"Wahh… wah… waaah…"

The sharp, fragile cry of an infant cut through the warm air, mingling with hurried footsteps and excited murmurs from the accoucheurs moving about the chamber.

"Your Majesty—oh! After so many daughters, you…"

Asher turned his head weakly toward the voice, breath heavy in his chest, every muscle burning as exhaustion weighed on him. His vision swam, but he forced his eyes to stay open, straining to see past the blur of movement.

Across the room—

He saw Leticia.

His queen. His wife.

Cradling a small, trembling bundle in her arms.

"…have a boy!"

'A boy?'

Asher's heart stuttered.

A boy…

Of course, he loved every one of his daughters—his fierce, brilliant girls who filled the palace with strength and laughter. But still… somewhere deep inside him had always lived a quiet longing.

To raise a son.

A prince.

Someone to someday walk beside him… or even take his place.

"M-May I…" he murmured hoarsely, lifting an unsteady hand toward Leticia. "May… I—"

Leticia turned at once, her face radiant despite the exhaustion lining her eyes.

"My blossom," she said warmly, stepping closer. "You did so well. He's beautiful—just like you."

She tilted the bundle toward him so he could see.

Asher blinked rapidly, fighting the blur, fighting the tears prickling in his eyes as the tiny face finally came into focus.

Soft curls, light-purple.

A wrinkle of a brow.

A trembling mouth.

'That's… mine.' 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

"I want to…" Asher whispered. "May I please hold—"

The words died in his throat.

The door burst open.

"I heard we finally have a brother!!!"

The chamber filled with Kazaria's bright voice before Asher could even turn his head.

"Kaz—" he tried weakly.

But she had already rushed past him, straight to Leticia's side, eyes sparkling as she leaned close to the newborn.

"Oh, he's adorable!" she exclaimed. "He's so tiny… and look at his hair—it's curly too!"

Their laughter and delighted chatter washed over Asher like distant sound, muffled by the growing fog in his mind.

His chest felt heavier.

His fingers trembled where they lay half-raised in the air.

'I want to see…'

But the room dimmed at the edges.

'I want to see my son…'

Voices blurred into echoes.

His strength slipped away faster than he could catch it.

✧→ ⏱︎ ←✧

"How are you feeling, Your Majesty?" the head accoucheur asked gently as he checked the instruments near Asher's bedside. "You lost quite a significant amount of blood during the birth. It's only natural that you've felt lightheaded the past few days."

"I… have been feeling fine," Asher replied, gaze drifting toward the window.

Three days had passed.

Three long days.

He had finally held Florian in his arms a few times—just enough to memorize the warmth of his tiny body, the way his little fingers curled around Asher's thumb, the faint scent of milk and linen clinging to him.

But only a few moments at a time.

According to Leticia, because of his weakened condition, prolonged contact was discouraged. The healers insisted that he needed rest more than anything else.

So those brief visits—mostly during feeding hours—were all he was allowed.

And every time Florian was taken from his arms again, it felt like something inside his chest was quietly torn away.

'I should be the one with him.'

He turned slightly against the pillows, the ache in his muscles nothing compared to the dull longing in his heart.

He needed to be there.

With his son.

With his little prince.

Instead, it was Leticia and the girls who stayed at Florian's side day and night—cooing over him, rocking him to sleep, whispering dreams into his tiny ears—while Asher remained confined to his bed.

An observer.

A father by title alone.

"When… when will I be able to stay with Florian properly?" Asher asked softly, unable to keep the tremor from his voice. "I think I'm fine now. I've had multiple children—I know my limits, I'm—"

"Her Majesty insists you continue resting," the accoucheur interrupted kindly. "She's very worried about you."

The man offered him a gentle smile.

"You should be able to move about freely within a few days, Your Majesty. Try not to fret. You've always carried the weight of the palace on your shoulders—think of this as a rare chance to truly rest."

'Rest?'

Asher's fingers curled into the blanket.

'I don't need rest.'

What he needed—

Was Florian.

His son.

His beautiful and only boy.

Every second away from that tiny heartbeat felt stolen—moments he would never get back, pieces of a beginning he was meant to be part of.

'I don't want to lie here.'

Asher swallowed hard, staring up at the pale ceiling, his eyes burning as he fought the tightness rising in his chest.

For some inexplicable reason—

He felt unbearably sad.

It wasn't fear.

It wasn't pain from the blood he had lost.

It was the hollow ache of absence.

He knew he would hold Florian again soon. The healers had promised it. Leticia had reassured him again and again.

But soon didn't feel close enough.

Not when the first days of his child's life were slipping by without him there to witness them.

'I want to hold him.'

His hands curled weakly against the blanket, fingers twitching as if they still remembered the fragile warmth of a newborn's weight.

He closed his eyes.

Because for now—

He had to wait.

✧→ ⏱︎ ←✧

"Oh, Queen Leticia's genes didn't even try," Astana remarked dryly as he peered down at the infant cradled in Asher's arms. "He looks exactly like you, Ash."

Finally—after days of enforced rest—Asher was allowed to spend more time with Florian.

Not nearly as much as he wanted…

…but infinitely more than those unbearable first days when his son had felt just out of reach.

"And you named him Florian?" Dorothea asked, folding her hands neatly together. "Let me guess—because of the queen's obsession with flowers?"

Asher nodded, his gaze never leaving the tiny face against his chest. "Of course. My dearest has wanted to name our son Florian since the day we wed. It's always been in her heart."

"How sentimental of her," Dorothea said coolly. "Still—it surprises me that a woman like her is capable of that sort of tenderness."

"Mother," Asher snapped softly, fingers brushing against Florian's chubby cheek. "That is my wife and queen you're speaking about."

Oh, how badly he wanted to nip those soft cheeks—how irresistible the urge was to make Florian laugh. His grip tightened just a little as he steadied himself, grounding his racing thoughts in the warmth of his son.

"All I'm saying is," Dorothea went on, unbothered, "outside these palace walls she's a ruthless warrior—stern even with her daughters. Yet I hear she cleared her schedule entirely just to spend this month with the baby, leaving all work and training to me."

"Well, Mother," Asher replied evenly, "you are the captain of the guards."

"And I'm not getting any younger," Dorothea sighed, easing herself down into a chair. "Kazaria will need to inherit my position eventually. I'd quite like to retire before my bones crumble to dust."

Astana moved behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Darling… about that… don't we have something rather important to discuss with Ash?"

'Talk to me about what?' Asher thought, brows knitting together.

"Ah, right—you're correct, Astana," Dorothea said, lifting her sharp gaze toward Asher once more. "Tell us, Ash. How do you plan on raising the young prince?"

"Pardon?" Asher blinked. "With love, of course. As I raised my daughters."

A pause.

"But that's exactly our concern," Astana said quietly, gesturing toward Florian. "After so many daughters—and given how spoiled the boy already is—we fear you may be raising him incorrectly."

"Incorrectly?" Asher echoed.

"Our bloodline has a proud history of obedient men," Astana continued. "Men who serve their families, their spouses, their kingdoms quietly and dutifully. That tradition is precisely why Leticia chose you as her consort. Because you embodied it."

"Yes, and…?" Asher's voice hardened.

"Rumors say the little prince is not being prepared for that role at all," Astana said. "You are one of the most exemplary king consorts ever raised, Ash. I shaped you to be humble, disciplined, capable—a devoted husband and homemaker. Yet word spreads that Florian will not receive the same guidance."

Asher's jaw tightened.

"First of all," he said sharply, "stop calling him 'the little prince'. He is Florian. Your grandson."

Silence.

"And yes, I remember how you raised me," Asher went on, voice trembling with restrained emotion. "Constant study. Endless discipline. Iron-fisted expectations. But would it truly be so terrible to give Florian a childhood where he is allowed to feel loved instead of molded into submission?"

"Against the traditions of our kingdom?" Dorothea arched a brow.

"You came all this way to lecture me on rumors?" Asher asked, hurt bleeding into his tone. "About how I raise my child?"

"We want what's best for Florian," Astana said gently. "Ash… you understand the truth of our world. What else is a man raised to become, if not an obedient husband? If he grows too indulged he will find himself without purpose. Without direction."

'Without freedom.'

Something inside Asher snapped.

"I think you should leave."

"Ash—watch your tone—" Dorothea began sharply.

Asher rose to his feet.

"I may be your son," he said, voice ringing with command, "but I am also your king. And I am ordering you both to leave. Now."

The echo of his voice struck the air—

—and Florian stirred in his arms.

A tiny face scrunched. Lips trembled.

And then—

"Waaah—! Wahhhh—! Waaaaah!"

Florian's cry shattered the thick tension in the room.

The sound struck Asher like a blade—his expression crumpling instantly as he gathered his son closer to his chest.

"Oh—oh, my love, no… no, don't cry," he whispered urgently, rocking Florian with gentle, practiced motions meant to soothe. One protective arm cradled the infant while his sharp gaze lifted toward his parents. "As you can clearly see, Florian is distressed. And distress is dangerous for an infant."

His voice hardened.

"So please—leave."

Dorothea and Astana exchanged a glance, the weight of the moment settling between them. With a heavy sigh, they inclined their heads in defeat before turning to go.

As they reached the doorway, Astana paused.

He looked back at his son.

"You may not understand it now," he said quietly, "but one day… you will see our concerns."

Then he turned away and disappeared down the hall.

The door closed.

Silence fell again, broken only by Florian's soft, uneven whimpers.

Asher frowned down at the tiny face pressed against his chest, thumb brushing over damp cheeks.

"They're wrong," he murmured, voice low but resolute. "They raised me without mercy… without freedom. And there is no reason you should endure that same fate."

He held Florian closer.

'I will never let you be shaped by pain the way I was.'

Asher lifted his chin, resolve settling into his bones.

He would prove them wrong—no matter what it took.