At the sound of a crying baby, Jack’s mother let out a resigned sigh and lowered the spatula. “Every time,” she muttered under her breath. “Can’t even eat one hot breakfast.” Her shoulders dropped in resignation at not getting to eat hot pancakes. Again!

  Jack pushed his chair back with a screech across the tiled floor and stood up so fast that Polly stopped mid-bite. “I-I’ll get him,” he said, already moving. “You relax, Mom. Eat your breakfast while it’s hot.”

  His mom and sister blinked at his unexpected enthusiasm. His mother turned from the stove, her brow lifting in surprise. Polly, fork suspended in midair, glanced sideways at her mother, mirroring the look of confusion.

  “He’s never volunteered before,” Polly said, waving a fork full of pancakes in the air. “You think the bucket knocked something loose?” she asked, but her smirk betrayed her true motives. “I’m sure the bucket didn’t hit him that hard.”

  Trying not to laugh, their mother pressed her lips together. “Are you sure?” She looked at Jack, though her eyes drifted with hope back to the sizzling pancakes.

  Jack’s smile was broad, warm, and real. “He’s my little brother,” he said with conviction. “Of course, I’ll help.” He stuffed the last piece of pancake in his mouth and strode out of the kitchen towards the sound of tiny demands and a chance he thought he’d never have.

  As he walked down the hallway, the baby’s cries grew louder, insistent, and warbling. But Jack didn’t feel anxious or annoyed. No, he felt giddy. The kind of joy that built behind your ribs and made your steps lighter. He was about to see his baby brother again.

  In his old life, he’d had little time for the boy. He was too busy working as a scribe and living his own life. This time, he’d do better; he’d be a real big brother.

  Opening the door, he stepped into the soft-lit room. The early morning sunlight filtered through pale curtains, casting golden rays over the cradle. The crying intensified the moment Jack approached.

  He looked down at the crying baby in the temperature-controlled cradle. The aether-powered readout displayed 21°C–Optimal Infant Comfort, glowing in elegant calligraphy. Toothless gums dominated his baby brother’s bright red, wrinkled face, framed by wisps of dark hair and fists raised like a tiny warrior ready for battle. Tears clung to the creases of his screwed-up eyes as he screamed his little lungs out.

  He’d never seen such a beautiful baby or heard such a melodious sound. “Hey, little dragon slayer. It’s me, Jack.” He bent forward, then paused. How do you pick a baby up again?

  It had been almost twenty-five years since he’d held a baby. Most of his adult life had been spent planning revenge or staring into the bottom of an empty ale tankard, not handling infants. He tried to recall what he’d seen before; support the neck, always support the neck.

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  Scooping up the little dragon slayer—Richard—he cradled him in his arms like the baby was the most precious treasure he’d ever held. The weight was so light, so fragile, it made his heart ache. Jack’s eyes started to tear up again.

  Keep it under control. This could end at any moment. He tried to be logical to control his emotions. It didn’t help. Tears started to drip down his face. Damn it, Jack. You’re a grown man.

  Taking a deep breath, he rocked the baby, mimicking what he’d seen his mother do countless times. It didn’t work. In fact, Richard’s cries grew louder. “Could something be wrong?” Panic surged. “I can’t lose him again,” he whispered, pacing the room holding the crying baby, not knowing what to do.

  “Richard didn’t get sick as a baby. I’ll ask Mom. She’ll know. Mom always knows.” He wiped his tears on his sleeve and rushed to the kitchen, cradling the shrieking infant like a ticking time bomb of screams and snot.

  His mother looked up from her breakfast. One glance at Jack’s panicked expression, and she chuckled. “He’s due a feed. Put a dab of yoghurt on your little finger and pop it in his mouth. Then rock him while I eat.” She had just sat down to her pancakes, and come hell or high water, she wasn’t getting up until they were finished.

  Jack did as instructed. His brother squirmed for a moment, then settled against Jack’s chest with a soft sigh. Thank the Gods. He was only hungry. Relief poured through him as the panic receded. He paced the kitchen with measured steps, rocking Richard.

  Polly laughed. “You’ll make someone a lovely wife one day, Jackie. I’ll be your bridesmaid.” She fluttered her lashes. “I’ll make your wedding dress extra pretty with lace and ribbons.” She had dreams of becoming a renowned tailor to the Royals and other nobles.

  Their mother chuckled.

  “Ha. Ha. Ha. Very funny,” Jack replied. “Maybe you should become a Court Jester, or better yet, the Town Fool when it’s time to choose your class.” Both were real classes, though no one ever chose Town Fool. Maybe Polly would be the first.

  Their mother laughed so hard she spat pancake across the kitchen table, which set all three of them off.

  Jack smiled. I missed them so much. He took a deep breath and focused on rocking little Richard so he wouldn’t start crying again. He held him close, resting his cheek against the warm, downy head; the scent of milk and talcum powder was oddly soothing, grounding him in the present.

  “I missed you,” he murmured, his voice cracking. For a long moment, he stood there rocking, not because the baby needed it, but because he did.

  A few minutes later, Richard began to fuss again. The yogurt was long gone, and he’d realised there was no milk coming from Jack’s finger. Almost like she’d planned it, their mother finished her pancakes and took the baby to feed him before the tears restarted.

  Jack enjoyed the quiet comfort of his mother’s company, the cheerful presence of his sister, and his baby brother. The kitchen buzzed with the low hum of idle conversation, the type that filled a home with warmth and made the morning feel soft around the edges. Cups clinked as tea was poured, Jack laughed at one of Polly’s insults, and baby Richard gnawed on his fist, letting out a wet, slobbery glorp.

  Knock-knock-knock. The sudden rapping at the front door cut through the gentle rhythm of the morning.

  “Jack, could you get that?” his mom asked, her hands sunk deep into a mound of bread dough.

  “Sure, Mom,” Jack replied as he stood, brushing crumbs from his lap.

  He opened the door and froze. A man and a woman stood outside, both middle-aged, both dressed in the crisp, dark robes of the Inquisition. They carried daggers at their side, and expensive-looking wands hung from their belts. Behind them were a half dozen beastkin guards who looked ready for action.

  Jack’s breath caught in his throat, and his stomach lurched in horror. The Inquisition did not make friendly house calls.

  Fuck. What do they want?