The Chance Encounter

Part Thirty-one

Regina’s POV

Motherhood, I had quickly learned, was both enchanting and exhausting. 

The sleepless nights weren’t unfamiliar, ruling a kingdom had prepared me for long hours, but nothing had readied me for the quiet vulnerability of holding a newborn in my arms at dawn, feeling the world hush around me. I had spent so much of my life commanding power, ensuring control, yet in these moments, all I had to offer was warmth and love. 

Our son stirred against my chest, his tiny hand curling into the fabric of my robe. His breathing was soft and steady, and I wondered what he dreamed about in the cocoon of safety we had built for him. 

Emma shuffled into the room, her hair messy from sleep but her expression softened with the kind of joy that made my chest flutter. “You’re awake again,” she murmured, settling beside me. “You’re always watching him.” 

I glanced at her, offering a tired but fond smile. “I can’t help it.” 

She reached over, running her thumb gently along his tiny fingers. “You’re doing that thing where you try to memorize every single detail about him, aren’t you?” 

I sighed, not denying it. “I want to remember all of this.” 

Emma chuckled, pressing a kiss to my temple before settling against me. “Good, because I do too.” 

Our world had become smaller since his birth—no longer revolving around the pressures of ruling or the echoes of past battles but instead settling into a rhythm that, while foreign, felt right. It was the scent of lullabies sung in quiet tones, the warmth of tiny hands reaching for familiarity, and the understanding that every sleepless night was outweighed by moments of pure wonder. 

Still, there were struggles neither of us had anticipated. 

Emma had always been impulsive, driven by instincts rather than careful calculation, and parenthood was no different for her. She moved with ease, adapting to our son’s unpredictable schedule with the kind of confidence I envied. 

I, on the other hand, approached everything with meticulous planning, trying to control what was inherently uncontrollable. I had drafted feeding schedules and outlined routines, but none of them held against the unpredictable needs of an infant who had no concept of order. 

“Regina,” Emma sighed one afternoon after I had spent a solid hour fretting over how many hours our son had slept in comparison to yesterday’s schedule. “You do realize he’s not following a royal decree, right?” 

I shot her a halfhearted glare. “You say that now, but sleep training—” 

“Is literally going to mean nothing when he decides he’s hungry in the middle of the night again.” Emma gently took the parchment from my hands, crumpling it before tossing it onto the bedside table. “He’s a baby, not a mission report.” 

I sighed but didn’t argue. I hated that she was right. 

Still, I found peace in watching him, studying the way he recognized our voices, the way his tiny fingers grasped at Emma’s shirt instinctively as if she were the only anchor he’d ever need. I was learning, slowly, that I didn’t need to have control over everything—not when love and care proved to be stronger foundations than any structured plan could offer. 

Then there was the dragon. 

Since the moment our son had been born, the hatchling had remained close, its protective instincts growing sharper each day. At first, I had dismissed the bond as a simple curiosity—the creature had hatched alongside him, after all—but the connection was undeniable. 

We noticed it first when the infant stirred in his crib late one evening, his quiet, restless whimpers catching our attention. Before Emma or I could move, the dragon lifted its head from where it had curled beside the crib. It let out a low trill, its tone steady and melodic, almost like a hum. 

Our son quieted instantly. 

Emma exchanged a look with me, her brows lifting in surprise. “Did that just…?” 

I stepped closer, studying the scene. The dragon’s eyes gleamed faintly, locked onto the baby, its posture relaxed but alert. As if sensing our scrutiny, it let out another soft hum, the glow of its scales intensifying for a brief moment before fading. 

Emma chuckled, shaking her head. “We have a built-in babysitter.” 

“It’s not just that,” I murmured, still watching. “I think it’s… bonded.” 

The realization hit me like a whispered prophecy—their connection wasn’t ordinary, wasn’t just proximity-based or some accidental magic. It was fate, intertwined in ways we hadn’t yet uncovered. 

Later, we saw more signs. 

The baby reached instinctively toward the dragon every time it moved, his fingers glowing faintly upon contact with its scales—a pulse of magic we had yet to understand. When he was upset, the hatchling stayed near, humming its soft melodies until he calmed. 

Even stranger, the necklace given to me by the Crystal Stag reacted whenever the dragon was close, pulsing with faint warmth as if responding to their energy. 

I began researching, combing through old texts with Emma late into the night, searching for mention of such bonds. What we found was unsettling yet wondrous—a prophecy tied to celestial-born children, ones who arrived under comet-lit skies, marked by creatures of power. 

“I don’t know what this means for him,” Emma admitted one evening, fingers trailing over the pages. “But whatever it is, we’ll make sure he’s ready.” 

I nodded, my gaze shifting toward the crib where our son slept peacefully, the dragon curled at his side. 

Fate was unfolding, piece by piece, and though the future remained uncertain, one truth was absolute—we would walk it together, as a family, bound not just by blood, but by the undeniable magic that had woven itself into our lives. 

And I would protect him, no matter what awaited us beyond the horizon.

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