Chapter 164

It happened on an ordinary morning, the kind that had begun to feel precious in its sameness.

The coilings had turned three months old that week. They were longer now, thicker, their emerald scales gleaming with health and my daughters, the blue seem to fuse to the color of their scale, bright against the green. They ate constantly, growing almost visibly day by day, and I had fallen into the routine of feeding them twice each morning, squeezing my milk into shallow bowls that they would coil around like living wreaths.

I was focused on the task, my mind wandering to the blankets I was stitching, the preparations we needed to make for the journey to the coast, the thousand small worries that came with managing such a large family. I didn’t notice her at first.

Elira.

My youngest. My smallest. The one who had always been slightly ahead of her siblings in mischief, slightly more daring, slightly more determined to cause chaos.

She slithered across the floor toward me, her movements careful and deliberate, and stopped at my knee. I felt the cool press of her body against my leg and looked down, expecting her to wait for her bowl like the others.

Instead, she lifted her head, her emerald eyes meeting mine, and spoke.

"Mama."

The word was clear. Distinct. Not a hiss, not a sound, but a word, formed with careful precision by a mouth not meant for human speech.

I froze.

The bowl in my hands tilted, milk spilling across the floor, but I didn’t notice. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I stared at my daughter, at her small face, her flickering tongue, her eyes that held mine with such intelligence, such love.

"Mama," Elira said again, as if confirming that I had heard, that I understood.

I screamed.

"Soryn!" The name tore from my throat, high and wild and desperate. "Soryn! Come here! Now! Please!"

I heard him coming, the sound of scales against stone rapid and urgent, and then he was in the doorway, having shifted to human form in his haste, his face pale with panic, his eyes scanning for danger.

"What? What’s wrong? Is someone hurt? Are the children—"

"She called me Mama!" I shrieked, pointing at Elira with a hand that shook. "She spoke! She called me Mama!"

Soryn’s face transformed, the panic melting into wonder, into joy so profound it seemed to illuminate him from within. He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside me, beside Elira, his hands reaching for her with trembling gentleness.

"Elira," he whispered, his voice thick. "My daughter. Can you... can you say Dada? Can you call me Dada?"

Elira tilted her head, considering him with the gravity of a thinker. She looked at him so adoringly, her emerald eyes soft with recognition and love, and for a moment I thought she wouldn’t, that it had been a fluke, a one-time miracle.

Then she spoke.

"Dada."

Soryn made a sound like something breaking inside his chest, a sob and a laugh mixed together. He gathered Elira into his arms, cradling her against his heart, his face buried in her scales, his shoulders shaking.

"Dada," she said again, her voice clearer now, more confident. "Dada. Dada."

The commotion had drawn the others. Aureon appeared first, his white hair disheveled, his eyes wide. Then Ravin, then Caelion, Leon, and Veylan, all of them crowding into the doorway, all of them asking questions at once.

"What’s happening?"

"Is someone hurt?"

"Why was she screaming?"

"Did someone speak?"

"They spoke!" Soryn managed, lifting his head, tears streaming down his face, his smile so wide it seemed to split his face. "Elira spoke! She said Mama! She said Dada!"

The silence that followed was absolute. Then chaos erupted.

"Me!" Ravin shouted, pushing forward. "I want her to say my name! Or... or whatever she calls me!"

"Me too!" Leon insisted.

"I was here first," Aureon protested.

"She should know all of us," Caelion said reasonably, though his eyes were bright with hope.

"Elira," I said gently, still stunned, still floating in a haze of joy. "Can you say their names? Can you call them?"

Elira looked at the crowd of men surrounding her, her head tilting back and forth, assessing. Then, as if understanding exactly what was happening, she slithered from Soryn’s arms and moved to Ravin, coiling around his ankle.

"Dada," she said clearly.

Ravin fell to his knees, his golden eyes swimming with tears. "Yes," he breathed. "Yes, little one. Dada."

She moved to Leon next, climbing his leg with determined grace. "Dada."

Leon scooped her up, laughing and crying at the same time, pressing kisses to her scales. "My girl. My smart, beautiful girl."

"Dada," she said to Caelion, who took her with reverent hands, his sea-glass eyes shimmering.

"Dada," to Veylan, who grunted something unintelligible, his face turning red, his eyes suspiciously wet.

"Dada," to Aureon last, who held her like she was made of glass and starlight, his white hair falling around them like a curtain.

And then, as if Elira had given permission, the others began to speak.

Syren went to Soryn, his voice softer, more hesitant. "Dada."

Vaelis chose Caelion, the Mer who understood water and scales. "Dada."

Rhyzar went to Ravin, the lion who roared loudest. "Dada."

Kaelor chose Leon, the gentlest of them all. "Dada."

Seraya went to Veylan, surprising everyone, her voice clear and strong. "Dada."

Nyssara chose Aureon, coiling around his wrist. "Dada."

One by one, they spoke, each finding their favorite father, their chosen protector, their Dada. And one by one, my mates melted, becoming puddles of love and pride and overwhelming emotion, gathering their children close, whispering promises and blessings and love.

I watched them, my heart so full it ached, tears streaming down my face, my hands pressed to my mouth to hold back the sobs of joy.

My babies were talking. They were speaking. They knew us. They loved us.

It was the most beautiful moment of my life.

---

Later, after the excitement had settled, after the children had been fed and fussed over and put down for naps, I went to visit Layla.

I found her in the market square, bargaining for vegetables with the fierce determination of a woman who would not be overcharged. Wren was with her, her own basket full of herbs and roots, and between them sat a cub so round and plump and perfect that I stopped in my tracks.

"Wren," I breathed, approaching slowly. "Is this...?"

"My daughter," Wren said, her face glowing with pride. "Eira. Two months old. Born of my bear mate, Bran."

Eira was adorable. There was no other word for it. She was round, her fur thick and brown and impossibly soft, her eyes dark and button-like, her small paws padded and perfect. She sat between the two women like a small, furry boulder, content and sleepy and utterly huggable.

I couldn’t help myself. I poked her.

She made a sound, a small huff of air, and rolled slightly, her round body wobbling before settling back into place.

"She’s perfect," I whispered. "I want to poke her again."

"Go ahead," Wren laughed. "She’s used to it. Everyone pokes her. She’s too cute not to."

I poked her again. She huffed again. I died a little inside from the cuteness.

"You know," Wren said, her voice casual but her eyes sharp with mischief, "bear cubs are the most adorable of all the shifter children. Plump and soft and endlessly huggable. Maybe your next mate should be a bear. Think of the cubs you could have."

I shut that down immediately. "I am very content with the six I have, thank you very much. I don’t need more mates. I don’t want more mates. My hands are full enough."

"Are they ever," Layla agreed, handing me a vegetable she had successfully bargained for. "Speaking of full hands, how are you feeling? The pregnancy?"

"Good," I said, my hand going automatically to my stomach. "Tired, but good. The Mer baby is active. Always moving, especially in water."

Layla’s smile faltered slightly, sadness creeping into her eyes. "You’ll be leaving soon. For the coast. To have the baby."

"Yes," I said softly. "When I’m closer to term."

"Like Rhonda," Layla said, her voice wistful. "She left too. Went to the sea. And I miss her every day."

"I know," I said, reaching for her hand. "I know you do. And I’m sorry. I hate leaving you. I hate that I keep leaving."

"But you always come back," Layla said, squeezing my fingers.

"I always come back," I promised. "This is temporary, Layla. The journey to the coast, the birth, I will be there for a year for this pregnancy at most. But the lion village... this is my real home. This is where I belong. Where we belong. We’ll return. We always do."

She nodded, blinking back tears, forcing a smile. "You’d better. I don’t have many friends, Krys. I can’t afford to lose you to the ocean."

"You won’t lose me," I promised. "Never."

She hugged me then, fierce and tight, and I held her back, feeling the warmth of her, the strength of her, the friendship that had sustained us both through so much.

Wren watched us, Eira snuffling in her basket, and she smiled. "Friendship," she observed, "is its own kind of love. Its own kind of family."

"Yes," I agreed, pulling back from Layla, wiping my eyes. "It is. And I’m grateful for every bit of it."

We spent the afternoon together, three women and a plump bear cub, talking and laughing and planning for a future that seemed bright and full of promise. And when I finally walked home, the sun setting behind me, my heart was light, my steps quick, eager to return to my mates, my children, my life.

I was home.

And soon, I would be leaving again. But I would return. I always do.