A few months had passed since the birth and life had ticked on as it always did. 

The afternoon sun pressed warm against Draven’s back as he sat cross-legged in the dirt, arms folded tight across his chest. The house loomed behind him, silent except for the faint clatter of pots inside where his mother worked. At his side lay the woven basket, tucked with blankets and herbs to keep the baby comfortable.

Rayne blinked up at him with those unnerving violet eyes, cooing softly like the sound of water trickling over stones.

Draven scowled down at her.
“You’re useless, you know that?” he muttered. “Can’t walk. Can’t talk. Just lay there looking… weird.”

Rayne answered with a gurgle, kicking her tiny feet so that one blanket slipped down to her chubby legs. Her white hair, thinner now but still too bright, glowed against the shadows of the basket.

Draven rubbed a hand down his face. “Everyone stares because of you. Because you don’t cry like the other babies. Because your hair makes people whisper.” His voice sharpened, bitterness creeping in. “Do you know what they say about me? That my mother’s cursed. That my father’s weak. That we’re all tainted because of you.”

The baby only cooed louder, a bubbling sound that made Kaelen laugh every time he heard it. But not Draven.

“I should hate you,” he whispered. “I do hate you. You ruined everything. You made her leave, didn’t you? And now she loves you more than us.”

Rayne shifted, turning her head as if searching for his voice. Draven’s throat tightened, his words tumbling faster. “You don’t even know what it’s like here. What we’ve had to do. She—she left us, and you just showed up in her arms, like none of it mattered. And when people look at me, they don’t see me anymore, just you. Just the mistake.”

The baby kicked again, her small fist batting at the air. Draven glared, anger hot behind his eyes. “Stop it. Stop acting cute.”

But then her tiny fingers brushed against his hand. With surprising strength, she latched onto his forefinger and held it tight, her grip warm and unyielding.

Draven froze. His first instinct was to yank free, to shove her hand away. But something in her grip—a softness, a trust so unearned—cut through him. His shoulders sagged. He let out a long, shuddering breath.

“Stupid baby,” he muttered, voice thick. “You don’t even know what you’re doing.”

Rayne only stared up at him with those bright, impossible eyes, utterly content with the world. Draven scowled down at her, unwilling to admit the truth even to himself—that he wasn’t strong enough to pull away.

So he sat there, finger caught in her grasp, hating her, hating himself, and hating most of all the warm, traitorous thread of love already rooting itself in his heart.