Volume I: Forged

Chapter 2: A Son is Born

Philza Danger Minecraft had done a lot in his lifetime.

Most he was trying to forget. He wasn't proud of some parts, and completely ashamed of others. It was best to let it all lie, forgotten.

It wasn't like rehashing the bitter facts and his bloody past would change any of the bleak present, or the desolate future.

But when Kristin told him she was pregnant—

Everything came rushing back like lightning in his veins.

He was (had been) something great. He had magic in his veins people would kill for, had killed for (he was forgotten now. It had been so long).

His wife was a Deep Magic magess. She had magic that could shake mountains and move seas. She had done both, but so long ago even the books kept in the great libraries of the Capitols had forgotten. She was no longer even a myth to history, not even a tale in taverns anymore.

But they were pregnant. With a baby.

Phil watched his wife from the battered kitchen chair, keeping watch for any slight flinch or the smallest hint discomfort. Even from across the room, he could feel the baby's magic—entirely separate and unique from his wife's, though so much smaller and more delicate. Like a butterfly's wings flapping in time with the gale of a storm.

Kristin wasn't even showing yet, and Phil could already tell the child was going to be powerful.

The child was going to be great.

And Phil was terrified down to the core of his bones of that very idea.

"Quit worrying," Kristin interrupted his current chain of thought, stirring the pot of soup. It was weak and watery, with only a few dry vegetables and a sad, small slab of beef, but it was better than nothing. "He's too small to be causing any discomfort yet."

Phil's gaze flicked from her stomach to her face. " 'He'?"

"He." Kristin nodded, not looking up from her stew, frowning as a carrot got stuck to the bottom of the pot. "It's a boy."

Phil's heart did a little skip-beat as she spooned the soup into worn pewter bowls.

A son, a little boy— the son of the Angel of Death and his Lady—

"Stop." Kristin pressed a kiss to the top of his head, setting a bowl of the steaming food on the table in front of him. "Worrying helps nobody."

It made Phil feel better.

Worrying had kept him alive as long as it had. Worrying made sure threats stayed on the radar, worrying had made sure that no one ever got the better of him, worrying had made sure—

A damp towel snapped on the back of his head.

Phil yelped and ducked, clapping a hand over the brand-new sore spot. He whipped around in the chair, a petulant frown pulling at his forehead as his wife laughed at him.

"Should've listened!" she sang, wiping her hands on the towel and serving up her own bowl.

Phil pouted, but the smile pulled at his lips anyway. How could he not smile? He had the universe's most gorgeous woman humming away, dark hair cascading down her back in waves, so beautifully and completely his. Their child, settled safely in her belly, magic twining with his (his) parents'. The outside world was locked behind the door, forgotten for tonight (if only tonight).

They had let go.

They had left that world where blood and tears and wild magic and war had nearly torn them apart.