Chapter 212

Nine months.

The Pearlings had started to master their shifts.

Not fully, not yet, but well enough that they could spend hours on land now, wobbling around the yard on their unsteady legs, their little feet slapping against the grass, their laughter ringing out like bells. They practiced near the lagoon, close to the water, close to safety, so that if their strength failed or their form faltered, they could crawl back into the sea before anything went wrong. And each day, they lasted a little longer. Each day, they grew a little stronger.

Krys was happy. Caelion was happy. And the girls, my mermaid daughters, were thriving.

Caelion had spent months underwater with them, sacrificing the sun and the sky and the company of the rest of the family to be with his daughters, to teach them, to hold them through the long nights in the depths. He had surfaced only in brief snatches, only when I took over, only when the Pearlings were safe in my care. It had cost him. It had cost all of us. But it was working. It was finally working.

The pups, meanwhile, were nearly four months old, and they had started talking.

Gods help us all.

The girls, Vaeshira and Nyselle, were chatterboxes, their little mouths running from the moment they woke until the moment they slept, endless streams of questions and observations and nonsense that filled the house with noise. The boys, Zhaevren, Kyrveth, and Orsael, were the opposite. Stoic and silent, like their father, looking at the world with expressions of profound suspicion, as though everything and everyone in it was a mild annoyance.

Just like Veylan.

And Veylan, my gentle, patient Veylan, was not soft on them.

Feeding time had become a battle. The pups had developed a habit of biting, of clamping down on my nipple with their sharp little teeth, of refusing to let go even when I yelped. They did not listen. They did not learn. And so Veylan had made a decision.

"No more nipples," he announced one morning, his voice firm. "They eat from bowls now. They must learn."

The cries of indignation that followed were enormous. Five little voices raised in outrage, five little faces twisted with betrayal, five little bodies throwing themselves on the floor in protest. But Veylan did not bend. He loved his pups, adored them, worshiped them, but he was not going to let them be spoiled.

"They must learn," he repeated, watching them scream. "If they cry and we come running, they will think crying gets them what they want. They must learn patience. They must learn that the world does not bend to their whims."

It was, I had to admit, exactly what I had taught him. Exactly what I had done with Nyselle when she was born. And so I let him hold the line, even as my heart ached at their little cries, even as my arms itched to scoop them up.

They learned. Slowly, painfully, they learned. And within a week, they were drinking from bowls, their biting days behind them, their independence growing by the day.

The children were growing so fast.

Too fast.

Soon, my oldest four would hit their third year. Their adulthood. They would become full grown, fully formed, ready to take their place in the world. And with adulthood would come mating. Partners. Families of their own.

The thought did not sit well with me.

What if they found a mate and had to live with their mate? What if their mate came from a distant tribe, a far island, a place where my sons would have to go, to live, to build their lives away from me? What if they left? What if they moved away, and I only saw them once a year, or once a season, or never?

I did not want that. I did not want any of that. I wanted my children close, all of them, always, mate or no mate, adult or child. I wanted to be near them, to watch them grow, to hold their children in my arms, to be part of their lives forever.

Was that so much to ask?

Just to be close to my children. Just to have them near. Just to be part of their world, no matter how big their world became.

That was all. That was everything.

And as I watched my sons train in the yard, my daughters dance in the sand, my babies play in the grass, I made a silent vow.

I would keep them close. Whatever it took. Wherever we went. We would stay together, all of us, one enormous, impossible, beautiful family.

Because I had built this. I had fought for this. And I was not going to lose it to distance, to time, to the cruel, relentless pull of growing up.

Not without a fight.

Not without a fight at all.

---

I was sitting on my bench outside the house, a pile of soft pelts in my lap and a bone needle in my hand, working on a fur coat for the family. Winter was arriving soon, the air already carrying its first bite, the nights growing long and cold, and there was no end to the clothing we needed. Seven mates, twenty five children, and every one of them needing warmth against the coming frost. My fingers were sore, my back ached, and the pile of unfinished garments beside me seemed to grow instead of shrink. But I did not mind. There was something soothing about it, the steady rhythm of the needle, the smell of the cured leather, the knowledge that every stitch would keep someone I loved warm.

And as I worked, my gaze drifted across the yard, and I noticed my cheetah cubs.

The cheetah cubs had become shadows of their older brothers.

At one year old, they were everywhere, trailing after Atlas and Chase and Ryder and Jasper like little golden ghosts, copying their movements, mimicking their stances, demanding to spar and chase and race and prove themselves. They loved to compete with the islander children, loved to test their speed against anyone foolish enough to accept the challenge, and they lost badly, spectacularly, and with the kind of dramatic outrage that only cheetahs could manage.

Big sore losers, all three of them. They would sulk for hours, argue that the race did not count, insist that cats belonged on land and that the sand had been unfair. But they never stopped trying. They never stopped racing. They just kept at it, day after day, determined to win.

They were growing so well.

And watching them, I could not help but think of things that should not need thinking about. Things that had happened long ago, in the chaos of the beginning, when everything had been new and terrifying and uncertain.

What if I had never adopted them?

What if Alara had succeeded in killing them, those tiny little lives snuffed out before they had even begun? What if they had never grown, never laughed, never raced, never loved? The thought made my chest ache, even now, even after all this time.

But they had grown. They had thrived. And they were mine, wholly and completely, raised as my own, loved as my own. Not once, not for a single moment, had I ever regretted it. They were sweet and kind and full of life, no trace of the cruelty that had run in the blood of the parents who died at the hands of Ravin and Alara.

Tavren, my youngest, was the sweetest of all. He loved to help people, always eager, always ready, especially with the elders. He would carry their baskets and fetch their water and sit with them for hours, listening to their stories, his golden eyes wide with fascination. And lately, I had noticed, he seemed to have developed a bit of a crush on Mira. He would go red whenever she was near, would stumble over his words, would find excuses to be wherever she was. It was adorable. It was terrifying.

Zarek was the strong one. Even at one year old, his little body was dense and powerful, his grip iron, his speed blinding. He loved helping the islanders skin the hunted prey, showing off his usefulness, learning everything he could. He wanted to be good at things, wanted to be needed, wanted to prove that he belonged.

And Kaizen, my quiet one, was a sweetheart too, but more reclusive, more reserved. He preferred the company of his older brothers, tagging along behind them, watching and learning. He loved to spar, loved to train, and he especially loved sparring with his father Aureon, who would throw him around the yard with gentle care, laughing as Kaizen scrabbled back to his feet, always ready for more.

They were truly great kids. All three of them. Kind and brave and bright, each in their own way.

I could not have asked for better.

And as I watched them chase their brothers across the sand, their laughter bright and careless, their little legs pumping, their golden fur gleaming in the winter sun, I felt a wave of love so fierce it nearly knocked me over.

They were mine. They were all mine. And nothing, not distance, not time, would ever take them from me. Not ever.