Two weeks passed without incident.

  Asher, his generals, his goddesses, and his queen marched across

  the Wastes — a tide of steel and Aether cutting through desolation.

  Along the way, Asher reinforced and reawakened the corrupted veins

  they crossed, his Void Core pulsing with raw power beneath his ribs.

  With Aetheros at his side, it had become child's play.

  But something gnawed at him.

  No attacks. No scouts. No Veinforged skirmishers shadowing their

  movements. Nothing.

  And that silence made him uneasy.

  They were now only a day's march from Ashhold — their

  stronghold. The place where they would wage war on the corruption

  itself.

  That night, under a sky bruised violet with stars, Asher sat alone

  by the fire in their forward camp. The flames crackled quietly.

  Around him, tents stood in ordered silence, guards rotated their

  shifts, and the army murmured in low, contented tones. But Asher

  found it harder with each passing day to speak, to laugh, to touch.

  He had grown distant — all his waking hours consumed by planning,

  practicing, thinking. The Void Core’s whispers called to him

  constantly, but he was mastering it now. Shaping it. Wielding it like

  breath.

  Every night for the past fourteen: train, eat, train, eat, sleep.

  Repeat.

  A hand touched his shoulder.

  He turned to find Lunira, smiling bright as ever, holding out a

  waterskin. “My king, I brought you some ale. Since we’re so close

  to the city, they’re letting everyone have seconds tonight.”

  Asher smiled faintly. The little girl he’d saved from Nyxhold

  had changed. She was nearing twelve now. Her sword no longer looked

  borrowed, and her armor hugged her frame with growing strength. She

  stood straighter. Firmer.

  “Thank you, Lunira,” he said, taking the skin and drinking

  deeply.

  She sat beside him, legs crossed, quiet. Wind tugged her messy,

  shoulder-length brown hair as she stared into the fire. It looked

  like she wanted to speak, but the words seemed stuck.

  Asher broke the silence. “What is it, Lunira?”

  She hesitated, then looked up at him. “Do you want to know

  something I’ve never told anyone?”

  He blinked — caught off guard — but nodded. “Always.”

  Her voice was soft. “I don’t know who I am. Where I came from.

  Why I was in that castle where you found me. I think... maybe I

  wasn’t even born like others. Maybe I’m a mistake. Or a...

  creation.” She swallowed. “But...”

  Her eyes locked onto his, burning with something fierce and real.

  “But thank you. For saving me. For fighting to save the world.

  For letting me pretend I’m your knight — even though I know I’ll

  never be like Dravyn, or Jorven, or any of your generals.”

  He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

  “You’re young,” he said gently. “But the potential I see

  in you... it's part of why I can’t let this world fall. You deserve

  to grow up in a world worth living in. People like me — the

  generals — we may not make it. We may fall. But you, Lunira...

  you’re one of the ones who will rebuild what comes next.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  “No,” she whispered. “You have to be there too. I... I wish

  you were my father. I wish I’d grown up with you.”

  Asher’s heart clenched. Images of Delaney surged unbidden —

  not sharp, but dull, like old pain worn smooth with time.

  “Lunira,” he said, his voice thick, “I already see you as my

  daughter. You have to know that.”

  Her face lit up. “Really?”

  He chuckled. “Of course. Just don’t let it go to your head.

  And as my heir, you have a duty — stay safe. Understand?”

  He looked up, voice rising slightly. “Sylthara.”

  She didn’t appear — she emerged. Like she'd always

  been there. A quiet shimmer in the air.

  “Yes, master?” she said, warmth in her tone.

  He reached up and patted her head. “Until I say otherwise, I

  want you to stay with Lunira.”

  She began to protest. “But master, I should be—”

  “No questions,” he said gently but firmly. “Please.”

  Sylthara hesitated, then nodded once, fading into Lunira’s

  shadow like a breath of night.

  The girl shivered. “That’s a weird feeling... Father.”

  Asher smiled, caught off guard by the word — and how much he had

  missed hearing it.

  “You get used to it,” he said. “Just know Sylthara will

  protect your life like she would protect mine. That’s how much you

  mean to me.”

  Lunira beamed — then threw her arms around him.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  He held her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead as his eyes

  grew wet.

  They sat there for a while in silence — firelight flickering,

  the stars wheeling overhead — before finally parting for the night,

  their tents side by side.

  As Asher entered his tent, he came face to face with Vicky and

  Aetheros.

  They both looked... surprised, happy, shocked — and sad, all at

  once.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  When their eyes met, Vicky’s smile faltered into something

  solemn. Aetheros looked like she was biting her tongue.

  Asher glanced between them, heart lurching.

  “What is it?” he asked, tension rising in his voice. “Was

  Ashhold attacked? Is a Veinforged army approaching?”

  Aetheros smiled wryly — an expression that didn’t quite match

  the mood. “No, Champion. But... I believe I’ll give you and your

  queen some space.”

  She swept out faster than he’d ever seen, her red-and-black

  robes flowing behind her, golden eyes glinting with — what was

  that? Happiness?

  Asher turned back to Vicky. She hadn’t moved. Her expression was

  unreadable, something raw flickering in her eyes.

  He stepped closer and knelt before her on the edge of the bed.

  “What is it, my love? Is everything okay?”

  She was silent for a long while.

  He waited. She needed space to speak — he could feel it.

  Finally, she exhaled. “Asher... so... the thing is—”

  He tensed. “Just say it, Vicky. It’s me, for gods’ sake.”

  She looked at him directly.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  The words hit like a blow. Asher went completely still, vision

  swimming. His breath caught in his throat. He staggered to his feet

  and turned toward the tent flap, desperate for air—

  Then darkness.

  He woke in her lap, the canvas roof of the tent hazy above him.

  Vicky looked down at him, both worried and amused, her fingers

  brushing gently through his hair.

  “What... what happened?” he rasped.

  Vicky chuckled softly, though it was edged with nerves. “Well...

  I told you I was pregnant, and you kinda fainted. I didn’t

  think you’d actually pass out.”

  He sat up, blinking hard. “You’re really...?”

  She nodded. “I only realized when I noticed I hadn’t had my

  period. It slipped my mind with everything going on.”

  She hesitated, then added, “Aetheros looked at the baby... it’s

  a girl. I’m already a few months along.”

  Asher just stared at her.

  “She said... the Aether is pouring into her. More than she’s

  ever seen. It’s like the baby is absorbing it as if it were food.

  Aetheros thinks... she might be the first Sylvari child born on

  Aeloria in over five hundred years.”

  She smiled faintly. “Well, half-Sylvari, technically.”

  Asher still wasn’t speaking. He heard the words, but they were

  washing over him like crashing waves. Logically, it made sense —

  they had been together, even if not often, and certainly not

  recently with Sylthara always hovering and war pressing on them from

  all sides.

  But still... he was stunned.

  Terrified.

  Happy, yes — overwhelmingly — but terrified all the same.

  Because now he had another life to protect. Another daughter. And

  suddenly, he couldn’t imagine Vicky fighting beside him in the days

  ahead. Not like this. Not anymore.

  Not while carrying their future.

  Asher cleared his throat, voice low but steady. “This changes

  things. I can’t have you on the frontlines now — not with our

  child. From here on, you take a support role. You can still use your

  Aether offensively, but Aetheros will be your permanent guard.”

  Vicky smiled softly, a hand resting on her belly. “I know, Ash.

  Honestly... I’ve grown tired of the fighting. I always wanted a

  daughter. But in my old life, that dream felt impossible. Now... now

  I have something I need to protect.”

  Asher nodded, a fierce light behind his eyes. “I will protect

  her. I’ll shape this world for you both — for all our people.”

  She reached up, cupping his face, her thumb brushing the line of

  his jaw. “If anyone can do it,” she murmured, leaning in, “it’s

  you.”

  She kissed him, deep and slow, her lips warm against his — not

  desperate, but certain. Her tongue teased his, coaxing a response,

  and Asher felt something raw and alive ignite within him. Her body

  pressed into his, all soft curves and strength beneath her

  armor-padded tunic. The scent of her — sun-warmed leather, dust,

  and the sweetness that was always uniquely her — stirred

  something primal in him.

  His hands found her waist, pulling her closer until she was

  straddling his lap, the tent dim around them, the world outside

  forgotten. She kissed him harder, mouth moving with growing hunger,

  fingers tangling in his hair as her breath quickened.

  Asher broke the kiss only to whisper, “Are you sure?”

  Vicky answered by tugging at the laces of his tunic. “I’m not

  made of glass, my king. Just... be gentle. For once.”

  He chuckled, low and hoarse, before drawing her back down into

  another kiss — deeper, slower, filled with everything words

  couldn’t express. Hands roamed, armor shifted aside, barriers fell

  piece by piece. The tent became their haven — a quiet space where

  time slowed and love, fierce and unyielding, took its shape in touch

  and breath and the whispered promise of what came next.

  What passed between them wasn’t frantic or wild — it was

  reverent. A slow claiming. A reminder of life in the heart of war. Of

  everything worth fighting for.

  Afterward, they lay tangled beneath the furs, her head against his

  chest, their heartbeats steady and shared.

  For the first time in weeks, Asher felt like more than a king.

  He

  felt like a man — a father — and a future worth dying for was

  curled against him, already asleep.

  Hours later,Outside the camp, a lone figure stumbled through the darkness.

  One of Elara’s forward scouts — ragged, frantic, soaked in

  blood. His left arm hung useless at his side, his cloak torn and

  scorched, eyes wide with panic. He crossed the Aether-thrumming

  threshold where the newly restored veins formed a protective barrier

  against corruption.

  The moment he breached the line, he collapsed.

  Camp guards rushed forward. Elara appeared seconds later, melting

  from the shadows, Dravyn close behind. The scout tried to rise but

  only managed to claw at the dirt, stammering.

  “Speak,” Elara ordered, her voice low and sharp.

  He gasped, blood dribbling from his lip. “Ashhold... under

  siege... Veinforged... a force moved from Nyxhold—” He coughed,

  breath rattling. “They’re trying to take it before we arrive...

  too many...”

  Elara was already gone.

  She vanished from his side like smoke, cutting through the camp

  with lethal grace. As she passed Jorven’s tent, she threw him a

  glance sharp as a blade. “To the war tent. Now.”

  Dravyn was already moving behind her, issuing terse orders.

  Ashhold was burning.

  Inside the king’s tent, the world was still.

  Vicky slept, curled against Asher’s side, her head rising and

  falling with his slow, steady breaths. Their bodies were a tangle of

  bare limbs beneath the furs, the scent of sweat, leather, and shared

  warmth still hanging in the air.

  Asher stared up at the canvas above, one arm wrapped protectively

  around her. His other hand rested lightly over her stomach.

  She was carrying his daughter.

  That knowledge hummed louder than the Void Core inside him.

  Her breath stirred against his chest. She murmured something in

  her sleep and shifted closer, skin sliding against his. He felt her

  curves mold into him again — familiar, grounding, wanted. Even now,

  with exhaustion pulling at every muscle, he felt the ache of desire

  still smoldering low in his belly.

  But before he could give in to it again, the tent flap snapped

  open.

  “Elara?” he said, already reaching for his tunic.

  She didn’t wait for permission. Her eyes were sharp, her

  expression grim.

  “Ashhold is under siege.”

  The words landed like a hammer.

  She didn’t need to say more.

  Asher was already moving.