The Reborn Sovereign of Ruin, Bound by His Star

A year later, the palace assigned to Seraphina was no longer quiet as Amara remembered.

It was quiet with interruptions.

A baby’s short cry from the nursery. The hurried steps of attendants who had learned that His Imperial Majesty could face rebellions without blinking but looked personally betrayed every time his son hiccupped. The low murmur of physicians, wet nurses, tutors, guards, and Seraphina’s household adjusting around the existence of a child whose birth had changed the palace without making it louder in the old Pais way.

Silas was three months old.

He had Goliath’s golden hair.

Seraphina’s blue eyes.

And the terrifying ability to reduce the most powerful man in the world to a creature of ridiculous patience.

Amara watched from the cushioned window seat while Goliath held the baby near the open garden doors. Afternoon light spilled over them, catching in Silas’s soft hair and along the gold embroidery at Goliath’s cuffs.

The emperor was supposed to look absurd holding a baby.

He did not.

That annoyed Amara a little.

Goliath sat with one long leg crossed over the other, Silas settled against his chest, one large hand supporting the infant’s back with such a delicate grip that Amara remembered, suddenly, being seven years old in a garden and teaching him how not to crush flower stems.

Silas grabbed one of Goliath’s rings and made a determined sound.

Goliath looked down at him. "That is imperial property."

Silas gurgled.

"You are very young to begin theft."

Silas kicked one foot.

Goliath’s mouth curved. "Bold defense."

Amara hid a smile behind her sleeve.

Seraphina had stepped out only a few minutes earlier to speak with the physician, leaving them alone with the baby and two attendants standing at a discreet distance.

The room smelled of saint’s breath from the garden, milk, clean linen, and the faint warm ether that always seemed to follow Goliath whenever he entered a place.

Amara watched him lift Silas slightly so the baby could continue his solemn attempt to chew on the emperor’s thumb.

Something had been sitting inside her chest for weeks.

No.

Longer than weeks.

Perhaps years.

But Silas had made it real.

"Can I ask you something?"

Goliath did not look away from the baby. "You usually do."

"This is different."

"More dangerous than your complaint about the west fountain?"

"That fountain screamed for three weeks."

"It did."

"You should have listened sooner."

"I did. Eventually."

"That is not the point."

Goliath’s eyes lifted to her at last, gold and amused. "Then ask."

Amara hesitated.

No one asked Goliath things like this.

Not alive people, anyway.

But she was fifteen, nearly sixteen, and had spent years learning that fear and respect were not the same thing. Goliath had taught her that too, though probably by accident.

"You are very old," she said.

One of the attendants made a soft choking sound.

Goliath’s eyebrow slowly rose.

Amara lifted her chin. "You are."

"I am aware of my age."

"You’re one hundred and thirty-nine." 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

"Thank you for the reminder."

"You had a long time to have children."

The room came to a halt in the dangerous way that rooms do when people realize someone has said something no one else would have survived saying.

Goliath looked at her.

Silas, uninterested in imperial tension, continued gnawing his thumb.

Amara swallowed but did not look away.

"Why didn’t you?"

For a long moment, Goliath said nothing.

Then he looked down at Silas.

The baby had finally abandoned the ring in favor of the embroidered cuff, which he grasped with both hands as if claiming conquered territory.

Goliath let him.

"I did not think I would be a good father," he said.

The answer was so simple that Amara almost did not understand it.

"You?"

"Yes."

"But you are emperor."

"That has very little to do with being a father."

Amara frowned.

Goliath’s gaze remained on Silas, but his voice had gone quieter.

"Most children are afraid of me. They cry if I look at them too long. They hide behind their nurses. Their parents try to laugh it off, as if fear is an inconvenience instead of a lesson the child learned from every adult in the room." His thumb brushed once over Silas’s tiny fist. "I never wanted my own child to look at me that way."

Amara went still.

Outside, the garden fountain moved softly.

"You thought they would?"

"I thought it was likely."

"That is stupid."

The attendant who had choked earlier seemed to stop breathing entirely.

Goliath glanced at her.

Amara crossed her arms. "It is."

"Explain."

"You decide most things before testing them."

"That is usually called strategy."

"In this case, it was cowardice."

Silence. Absolute silence that made Amara remember she had a spine that could be easily broken by the man in front of her.

Then Goliath laughed warmly enough that even Silas blinked up at him in confusion.

Amara relaxed a little.

"You have become very bold," Goliath said.

"You encouraged critical thought."

"I regret that daily."

"No, you don’t."

"No," he agreed. "I don’t."

His gaze lowered again to Silas.

"I did not want children," he said. "Not for a long time. The empire wanted heirs. The temples wanted lineage. The court wanted succession, stability, blood, and something to gossip about in increasingly elaborate clothing. None of that felt like a reason to bring a child into my life."

Amara listened.

"And then?" she asked.

Goliath was quiet for a moment; his golden gaze shifted to her.

"Someone changed that."

Amara blinked. "Who?"

"You."

Amara stared at him in disbelief.

Goliath’s expression did not change. He had the look he wore when signing decrees, sentencing traitors, correcting her maps, or telling her that no, she could not declare war on a tutor because he had assigned temple poetry.

"You did not cry when you met me," he said. "You did not run. You hid behind your mother’s skirts and assessed me like a hostile province."

"I was scared."

"I know."

"I was very scared."

"I know that too."

"But you were less frightening than Dorian."

Goliath’s eyes cooled for half a second at the name.

Then softened again.

"Yes," he said. "I gathered that."

Amara looked down at her hands.

Goliath continued, "You were the first child who treated me as a problem to understand rather than a monster to survive. You argued with me over flowers. You complained about fountains. You asked why treaty maps were drawn dishonestly and accused a duke of having a face like unpaid debt."

"He did."

"He did," Goliath agreed solemnly.

Despite herself, Amara smiled.

"I enjoyed having you around," he said.

The smile faded.

Amara looked at him again.

"I enjoyed teaching you," Goliath continued. "I enjoyed the way you asked questions no advisor had the courage to even think. I enjoyed discovering that a child could stand near me, be afraid, and still decide fear was not the most important thing in the room."

Amara’s throat tightened.

"That was when I began to wonder," he said, "if perhaps fatherhood was not impossible. Merely something I had mistaken for danger because I had only ever seen it demanded as politics."

Silence settled between them.

Amara looked at Silas, golden-haired and blue-eyed and utterly unaware that his existence had answered questions older than most kingdoms.

Then she looked back at Goliath.

There was another question.

The real one.

The one she had never dared ask, not at ten, not at twelve, not even after Goliath had attended her fifteenth birthday dinner and given her a set of historical maps so rare Seraphina had accused him of spoiling her beyond repair.

Amara’s fingers twisted together.

"Would you be offended," she asked carefully, "if I..."

The words stuck.

Goliath waited.

He was very good at waiting when people needed time to speak their mind.

Amara forced herself to continue.

"If I considered you my father?"