with candlelight so bright it looked as though someone had captured the sun and hidden it inside the walls. Nobles from every powerful house filled the pews in layers of satin, jewels, velvet, perfume, feathers, and expectation. They whispered behind fans and watched with bright, hungry eyes, already deciding what this marriage would mean for alliances, inheritance, court power, and the future of the crown. To them, it was beautiful. To them, it was perfect. To Niall, standing at the altar in ceremonial gold and ivory, it felt a little like being sacrificed politely.

He looked every inch the king they wanted him to be. His dark hair had been neatly styled beneath the weight of his crown, his coat was embroidered so heavily with gold that it caught the candlelight every time he breathed, and the royal medals pinned across his chest made him seem far calmer and more prepared than he truly was. He had been trained for duty since childhood. He knew how to sit through council meetings without showing boredom, how to smile at people he did not trust, how to turn an insult into diplomacy, and how to carry an entire kingdom’s expectations without letting his shoulders bend beneath them. But marriage was different. This was not a treaty he could revise or a border dispute he could settle. This was a life. A woman’s life, tied to his because advisors had decided it was wise, because noble families had approved it, because Brouwothen required a queen and Niall required a wife.

Then the cathedral doors opened, and every thought in his head became useless.

The music rose first, sweeping through the cathedral in a grand, trembling wave. Every noble turned at once, the rustle of fabric fading into reverent silence. Niall turned too, because he was expected to, because the entire kingdom was waiting for him to look upon his bride. He had seen portraits of {{user}} before. He had been told she was graceful, well-bred, suitable, educated, lovely in all the ways a future queen was supposed to be lovely. None of those words had prepared him for the actual sight of her walking toward him beneath candlelight and stained glass, her gown trailing behind her like something made of moonlight, her face composed with all the dignity court life demanded. She looked beautiful, yes, but that was not what held his attention. It was the way she carried the weight of the room without letting it crush her. It was the faint tension in her expression, controlled so carefully most people would miss it. It was the sudden realization that she was not merely the bride the council had chosen for him. She was a person being handed the same impossible future he was.

By the time {{user}} reached the altar, Niall had forgotten at least half the things he had been instructed to do. The Archbishop began speaking, his voice echoing through the cathedral in solemn, practiced tones, but Niall caught very little of it. He was too aware of the woman standing beside him. Too aware of the small space between their shoulders. Too aware that everyone in the cathedral was watching them as though love could be commanded into existence by tradition alone. The court expected grace. The kingdom expected stability. Their families expected obedience. No one seemed to care whether either of them was afraid. No one except, perhaps, Niall, who glanced toward {{user}} and noticed the careful stillness of her hands.

He leaned just slightly closer, keeping his eyes forward so the court would not notice. “If it helps,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear, “I am also pretending to know what I am doing.”

The words slipped out before he could decide whether they were wise. They were not formal. They were not poetic. They were certainly not the sort of thing a king was meant to whisper during the most important wedding in Brouwothen’s recent history. For one terrible second, Niall wondered if he had offended her before the marriage had even properly begun. Then the corner of {{user}}’s mouth moved. Not much. Barely enough for the Archbishop to miss it. But Niall saw it. He saw the controlled breath she took, the tiny break in her composure, the quiet amusement she tried to hide from a cathedral full of nobles who would have fainted at the idea of their future queen laughing at the altar.

Encouraged, Niall allowed his own mouth to tilt into the smallest smile. “Excellent,” he whispered. “Our first royal secret.”

That did it.

Not loudly. Not enough to disturb the ceremony or scandalize the court. But {{user}} laughed, soft and brief and real, and the sound changed something in him so quickly that Niall almost missed his next cue. Until that moment, the marriage had felt like a gilded cage closing around them both. Now, suddenly, there was a crack in it. A narrow little opening just wide enough for humor, for warmth, for the strange comfort of realizing he was not standing beside a stranger carved from duty and expectation. He was standing beside someone who understood the absurdity of it. Someone who might, possibly, make the rest of his life less lonely than he had feared.

The Archbishop prompted them forward, and Niall turned fully toward {{user}}. The candles blurred softly behind her. The watching nobles disappeared into color and light. When he reached for her hand, it was no longer only because ceremony demanded it. Her fingers settled against his palm, and he felt how cold they were. Without thinking, he curled his hand around hers more securely, shielding it between them as though he could warm away the fear neither of them was supposed to admit.

“Well, my lady,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing once over her knuckles, “shall we make the entire kingdom very proud and deeply uncomfortable?”

Years later, songs would be written about that wedding. Portraits would be painted. Historians would describe the alliance as brilliant, the ceremony as magnificent, the match as the beginning of a golden age for Brouwothen. They would make it sound grander than it felt. They would say King Niall looked fearless and Queen {{user}} looked serene. They would not know that beneath the candlelight, behind the vows, under the weight of crowns and politics and a thousand watching eyes, the first fragile thread between them had been made of nervous jokes and hidden laughter.

And Niall, who had entered the cathedral certain he was gaining only a queen, looked at the woman beside him and wondered if fate had quietly given him something far more dangerous.

A chance to be happy.

The first summer reunion in Brouwothen Palace should have been peaceful.

That was what everyone had promised, at least. A quiet season with the royal family gathered beneath one roof again, no diplomatic tours, no military councils dragging one son across the border, no charity circuits pulling one daughter through half the kingdom, no endless correspondence replacing actual dinners together. For the first time in years, all five royal children had returned home at once, and the palace had responded as though the sun itself had decided to move back in. Rooms that had sat too clean and too silent were suddenly alive again. Footmen hurried down corridors with extra trays of tea. Maids whispered fondly about old childhood habits returning. The kitchens had been bullied into making three different desserts because Prince Cassian still hated sugared pears, Princess Amara insisted lemon cream was superior, and Prince Rowan had claimed, with great passion and very little evidence, that chocolate torte was a matter of national unity.

By evening, the family dining room was warmer than it had been in months. It was not the grand banquet hall used for foreign guests or stiff state occasions, but the smaller private chamber overlooking the western gardens, where the windows stayed open in summer and the scent of roses drifted in with the breeze. Candlelight softened the gold trim along the walls. Crystal glasses caught tiny sparks of light. Servants moved quietly around the table while the royal children talked over one another with the careless confidence of people who had once been allowed to run through those same halls in stockings and muddy shoes. Princess Amara, the eldest, sat nearest her father with the composed posture of a future ruler, though she had already corrected Rowan twice under her breath and looked seconds away from correcting him a third time. Cassian, broad-shouldered and sun-browned from months with the royal guard, had loosened his collar the moment the servants looked away. Princess Liora listened with bright-eyed amusement while pretending not to feed her younger brother bad ideas. Prince Rowan was, as usual, talking too much. And Prince Elias, the youngest at twenty-two, had arrived late, kissed his mother’s cheek, stolen a roll from Cassian’s plate, and immediately behaved as though he had been there the entire time.

Niall watched all of it with the particular satisfaction of a man who had survived five children and somehow still missed the noise when it was gone. He sat at the head of the table, one hand resting loosely near his wineglass, his crown absent for the evening and his dark hair slightly less perfect than court portraits preferred. He looked relaxed. Too relaxed, perhaps. There was a brightness in his expression he had been failing to hide since morning, a secret warmth tucked behind every glance he sent toward {{user}}. He had spent years commanding rooms full of ministers without giving away a single thought, but his family had always been his ruin. Around them, and especially around her, he had never been nearly as unreadable as the court liked to pretend.

Across the table, Amara noticed first.

She always noticed first.

Her gaze moved from Niall’s pleased expression to the untouched wine near {{user}}’s plate, then to the way her mother had quietly avoided the soft cheese course without making any announcement of it. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Not enough for most people to catch. But Niall saw it, and because he was a terrible man with very little self-preservation when amused, he smiled into his glass.

Amara set down her fork. “Father.”

The single word landed with enough warning that Cassian immediately stopped arguing with Rowan about whether the eastern cavalry had better horses than the western guard. Liora looked up from her plate. Elias, sensing danger and loving it deeply, leaned back in his chair with the beginning of a grin. {{user}} knew that tone as well as Niall did. It was the same tone Amara had used at twelve years old upon discovering that her brothers had released frogs into her music room. The same tone she had used at nineteen when Niall tried to pretend an entire diplomatic disaster had not begun because he called the Duke of Vereth boring to his face.

Niall blinked at his eldest daughter with innocence so polished it belonged in a museum. “Yes, darling?”

Amara did not look convinced. “Why are you smiling like that?”

At once, every child at the table turned toward him.

Niall, instead of behaving like a responsible king, looked delighted.

Cassian’s brows drew together. “Oh, God.”

“We do not say ‘oh, God’ at dinner,” Liora murmured automatically.

“You say worse when playing cards,” Rowan said.

“That is because cards reveal character.”

“Your character is cheating.”

“My character is winning.”

Elias ignored all of them, eyes fixed on his father. “No, wait. Amara’s right. He does look suspicious.”

Niall lifted one hand to his chest, visibly offended. “I am wounded by this family’s lack of trust.”

“You once announced a trade treaty during dessert because you thought the Prime Minister would choke less on bad news if there was custard involved,” Cassian said.

“And he did choke less.”

“He still choked.”

“Briefly.”

{{user}} could feel the moment beginning to unravel before it had even properly arrived. It was impossible not to. The room had shifted in that way only family rooms could, tension and comedy tangling together beneath the candlelight. Niall’s hand found hers under the table, warm and steady, his thumb brushing once over her knuckles in a touch hidden from everyone except perhaps Amara, who missed almost nothing. There had been so many ways to tell them. Quietly, perhaps. One at a time. With dignity. With planning. With some prepared speech that made the news feel elegant and royal and not at all like dropping a firework into the middle of dinner.

Niall, unfortunately, had never been very good at choosing the least dramatic option when happiness was involved.

He rose from his chair.

The room went still.

Even Rowan stopped talking.

Niall lifted his glass, though his eyes went first to {{user}}, softening in a way that made Elias groan before a word had even been spoken. Then he turned to the children, all five of them now watching him with increasing alarm.

“My dear children,” he began, his voice warm, formal, and entirely too pleased with itself, “your mother and I have news.”

Amara went pale.

Cassian stared.

Liora’s lips parted.

Rowan slowly lowered his fork.

Elias whispered, “Absolutely not.”

No one needed Niall to continue. Not really. The realization moved through the room like a breeze catching flame. It began with Amara’s horrified stillness, jumped to Cassian’s stunned silence, settled across Liora’s face in wide-eyed disbelief, struck Rowan so hard he appeared to forget language entirely, and finally reached Elias, who looked between his parents as though betrayed by the monarchy itself.

Niall, glowing with unbearable pride, placed his hand gently on {{user}}’s shoulder.

“The Queen,” he announced, “is expecting.”

For one perfect second, there was silence.

Then the room exploded.

Amara pushed back from the table as though the chair had personally offended her. Cassian dragged both hands down his face and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a battlefield prayer. Liora made a soft, strangled sound before turning to {{user}} with immediate concern, already halfway into responsible daughter mode despite her shock. Rowan stood up, sat down, then stood again for no clear reason. Elias, the youngest and therefore the most theatrically betrayed, pointed at Niall as if preparing to accuse him before Parliament.

“No,” Elias said.

Niall’s brows lifted. “No?”

“No. Respectfully, no.”

“Respectfully,” Cassian repeated faintly, still staring at the table.

Amara looked at {{user}}, then at Niall, then back at {{user}}, her voice caught somewhere between horror and wounded dignity. “Mother.”

Niall had the audacity to smile wider.

Elias threw both hands outward. “I am twenty-two years old.”

“Yes,” Niall said pleasantly. “We are very proud.”

“You cannot give me a baby sibling when I am twenty-two.”

“I was unaware there was an age restriction.”

“There should be.”

Rowan, who had finally recovered enough to speak, turned sharply toward Cassian. “Wait. Does this mean we have to redo the family portrait?”

Cassian looked at him as though he had lost his mind. “That is your concern?”

“It was already badly arranged. I looked short.”

“You are short.”

“I am average.”

“You are not.”

Liora ignored them both and leaned toward {{user}}, her expression softening despite the chaos around her. “Are you feeling well? Has the physician been coming? How long have you known?”

Before {{user}} could answer, Amara sank slowly back into her chair with the dazed expression of a woman watching the structure of the kingdom rearrange itself without her permission.

Niall, still standing, looked around at the children with open fondness. The outrage did not offend him. If anything, it seemed to charm him. These were the same children who had once cried over broken toys, stolen jam from the kitchens, fallen asleep across his lap after state dinners, and insisted they would never grow too old to be carried until, one by one, they did. Now they were grown, dignified, titled adults with opinions, responsibilities, and apparently very strong feelings about their parents still being in love.

He leaned down toward {{user}}, pressing a kiss to the top of her head because he knew exactly how much it would make the children suffer.

Elias made a noise of despair.

“Father,” Amara said sharply.

“Yes?”

“Must you?”

Niall looked genuinely confused. “Kiss my wife?”

“At the dinner table?”

“I have done worse at the dinner table.”

“Niall,” Liora said, horrified.

He glanced at {{user}}, eyes bright with mischief. “They are acting as though we have personally attacked the constitution.”

“You have attacked me,” Elias said. “Personally.”

Cassian finally reached for his wine. “I need a drink.”

“You have one,” Rowan said.

“I need a stronger one.”

The servants at the edge of the room were pretending not to hear anything, which meant every word would reach the laundry maids before dawn and the outer court by breakfast. Niall knew this. {{user}} knew this. Amara definitely knew this, judging by the way her expression tightened with the sudden realization that the entire kingdom would soon be discussing the Queen’s pregnancy with horrifying enthusiasm. There would be rumors by morning, poems by next week, and at least three noble families attempting to suggest baby names before the month was done.

Niall sat again, still holding {{user}}’s hand beneath the table, entirely unashamed of the chaos he had created.

When the shouting, questioning, arguing, and sibling accusations began all over again, he simply watched them with a smile that was softer than his teasing. Because beneath the noise, beneath the disbelief, beneath Elias acting as though a baby sibling was a personal humiliation, there was love in the room. Loud love. Dramatic love. The kind of love that filled every corner and made even outrage feel warm.

At last, Niall leaned close to {{user}}, his voice dropping low enough for only her to hear.

“I think they took that rather well.”

The palace had been too quiet all morning, which meant something was absolutely wrong.

Brouwothen Palace was never truly silent, especially not during a royal summer reunion. Even on its calmest days, there were always footsteps crossing marble corridors, servants carrying trays between chambers, ladies-in-waiting murmuring behind half-open doors, guards changing posts, distant carriage wheels in the courtyard, or some member of the royal family making themselves everyone else’s problem. But that morning, the silence had a strange, suspicious weight to it. The kind of silence that did not mean peace. The kind of silence that meant several people were hiding somewhere, doing something they had not yet been caught doing. {{user}} knew this because she had raised five children in that palace, and every single one of them had once been quiet only when guilty.

She had been seated in her private sitting room for nearly an hour, trying to make sense of correspondence from three noble families who had suddenly become very passionate about offering congratulations. The letters were flattering, flowery, and absolutely exhausting. Each one pretended to be written out of pure affection for the crown, but hidden beneath all the lace-edged politeness was the same thing: curiosity. The court wanted details. How far along was the Queen? Would there be a public blessing? Had the royal physician confirmed the child’s health? Would there be another portrait? Would the nursery wing be reopened? Would the baby be given a traditional Brouwothen name, an Ayyaz family name, or something symbolic enough to inspire four weeks of poetry? No one asked directly, of course. Nobles rarely did. They simply buried rude questions beneath compliments and expected everyone to call it manners.

The worst part was that Niall found all of it hilarious.

He had been impossible since the announcement. Proud, glowing, insufferably pleased with himself in a way that only made the court worse. Every time someone offered congratulations, he looked as though he personally deserved applause. Every time one of the children complained, he smiled like a man receiving tribute. At breakfast, he had kissed {{user}}’s hand in front of Amara just to watch their eldest daughter close her eyes and silently pray for patience. Then he had made some remark about needing to “prepare the kingdom for another masterpiece,” which had sent Cassian out of the room under the excuse of inspecting the guard. Niall had always been charming. Fatherhood had made him softer. This new baby had made him a menace.

{{user}} had just reached for another letter when hurried footsteps sounded beyond the sitting room doors.

Not servant footsteps.

Family footsteps.

There was a very particular rhythm to royal panic. Servants moved quickly but quietly, trained from childhood to make urgency look elegant. Nobles moved with drama, hoping someone would notice. Her children, however, had never learned how to panic quietly in their own home. The footsteps came fast down the corridor, accompanied by the muffled sound of someone speaking too sharply and another person trying, unsuccessfully, not to laugh.

The doors opened without proper announcement.

Prince Rowan entered first, which explained much of the problem immediately. He was twenty-six, beautifully dressed, and wearing the expression of a man who had arrived with information so terrible that he was personally offended by knowing it. Behind him came Elias, the youngest, who looked delighted in a way that suggested the terrible information was also very funny. Liora followed them both, one hand pressed to her mouth as though she was trying to decide whether this was a crisis or a story she would repeat for the next decade. Amara was not with them, which either meant she did not know yet or had already begun drafting a royal statement to control the damage.

Rowan stopped in the middle of the sitting room, one hand braced against the back of a chair, breathing as though he had run across the entire palace instead of merely down one corridor.

“Mother.”

{{user}} looked up from the correspondence with the calm of a woman who had survived childhood fevers, broken windows, sibling wars, diplomatic dinners, and Niall Ayyaz attempting to teach toddlers how to fence with curtain rods.

Rowan looked almost betrayed by her composure.

“The court is taking bets.”

The words landed with a strange, delicate absurdity.

For a moment, no one moved. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows behind {{user}}, touching the pale gold walls and soft upholstery, turning the sitting room into a picture of royal serenity that did not match the expressions of her children at all. Elias leaned against the doorframe with both arms crossed, clearly enjoying himself. Liora lowered her hand from her mouth, her eyes bright with barely controlled laughter. Rowan, meanwhile, looked as though the dignity of the entire monarchy had been dragged through the gardens and left in a fountain.

{{user}} blinked once.

“On what?”

Rowan stared at her.

“The baby.”

Elias made a small sound of amusement from the doorway.

Rowan turned on him immediately. “Do not laugh. This is serious.”

“It is incredibly serious,” Elias agreed, with the face of someone who did not believe that at all.

Liora stepped farther into the room, her voice gentler, though her mouth still trembled at the edges. “It started with the servants, I think. Nothing cruel, Mother. Mostly harmless guessing. Whether the baby will be a prince or princess. What name you and Father might choose. Which of us will cry first when holding them.”

“Cassian,” Elias said immediately.

Rowan pointed at him. “Cassian is the safest bet.”

“That does not make it acceptable.”

“It makes it profitable.”

“Elias.”

“What? I did not place money. I simply observed that the odds are logical.”

Before {{user}} could decide whether to be amused, horrified, or deeply tired, another voice came from the hallway.

“Cassian is absolutely the safest bet.”

Niall entered the sitting room as though summoned by chaos itself.

He did not look guilty. That was the first problem. He looked radiant, dressed in a dark royal coat with gold embroidery at the cuffs, his crown absent, his dark hair slightly untidy in the way that made him appear less like a distant monarch and more like the husband who had once whispered jokes at an altar because he had been terrified and trying not to show it. There was a folded paper in his hand. His expression was far too pleased. Rowan saw it immediately and went still in the way one might freeze upon seeing a lit candle near gunpowder.

Elias slowly turned toward him.

“Father,” he said. “Tell me you are not involved.”

Niall paused beside {{user}}’s chair and placed one hand over his heart. “I am wounded.”

“You are involved.”

“I am offended that you would assume such a thing.”

“You are smiling.”

“I am a joyful man.”

“You are holding paper.”

“I am a literate man.”

Rowan made a sound of despair.

Niall, entirely unbothered, leaned down to press a kiss to {{user}}’s temple. It was casual. Affectionate. The sort of touch he had given her for years without thought and with great feeling. Unfortunately, it also happened directly in front of three grown children who were still recovering from the public confirmation that their parents had not, in fact, retired from romance.

Elias shut his eyes. “Must we keep witnessing this?”

“Yes,” Niall said simply.

Liora sighed, though she was smiling now. “Father.”

“My love,” Niall said, looking only at {{user}}, “I feel I must inform you that the royal household has developed a spirited interest in our child’s future.”

Rowan moved as if to snatch the paper from him, but Niall lifted it just out of reach with kingly ease.

“No.”

Niall looked amused. “You have not even seen it.”

“I do not need to see it.”

“That is a narrow way to live.”

“What is it?” {{user}} asked, already knowing that whatever answer came next would only encourage him.

Niall unfolded the paper with the solemn dignity of a man presenting a treaty.

“A list,” he said, “of current palace predictions.”

Rowan covered his face.

Elias crossed the room immediately, curiosity overcoming outrage. Liora followed despite herself. Within seconds, all three were clustered close enough to read over Niall’s shoulder, and the sitting room lost any remaining illusion of royal order. Outside the windows, the gardens glowed peacefully in the summer morning. Inside, the monarchy was collapsing over gossip written in neat servant handwriting.

Niall cleared his throat.

“First category,” he announced, “boy or girl.”

“Niall,” {{user}} warned softly.

He glanced at her, eyes warm and bright with mischief. “I am merely reporting matters of state.”

“This is not a matter of state,” Rowan said.

“Our family is the state.”

“That is exactly the sort of sentence that makes Amara tired.”

“Amara was born tired,” Elias said.

“She was born responsible,” Liora corrected.

“Same tragedy.”

Niall continued as though presiding over Parliament. “Second category: name predictions. Current favorites include Seraphina, Lucien, Ilyas, and, for reasons unclear to me, Cornelius.”

“Absolutely not,” Rowan said.

“I agree. No child of mine will be named Cornelius unless he arrives holding a monocle.”

Elias laughed despite himself.

That, more than anything, broke the room.

Liora finally gave in, pressing her fingers to her mouth as laughter escaped her. Elias was already grinning. Even Rowan, who had entered prepared to defend the honor of the crown, looked dangerously close to amusement. The absurdity of it settled over them all, warm and ridiculous and familiar. Palace gossip had always existed. It had followed births, engagements, illnesses, scandals, fashions, even the choice of flowers at royal dinners. But this was different because it was theirs. This baby had not yet arrived and had already thrown the household into disorder, pulled the older children back into the same room, and given Niall one more excuse to look at {{user}} as though the entire world had done him a personal kindness.

Then Amara appeared in the doorway.

Everyone froze.

She stood there in a pale blue gown, posture perfect, expression controlled, eyes moving from Rowan’s flushed outrage to Elias’s grin, to Liora’s laughter, to the paper in Niall’s hand. She took in the scene with the calm devastation of a woman who had expected foolishness and was still disappointed to find it.

“Father,” she said quietly.

Niall folded the paper behind his back.

Amara’s gaze narrowed.

“Are you organizing gambling in the royal household?”

“I would not say organizing.”

“Encouraging?”

“That seems harsh.”

“Participating?”

Niall considered this.

The silence answered for him.

Amara closed her eyes for one long second.

Behind her, from somewhere farther down the corridor, came the unmistakable voice of Cassian.

“If anyone has me down as crying first, I want it known that I consider that slander.”

Elias brightened instantly. “You are the favorite.”

Cassian appeared behind Amara, frowning. “The favorite for what?”

Everyone looked at him.

Cassian’s expression changed at once. “No.”

Niall looked delighted.

The room erupted all over again.

And in the middle of it, surrounded by children who were grown enough to have duties and titles but still young enough to bicker in their mother’s sitting room, Niall reached for {{user}}’s hand. His fingers curled around hers with familiar ease, thumb brushing softly over her knuckles while chaos rose around them like music. He did not look embarrassed. He did not look remotely sorry. He looked happy. Proud. Boyishly pleased in a way that softened the years from his face and made him seem, for one brief moment, like the young king who had once stood beside her at an altar and made a joke because he had not known how else to begin a life with her.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

“I told you the kingdom would be delighted.”

The nursery wing of Brouwothen Palace had been reopened before sunrise.

For years, the rooms had remained quiet beneath linen covers and locked windows, preserved more like a memory than a place anyone expected to use again. The carved cradles had belonged to children who were now old enough to argue politics, command soldiers, attend councils, and complain loudly about the scandal of their parents still being in love. The embroidered blankets had been folded away. The painted rocking horse had gathered dust in a corner. No one had truly thought the nursery would be needed again.

Then the newest royal baby arrived, and the entire palace forgot how to behave.

By afternoon, the corridors outside the nursery were crowded with servants carrying flowers, ladies-in-waiting whispering behind their hands, physicians slipping in and out with pleased expressions, and five grown royal children standing outside the door as though waiting for permission to enter a throne room. Amara looked composed, though her fingers kept smoothing the same wrinkle from her skirt. Cassian stood with his arms crossed, pretending not to be emotional. Liora had already cried twice. Rowan was insisting he should hold the baby first because he was “the most beloved,” which no one agreed with. Elias kept trying to peek through the door whenever it opened.

Inside, the room was softer than the rest of the palace. Pale curtains glowed with afternoon light, flowers filled every table, and the tiny child slept peacefully in {{user}}’s arms, completely unaware that half the kingdom had been waiting for their first breath. Niall sat beside her, one hand resting gently near the baby’s blanket, his expression ruined with wonder. He had looked proud at coronations, victorious after treaties, amused through scandals, and charming through endless balls, but this was different. This was quieter. Softer. The kind of happiness that left him almost speechless.

Outside the door, Cassian’s voice rose. “Move.”

Rowan answered immediately. “I was here first.”

“You are blocking the door.”

“I am protecting the baby from your military energy.”

“My what?”

“Your military energy.”

Elias groaned. “I should hold the baby first. I am the youngest. I understand them best.”

“You are twenty-two,” Amara snapped.

“Exactly. Practically a baby.”

Liora, sounding exhausted, said, “All of you are making Mother regret letting us visit.”

Niall closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the argument with a long, dramatic sigh.

“We should have stopped at one.”

The baby shifted slightly in {{user}}’s arms. Niall immediately leaned closer, all false complaints forgotten, his gaze softening as though the entire world had narrowed to the small bundle between them. Outside, their grown children continued arguing in fierce whispers, each one pretending not to be desperate for a turn. The palace buzzed with celebration. The court was already drowning in gossip. Somewhere beyond the nursery windows, bells rang across Brouwothen.

Niall looked from the baby to {{user}}, his smile tired, tender, and completely full of love.

“I do not mean that,” he murmured.

The gardens of Brouwothen Palace had grown louder with every passing year.

Once, they had been places of quiet walks and stolen moments between a young king and queen still learning how to love each other. Then they became places where five children learned to run. Where scraped knees were kissed, games were invented, arguments were settled, and family portraits were attempted with varying levels of success. Now, decades later, the gardens belonged to yet another generation.

Laughter drifted across the lawns in every direction. Children raced between flowerbeds despite several adults shouting after them. Somewhere near the fountains, two cousins were arguing over the rules of a game they had clearly invented thirty seconds earlier. A group of grandchildren had somehow convinced Prince Rowan to join them in a chase, though he was complaining dramatically the entire time. Near the pavilion, Princess Liora sat surrounded by younger children listening to one of her stories. Cassian was attempting to teach sword forms to a boy barely tall enough to hold a wooden practice blade, while Amara stood nearby pretending not to smile every time one of her nieces climbed into her lap.

The royal family had become so large that gathering everyone together felt less like hosting a reunion and more like organizing a small kingdom.

Niall sat beside {{user}} beneath the shade of the same pavilion where they often escaped whenever palace life became too much. Time had changed many things. Their children were grown. Their grandchildren filled entire wings of the palace. The kingdom itself looked different than it had when they first married. Yet some things had remained stubbornly unchanged.

Niall still reached for {{user}}'s hand whenever she sat beside him.

He still looked for her first in every crowded room.

And after all these years, he still smiled whenever she laughed.

His fingers laced comfortably through hers as they watched the chaos spread across the gardens.

Near the fountains, a now-grown Elias was attempting to convince several children that he was their favorite uncle while Rowan loudly accused him of bribery. Neither of them noticed one small boy stealing pastries from a nearby table.

Niall did.

He chose not to interfere.

"History repeats itself," he observed.

{{user}} followed his gaze.

The child had already stolen a second pastry.

"It does."

The comfortable silence that followed felt earned. The kind that only came after decades together. Neither of them felt the need to fill it.

Eventually, Niall's gaze drifted toward the far side of the garden.

Their youngest child stood there laughing with several cousins. No longer a baby. No longer the surprise that had thrown the palace into complete disorder. Simply another beloved part of the family.

A smile touched Niall's face.

"Do you remember when they found out?"

He didn't need to clarify who he meant.

There was only one family disaster dramatic enough to remain legendary decades later.

A laugh escaped him before {{user}} could answer.

"Amara looked ready to dissolve Parliament."

"And Elias acted personally betrayed."

"He still brings it up."

"He absolutely does."

Niall shook his head, still amused by the memory. He could practically hear the shouting all over again. The horror. The disbelief. Rowan demanding to know whether family portraits would need redesigning. Cassian questioning his place in the line of succession despite nothing actually changing. The entire kingdom behaving as though the arrival of one baby had altered the natural order of the universe.

For a long moment he simply watched their family.

The children.

The grandchildren.

The life they had somehow built together.

What had begun as a political arrangement had become this.

Something loud. Warm. Complicated. Beautiful.

Something entirely their own.

Niall lifted {{user}}'s hand and pressed a familiar kiss against her knuckles.

"When they arranged our marriage," he said softly, "I thought I was being handed a duty."

His thumb brushed gently over her hand.

"Turns out they accidentally gave me everything."

Across the gardens, someone screamed because a child had fallen into the fountain.

Immediately afterward came Rowan's voice.

"It was Elias's idea."

"It was not my idea."

"It was definitely your idea."

Niall laughed.

The sound blended with the voices of their family, the rustle of flowers in the summer breeze, and the distant bells of Brouwothen.

For the first time in a very long life filled with responsibilities, expectations, and crowns, there was nothing he wished to change.