There, near the bed, is a bassinet. His mind feels like it’s been struck by a storm, whirling, spinning, and going completely blank all at once. His legs go weak beneath him, the blood draining from his face as he stares at the small, innocent crib. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, the sound deafening in the thick silence. He feels as though the room itself is closing in on him, his vision narrowing, every sense focused on the singular image in front of him.

  A bassinet.

  His legs feel unsteady, as if the ground beneath him is no longer solid, as if the reality of the world has shifted into something he cannot understand. He staggers forward, unable to stop himself, his hand trembling violently as it reaches for the blanket. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and with the gentlest of movements, he pulls the cover back.

  And there, in the bassinet, lies a tiny, sleeping infant.

  The sight is so surreal that it takes him a long moment to fully comprehend it. A small child, no older than ten weeks, with a soft, wispy shock of white hair on his head. The baby’s small chest rises and falls in the slow rhythm of sleep, utterly innocent, completely unaware of the world around him. The air seems to thicken, every breath he takes catching in his throat.

  He forgets how to breathe, the weight of the moment too much for him to carry. His knees tremble beneath him, his strength failing him entirely as he drops to the floor beside the bassinet. He looks down at the child, his vision blurry as his eyes well up with unspoken emotions—feelings he has no name for. His heart hammers in his chest, nearly bursting.

  He’s faced off against entire armies, fought in battles that would make the bravest men quail, stared death in the eye and walked away from it. He’s seen horrors—dark, twisted things—that should have been enough to still the hearts of the bravest men. And yet, this sight, this tiny, innocent life, has shaken him more deeply than anything.

  His mind is racing, struggling to catch up with the overwhelming reality that his heart refuses to accept. He blinks, as though trying to bring clarity to the chaos swirling inside him, but the truth remains too immense to grasp.

  She comes over beside him, her steps soft, her hand gently resting on his broad shoulder. He can feel the tremor in her touch, the quiet sobs she’s trying to hold back, but he doesn’t need her words. He already knows, instinctively—knows in the marrow of his bones, in the deepest corners of his heart.

  This is his son.

  The realization hits him with a power he can barely comprehend. He reaches down, his large hand trembling as he lifts the child from the bassinet. His fingers move delicately, cautiously, almost as if he’s afraid he might break this tiny, fragile treasure. The baby, barely stirred by the movement, gives a soft whimper but remains asleep, oblivious to the monumental change in his father’s heart.

  Oleksandr cradles the infant in his massive arms, his hands somehow gentle despite their size, despite the countless battles they’ve fought, the weapons they’ve wielded. This... this is different. This is his greatest victory, his magnum opus. His eyes burn with a mixture of awe and an overwhelming love that he’s never known—this tiny child, this boy, is his flesh and blood.

  His treasure.

  For all the swords he’s swung, the battles he’s won; a thousand wars and yet here, in this moment, he realizes he has always been empty-handed.

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  His heart is full, brimming with something so raw, so pure, it nearly threatens to break him. For all his strength, for all his might, this tiny being makes him feel as fragile as glass. As Oleksandr gazes down at the tiny face in his arms, a sudden, overwhelming weight of realization crashes over him. He remembers his brother’s words, spoken long ago, words he didn’t truly understand at the time, but now ring with a clarity that makes his heart ache.

  "Just wait until you gaze into the face of your child for the first time. You'll love them more than me."

  The words echo in his mind, reverberating like the thunderous beat of a drum, and with them comes an understanding so deep, so profound, that it roots him to the spot. His brother, in all his wisdom, had known. He had known that this moment would change him, shape him into something else entirely. And now, standing here with his son in his arms, Oleksandr knows it, too.

  It's not a love born of logic or reason, not a love that can be earned or learned. It’s ancient, primordial. It is as old as the first beat of the human heart, as ingrained in him as the blood that runs through his veins.

  This love is not something he chose, nor something he can control. It is woven into his very being, written in every drop of blood that flows through him, pulsing with the energy of a thousand generations. It’s a love so vast, so pure, it transcends anything he has ever felt before, stronger than any blade he has ever wielded.

  He feels it in his soul, this deep, unshakable bond. It is instinctual, like the call of the wild to the wolf, like the sun rising each morning, like the earth turning beneath his feet. It is a love so fierce, so raw, it threatens to consume him, to tear him apart with its intensity.

  And in this moment, with his son in his arms, everything else—the battles, the bloodshed, the years of struggle and hardship—becomes distant, insignificant. None of it matters. Not now. Not when he holds this child, this pure, innocent life that carries a part of him, a part of his soul.

  The world shifts, redefines itself, and Oleksandr understands—truly understands—what his brother meant. He looks down at the child, his chest tightening with a fierce, aching love that he cannot contain. He would tear the heavens apart for this child, protect him with the ferocity of a thousand warriors, lay down his life without a second thought. He has never felt more alive, more connected to the world and to the very core of who he is. It is the love of a father for his child, a love that is more powerful than any force he has ever known.

  As Oleksandr stares down at the beautiful face of his son, a surge of understanding washes over him. He feels a flicker of comprehension for Oddvarr, his father—how Oddvarr must have felt, seeing in him the same pride and reverence. He understands now the depth of that connection, that longing for his son to surpass him, to become greater, better. A father, Oleksandr realizes, is the only man who truly wants to see his child go beyond him. And in that moment, he knows, this is the love Oddvarr had for him, twisted in its own way, but still a reflection of the same bond he now feels with his own son.

  Finally, he finds his voice, his tone choked with emotion. "He's... He's perfect," he murmurs, his hand gently stroking their son's soft cheek. "Absolutely perfect."

  "I know." She whispers. "He looks just like you."

  He looks back up at Savka, his eyes wet with tears. "He has my hair," he says quietly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And my nose." She moves over to kneel next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

  "For you, I named him.... Thekkur." He feels a deep shudder in his heart. He looks down at the baby in his arms, a mix of wonder and sorrow in his chest.

  "Thekkur," he repeats softly, the name heavy with history, the name echoing through his soul. A flood of emotions overwhelms him—love, grief, and a fierce pride for the child now in his arms. He tightens his hold on the boy, gazing at him with a newfound reverence. "Thekkur," he says again, this time with a deep, protective promise in his voice. "You are… everything."