A man like Gojo was less a husband and more a weapon the clans had learned to wield. Hana understood that better than most. Which was why she had not protested when the elders decided he needed another wife. The memory surfaced uninvited. The wedding had taken place two months ago. A private ceremony inside one of the Gojo clan's older Kyoto estates, attended only by clan representatives and a handful of sorcerers whose presence was politically unavoidable. The bride had been introduced as Fumiya Suzume, a woman from a respected auxiliary sorcerer family known for their barrier techniques. She had been younger than Hana by two years. Polite. Quiet. Nervous in the way people often were when standing near the Six Eyes. Hana had attended the ceremony dressed in formal black silk, seated among the clan elders with the composure expected of a first wife. No one had asked whether she wished to attend. It had simply been assumed. Powerful men rarely commit to fidelity. Hana had been raised understanding that truth as thoroughly as she understood cursed energy theory. The Gojo Clan required an heir. Hana had not given them one. And so the clan solved the problem the same way they solved everything else. With efficiency.

She took his hand then and placed it-not ceremoniously, not dramatically-against her abdomen. Still flat beneath fabric. Still unchanged to the eye. His breath caught. "There," she said. "You're officially present." He didn't move. Barely breathed. "I don't feel anything." "It's early." "So it's ignoring me." She smirked. "Much like its parents." He snorted despite himself. "Rude." She leaned back, head resting against the stone wall. "You can talk, if you like." He stared at her. "To the child." "Yes." "What would I say." "Whatever you'd say to anyone you intend to terrify and protect simultaneously." He considered that, then leaned closer, lowering his voice as if the sea itself might overhear. "You will not be weak," he murmured. "You will not be small. And no one will ever touch you without consequence." Ariella hummed. "Subtle." "It's honest." She turned her head to look at him. "Try again. Less threat. More... reassurance." He grimaced. "I don't reassure." "You're doing fine." He sighed and tried again, awkwardly sincere. "You're... wanted." Her expression softened fully now. "And," he added, "your mother is very irritating but extremely competent." She laughed quietly. "Careful. I'll tell it you said that." He glanced down at her stomach, then back at her face. "It doesn't move." "Not yet." He frowned. "I expected something more dramatic." "Patience," she said. "Even dragons take time." They sat like that for a while, firelight flickering, the sea marking time beyond the walls. Eventually, Ariella shifted and yawned, the fatigue of the day finally asserting itself. Daemon noticed immediately. "You should sleep." "I will." "Now." "In a moment." Dragonstone stood watch-men loyal, banners snapping, a dragon coiled in the heights. Inside, two formidable people sat quietly with the smallest, strangest certainty either had ever known.

Does not follow original story line. Read with caution.