Doran looked at his father’s crown. It was upside-down in his hand, the iron prongs pressing into his palm. It wasn’t particularly ornate, like the headdresses of Urkanzan chieftains or Rhaynese rulers. It was simple; practical. Signs of rust and denting had been poorly managed, and, over time, what was once a pristine crown was now dull and decaying.

He hoped it wasn’t a metaphor for his rule, just signs of an old, glorified hat. Still, metaphors and symbolism were all that played in Doran’s mind since the day he became king. The way people perceived him was directly proportional to how long he’d retain his power. Any weakness could bring his father’s legacy to ruin. 

Even the state of the crown could send a message. It could show people he was careless and ill-prepared if he left it rusted and dull. But, if he cleaned it up, some might see that as the actions of a soft king who only cared about appearances and shiny jewellery, which is why he’d opted not to wear it. 

There were many negative connotations to that as well, but the persona he wished to convey was of a man who cared less for inheritance and birthright and would only accept his father’s title once it was earned. 

Today, he hoped to begin the path to accomplishing that. 

Doran placed the crown on his head, heavy on his shoulders, and adjusted the large bag on his back. He also felt the cold metal of his father’s necklace pressing against his chest. 

He brought the spiral pendant to his lip, kissing it before letting it fall. It was an old religious symbol from Rhayne, marking those who questioned the existence of gods. When religions still existed, it was a crime to disagree with the dogma, branded agnostic with the highest form of derision. Centuries on, those who think there could be a higher power are ridiculed.

Doran was proud to call himself agnostic; not because he believed gods might not exist, but because he believed they might.

After a few last moments of feeling the breeze gently sway him, he carried on down the hill towards his destination.

Magar’s house was about twenty miles north of Alabaster, and seven miles from anything else. A hunting lodge of minimalist comfort with the bare minimum needed for survival. It wasn’t where Magar stayed most of the time. However, after returning from a long excursion abroad at the behest of Doran in an attempt to quell more power grabs, he opted to take a few months away from society.

Timber logs leant against the timber walls with bear traps lying loosely on the porch. Smoke billowed from the chimney and bird shit stained the roof. Akkael, who was sitting in front of many sharp objects, steered baby Alani away as Astrid threw axes and knives in a bucket to keep them out of reach. Flies hovered around a rabbit’s carcass, blood dampening the grass out front from a recent butchering that would probably be part of tonight’s dinner.

Akkael was the first to notice Doran decline the hill. He stood up, lifting Alani into his arms so she didn’t get too close to a particularly attractive razor blade that caught her attention, before shaking hands with Doran.

“Nice to see you, brother,” he said, smiling.

“You, too.” After sending Akkael to Urkanza, just before the birth of his daughter, Doran had been reluctant to bother him with any other tasks that involved securing the future of his father’s legacy. Instead, he relied on Magar and Skane for most of the statecraft. As a result, Doran hadn’t seen Akkael in many months.

“She’s so big now,” said Doran, raising his hand to Alani’s cheek. She just stared at him, trying to get a read of the relative stranger before trusting him fully.

“I know,” agreed Akkael. “Walking, talking, fighting. She surprises me every day.”

“Mumbling Da hardly counts as speaking,” Astrid interjected, still throwing various weapons out of reach. “And trying to tackle birds to the ground isn’t fighting.”

“Hi Astrid,” waved Doran. Astrid waved back, putting her bucket of axes down and walking over.

“Never mind her,” said Akkael. “She’s just jealous her first word was my name.”

“And he’s jealous the only person she’ll walk to is me.”

Akkael playfully pushed his wife, causing her to thump him hard in the arm. It looked painful.

“Where’s Magar?” asked Doran, not wanting to watch the couple inflict any more pain on each other.

Akkael pointed at the cabin. “Inside making stew. Smells like shit and all the meat is rancid. I don’t know how he survived here for so long.”

“Skane’s here too, which I wasn’t expecting,” said Astrid.

“Skane?” Doran folded his lip downward. Skane was a relatively new addition to his household, having been introduced to everyone by Akkael after his return from Urkanza. Since then, he had become a vital asset, helping Doran secure Torne power in all regions of the world. The king was not expecting Skane to be here, but he supposed it made sense that he was.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Astrid followed Alani’s line of sight, as the baby glared at a spear with unbridled desire. Astrid picked the spear up from the ground and launched it at the cabin just as Magar opened the door. It lodged in the wood above his head.

Astrid, showing no remorse, glowered at the youngest Torne brother. “Your house is a bloody deathtrap, Magar. If Alani survives this trip, it’ll be a miracle.”

Magar shrugged, taking a bite of the apple he had in his hand. “Next time don’t bring her.”

“Where am I meant to leave her, dickhead?” screamed Astrid, exasperated.

Magar swallowed the mouthful of apple he had masticated while deep in thought, before speaking. “Your house.”

Doran, seeing where this pot was about to boil, stepped in between Astrid and the cabin, ready to interject. “Okay, I think that’s enough pleasantries. Now we’re all here, should we move on to why I called this meeting.”

Magar rolled off the doorframe, re-entering the cabin as Astrid tried to bring her rage to an acceptable level, like trickling flour on a weighing scale and hoping the plate wouldn’t drop. Akkael carried Alani inside, stepping over a grappling hook on his way in. Doran trailing behind, rehearsing one last time in his head; committing his lines to memory.

The interior of Magar’s lodge was no better than the exterior. Blood and weapons and deathtraps galore. A stew boiled in the fireplace which permeated the room in a rancid stench, while Skane chopped herbs in a desperate attempt to make the meal smell better. Fruit and veg touched raw meat on the open counter and flies also found their way inside. It was like the house had not been lived in for months. Though, if Magar hadn’t been here for as long as he had, the cabin would probably be a lot cleaner.

Doran threw his heavy bag onto a table in the centre of the room as everyone found a seat. Magar sat on the counter next to where Skane was chopping, while Akkael and Astrid pulled chairs from the dining table to face Doran.

“So,” said Magar, “what’s this about?”

Doran took one last deep breath to calm the aggressive pulse in his neck. “Do you have drinking horns?”

Magar scanned the room, finding three partially clean cups lying on the floor. They were closest to Akkael, who leant over with his one free hand, which wasn’t holding his daughter, and threw each cup across the room. Doran managed to catch two, but the third smashed a glass jar behind him. Skane, still cutting, jumped out of his skin with the shattering sound. He abandoned the chopping board, turning into the room with a scowl. Magar just laughed, not caring about the smashed jar.

Once he retrieved the projectile and set it down with the other two horns, Doran opened his bag and pulled out a bottle of cloudy glass encased in netting, as if it had just been fished from a river. He opened the bottle and poured the drink into all three cups.

The liquid was a strange, murky white. He passed a cup to Magar, Akkael, and Astrid, who each took a sip. Magar nodded in approval, passing the horn to Skane to try. His reaction was the same as Astrid and Akkael, all wincing at the taste.

“It’s very bitter,” said Akkael. “Nice but strange. Is this a new type of mead?”

Doran put on his best marketeer face, a large grin full of teeth, and spoke as if he were trying to sell his wares. “No, it’s not mead. Brothers, and friends, this is a new drink I bought from a trader in Alabaster. He called it sake.”

Skane squinted, swirling the drink inside the horn. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Nor had I,” said Doran. “However, I was curious, so I bought a bottle. Wasn’t the best thing I’d tasted but I liked it.”

“So,” began Astrid, “is this it? A new drink.”

Doran shook his head violently. “No. You see, I kept talking to the trader. You know me, I can go on and on. He was probably sick of me by the end of it. Anyway, I asked about the drink. What’s it made of? He said rice. What’s it called? He said sake. Where’s it from? Then he told me…”

Doran tried to pause for dramatic effect, which didn’t seem to have the impact he was hoping for. He looked at each vacant expression one by one before he continued.

“What if I told you there was a new land?” he said, walking to get a more central position. “A place our father never knew about; a place with new people, culture, land, and their own dead religions.”

Akkael grunted as soon as the old gods were mentioned. “What are you getting at, Doran?”

His lips were getting dry, eyes moving rapidly between everyone in the room. “Edokand; that’s its name. a whole new country for us to explore. Look at what else the trader sold me.”

Doran reached deeper into his back and handed a trinket to each of the cabin’s occupants. Astrid was given a strange, black statue of a creature that looked half lion and half frog. Akkael received a wooden mask with a comical face carved into it. Skane held a strange, painted effigy of some old woman in purple robes, while Magar considered the foldable fan he was given.

“These are all from Edokand. Aren’t they amazing?” he said like an excited child, pointing at his bag. “I have more: books, writing, maps. A whole new world right there for the taking.”

Akkael sighed, setting the mask down before massaging his forehead and handing Alani to Astrid. “Could you take her outside for a minute?” he whispered, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “I need to talk to my brother.”

He looked over at Magar, completely expressionless, before meeting the eyes of the man next to him. “You should probably go, too, Skane.”

Astrid did what Akkael said, opening the door and stepping out. Skane did the same, running his hand down Magar’s back and arm before leaving the cabin. Akkael and Doran both caught it, each raising the same eyebrow.

When the door closed behind them, Doran turned to both of his brothers, without whom his ambitions would never come to fruition. He tried to hide how heavy his breathing had become, hoping they wouldn’t notice the beads on his forehead.

“You have questions,” he croaked.

Akkael, however, was still distracted by Magar, leaning against the counter and sucking the juice from the apple browning in his hand. “Actually, I have a question for Magar first; what’s happening between you and Skane?”

If Doran hadn’t also been hiding signs of his own fear, he might not have noticed the same efforts in Magar. The tension in his neck, the quick and subtle pause, and the movement in his throat as he swallowed his phlegm; all pointed to a man who desperately wanted the next few inevitable moments to be over as soon as possible.

Magar pulled away from the apple, speaking with a mouthful. “We’re together.”

Akkael tilted his head like a confused dog. “Like together, together?”

“Yep.”

Akkael shook his head, infuriated. “How long?”

“Couple of months,” said Magar. “Why? Got a problem?”

A silence fell over the room for a short moment and Doran, as the eldest brother, felt it was his turn to interpose. “Well, there is a bit of an age gap between you two.”

“So-”

Akkael managed to cut Magar off in the middle of such a small word. “I don’t even care about that part. Why Skane?”

“What do you mean, ‘why Skane’?” asked Magar, stepping away from the counter.

Akkael seemed not to notice Magar’s change in posture. Even though it was Magar’s cabin, it was built too small, and his head almost knocked against the rafters.

“Well, I just need to know; is this going to be a one-time thing or are you going to fuck all of my new friends?” asked Akkael, exasperated but with a burgeoning smile on his lip.

For some reason, that question seemed to relax Magar. He slouched against the counter again and returned to his apple. “Yet to be seen, I guess.”

“Brothers,” Doran accidentally yelled, “could we get back on topic?”

Silence fell over the three of them as everyone tried to find something to say. Doran watched both of them. Bored of his apple, Magar threw the core into a bowl on a pile of dishes, while Akkael looked back at the mask.

The carved face was smiling, but the wrinkles made it look almost nefarious. A long black moustache was painted around the mouth hole, while the hair was reminiscent of a child drawing the sky; a thin line at the top that looked incomplete.

Doran wondered what Akkael was thinking. The mask reminded him of those worn by actors in Rhaynese plays, which Akkael loved as a child. It was the reason Doran handed him the mask in the first place, hoping it would manipulate familiarity.

The Rhaynese masks served a very similar function to the Edokand’i ones, as the trader had informed him. Each mask represented a certain character archetype, so the audience knew what to expect. It was also a clever way for one actor to play many roles. When they were kids, it always fascinated Akkael how one man could wear so many faces.

He turned back to Doran, clamped his eyes shut, and exhaled. “You’re a smart man, Doran,” said Akkael. “You know we don’t have the money, the ships, or the warriors for an invasion of a foreign country.”

Doran walked forward, nodding. “Absolutely,” he agreed. “We wouldn’t go straight away. I expect it to be years before we set sail.”

“And in the meantime, what?” said Akkael, raising his arms at his side. “We spend years going abroad, getting rich, convincing people to come; all the while, I’m missing my daughter growing up.”

Doran tried to keep eye contact, but eventually, his head dropped.

“Astrid would be pissed,” continued Akkael. “She’d be stuck here, raising our daughter by herself, as I gallivant across the world as a sell-sword with a sales pitch.”

“I need your help.” Doran tensed his jaw as he stared at Akkael. “This doesn’t work without all three of us, and it needs to work. We’ve worked hard to maintain our father’s influence but we’re just putting out fires. We might have extended our reign for a few years, but that’s it.”

Both Magar and Akkael stared at Doran completely expressionless. They didn’t budge, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. They just listened as the king gave his speech.

“We need to go. Think about what Urkanza did for our father. It secured his position for the rest of his life. He lived comfortably, without hardship or turmoil for decades. That could be us, a life free of turmoil. The truth is, without Edokand, we won’t last the next few years. With Edokand, we have a chance to live forever…”

Every person has a doctrine; kings most of all. A set of ineffable truths they live their lives by and know that, so long as they are followed, good things will happen. As Doran spoke, something awoke inside him, and it was one of the most liberating feelings he’d ever felt. Some kings get jaded towards the rhetoric they are forced to speak, some put no meaning to the words at all. But Doran believed what he was saying with such force that he could say it over and over and it would never lose its meaning.

Doran spoke of the contentment and happiness their conquest of Edokand would bring. It was less painting a picture, and more reading an article. It was fact. Edokand would bring them fortune, make them legends and give them every pleasure they wanted.

He could stop speaking now and his brothers would share a look before nodding in agreement. But he kept going. Akkael may be sceptical, and Magar may be apathetic, but they’d go along with Doran’s wishes because they loved and believed in him. However, Doran kept speaking. It wasn’t a sales pitch anymore. Sales pitches are hard and often contrived. It wasn’t some diatribe of platitudes spewing endlessly from his mouth. Doran kept talking about all the good things Edokand would do for them because it was nice to say.

Edokand would give them everything they ever wanted, and they would be happy there.

https://www.earthislandbooks.com/product-page/the-grief-of-godless-games-by-j-t-audsley

Illustration by @Jen2art

Akkael dropped his bag halfway between the shore and the long hall. He remembered hearing his axe ring against the stone path as it tumbled out, and someone yelled in Rhaynese for him to pick up his rubbish. He didn’t stop, dashing through Alabaster’s streets, without taking in any of it. The tavernas and markets that lay between him and his brother’s home had eyes peering from every crevasse as he sprinted through a stitch up the hill.

The Solstic architecture never quite looked right in any country with a settlement, particularly in Rhayne. Urkanza, from which Akkael had just returned, had its own beauty, but the Northman buildings added a certain gravitas which the traditional structures lacked. In Rhayne, however, that was not the case. The white stone homes were pearlescent and the litany of leisure centres, from amphitheatres to communal bathhouses, showed-off the vibrant and prosperous culture of the Rhaynese.

The Solstic inns, long halls, and businesses felt they had to compensate for the native beauty around them. Doran’s long hall had fifty-four doors around it. The roof looked like an upturned longship but was bigger than any boat the Solstic had sailed with. The outside walls were decorated with round shields, seemingly each painted differently, with iron bosses and rims of identical quality. The courtyard had a training ground stretching an acre, mingling with the inviting aroma of log fires and oil burning in the lanterns circling the palace-sized hall. Orange banners of the Torne family hung from the sides, and each door was intricately carved and expertly painted. It was a home fit for a king. And it was built for one, too. Though not the current one.

Akkael pushed aside thoughts of his lineage, to make way for those of his true legacy. He got to the large, central doors of the long hall and wrapped both fists around the iron knockers. Then he paused. Suddenly his heart was beating fast. It was already hyper from the mile-long sprint through Alabaster, but this was different. It threatened to bring him to his knees or run back down the hill. It told him he wasn’t ready. He was nineteen. How could he be ready? The blood rushed into his ears. The pulse beat against his temples. It was all too fast. Why had this happened? Why was he so stupid?

He massaged his head with the gap between the doors, pressing so hard he could feel the indent forming. Then he felt it; a hand gently glide down onto his shoulder. Another, though heavier and larger, fell on the other side. He turned around and saw his brothers, Doran and Magar.

Magar had gold stubble clinging in patches around his broad jaw, and faint bruising from some fight he’d probably forgotten what caused. His shirt was tight around his arms and chest, and a mead stain dripped from his collar. Doran was the definition of stately, perfectly proportioned for an approachable but fierce leader. A fur cloak cascaded down his back, with a gold clasp keeping it perched on his broad shoulders. He wore his father’s triangular spiral necklace and carried his iron-pronged crown.

It was a short moment before tears formed in Akkael’s eyes, and an even briefer one before he collapsed in their arms. Magar clasped Akkael’s tunic in the embrace, but Doran’s hand hung loose, holding onto his crown which still didn’t sit right on top of his head. They pulled away and spent a few silent moments watching Akkael fluctuate between elation and burgeoning breakdown.

“I’m sorry,” said Doran, finally breaking the silence. “If it weren’t for me, you’d have been here. It must have been a long two months.”

Akkael shook his head. “I volunteered. I… I’m such a… I’m a coward.” His chin hit his chest.

Half a year prior, Akkael’s father passed away, leaving the true influence of the Torne family in question. As a result, King Doran, Akkael’s brother, was left doing damage control as small coups and land grabs were staged all over the vast span of territory their family controlled or enjoyed indirect authority. The biggest of which was in Urkanza. Many small scuffles took place, either from local petty lords or jarls who wanted more control. Since the Urkanzan colony was forged by their father, it was important to retain power, even if Doran wasn’t technically King there. So, Akkael was sent to ensure that.

He was gone so long that he missed the birth of his daughter.

“No, you’re not,” said Doran defiantly, spinning the iron crown in his hand. People always said Doran and Akkael looked alike, it was only at that moment that Akkael saw it. It wasn’t their appearance or any of their features. It was how tortured their minds were and how burdens didn’t suit them. They were alike in one way, at least. The stress they felt at how their lives turned out, both in situations they never asked for, sprung on them too early and without warning.

It was like looking in a mirror.

“She’s beautiful.” Akkael blinked out of that thought and looked up at Magar, towering over both his brothers despite being the youngest. It took Akkael a few moments to compute what he meant. “Looks nothing like you, thank fuck.”

Akkael snickered.

“She’s got Astrid’s eyes,” continued Doran. “But there is a fire behind them; a curiosity that is just so you.”

Akkael snorted and his brothers were polite enough to hide how disgusting he looked, snot and tears streaming down his face. “What’s… what’s her name?”

“She hasn’t got one yet,” said Doran.

“What?” snapped Akkael. “She’s two months old.”

Doran looked at Magar through the side of his eye before continuing. “Astrid wanted to wait until you were back. It’s not that big a deal.”  

Akkael bit down on his cheek, trying to keep from speaking his mind. Eventually, Doran spoke again.

“Don’t be angry at Astrid,” he said. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

He shook his head, trying to jostle loose what he really wanted to say. “I’m not mad at Astrid,” Akkael finally said. “I’m mad at myself. I feel like I’ve lost so much time. She doesn’t even have a name.

Doran clamped down on Akkael’s shoulder one more time. “You will have ample opportunity to make up for lost time. Just don’t waste anymore, okay?”

Akkael felt how dry his throat was, and how tightly his fists were clenched. He couldn’t look in his brothers’ eyes, staring over their shoulders, at the ground, or anywhere else. Eventually, a face appeared between Doran and Magar.

He was far away, trying to keep his distance from the Torne brothers as they spoke. He was almost as large as Magar, but the armour he was wearing helped in that respect. His hair was braided down his back and was shaved at the side. In his hand, he clasped onto the bag Akkael dropped on the road. He wondered how the man had caught up to him so fast, but his chest was heaving as if he had been running, too.

Akkael wiped the tears off his face and snorted the snot dripping from his nose. His eyes were bloodshot but there was nothing he could do about that.

“Brothers; Doran, Magar.” Akkael started, before indicating to each of them in turn, introducing them to the new man behind them. “This is my friend, Skane.”

Skane bowed at them both when they turned around. He didn’t look comfortable doing it and Akkael would have found it funny if he weren’t in such a state. “It’s an honour to meet you, both. You have a lovely home.”

“We met in Ukbul,” said Akkael. “Without him, it’s safe to say, I definitely would not be here.”

Magar looked Skane up and down before raising his chin and grunting. Doran approached, moving the crown into his off hand ready to grasp Skane’s arm. “Nice to meet you, Skane. Welcome to Alabaster.”

Almost as soon as the two men clasped wrists, the cry of a baby burst from inside Alabaster’s long hall. It was stuttered as if she had just woken up. Akkael immediately turned to face the carved doors.

“Let Magar and me give you a tour of the city,” said Doran to Skane, which Akkael barely heard. His brother knew that, when those doors opened, he needed to be alone with his wife and child.

“You gonna be good, ‘Kael?” said Magar.

Akkael gave a thumbs up in confirmation, not looking away from the direction of the crying baby. After a moment’s pause, he felt Magar’s large hand tap him on the back and heard the footsteps of all three men fade away.

The metal of the door handles were cold as Akkael wrapped his hands around them again. He took a moment, trying to calm the stuttering breaths and ignore the log in his throat. He steeled himself, attempting to look ready for his first meeting with his daughter; trying hard to look like the strong husband Astrid had married; wanting to be a dad. With one strong push, he opened the doors.

The interior of Alabaster’s long hall was astoundingly bright. Candles from chandeliers and candelabra flickered with the air let in from the heavy double doors. A hog was roasting on the firepit in the centre of the room, with a mead troth resting next to it, warming the drink in anticipation for the cold winter nights. Rugs made of pelts contrasted the gold-trimmed orange banners that hung from the oak pillars. Beautifully woven tablecloths were a tapestry of knotted patterns and lay on each of the numerous tables that littered the giant hall. Doors and staircases led to rooms that seemed impossibly stuffed into the building, leaving the bulk of the floor plan for the central room which never seemed to sleep.

On a raised dias on the other side of the room sat Doran’s throne. Two round shields flanked the thick chair. It was carved like an obelisk, all right angles and sharp corners. The same knotted patterns as the doors and the tablecloths decorated the throne, and sat upon it, with golden braids and emerald eyes, was Astrid.

She was strumming her cithara quietly and humming. It took Akkael a moment to notice, but in front of her was a crib. The baby inside had stopped crying, soothed by the beautiful melody his wife was playing.

Akkael smiled, squeezing out another tear. She was humming a famous Solstic song, The Homesick Voyager. Eventually, after a while of humming, she started to put words to the tune.

“The sun sinks in the sea or gets filtered in the pines. Songbirds sing the wrong words, but I’m learning all their lines…”

Akkael let the doors close behind him, startling Astrid from her song. She stood, letting the cithara fall to the pillow next to her feet. They stared at each other from across the hall for what felt like an eternity, only interrupted when the baby in the crib began to stir again.

Instincts Akkael didn’t know he possessed kicked in, and he paced around the fire pit to Astrid’s side. He looked in the crib before he was ready, and his heart skipped a few beats.

His baby was loosely wrapped in white cloth, with a brown dress that peaked through the covers. She had a hairless head and large green eyes, glassy and wide, which caught the flickering candlelight. Her fists were balled, lips pursed.

Astrid was smiling in Akkael’s peripheral vision, lifting the baby from the cot and holding it out to Akkael. She offered her to him, but he shook his head, unable to speak. He just stared at her, and she stared back. She wasn’t scared of the man she’d never met, just curious; inquisitive.

Eventually, Akkael was able to croak a few words. “She’s unbelievable.”

Astrid smiled, her marked teeth showing. “I know,” she said. “I’ve told her all about you. Don’t know how much she understood, but still.”

Akkael chuckled, not taking his eyes off his daughter.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” said Akkael

Astrid shook her head a little too violently. “It’s okay. You have no reason to apologise.”

They remained in each other’s company in perfect silence, all three of them, until eventually Astrid broke the silence again. It startled Akkael when she spoke, transfixed by his daughter fidgeting in his wife’s arms.

“So,” started Astrid, looking down at the bald head of the most beautiful thing Akkael had ever seen. “What shall we name her?”

Akkael looked back at Astrid sharply, trying not to let his true feelings the moment. “I thought you were in charge of the name if it was a girl?” he said.

“I know, but none of my ideas seem good enough.” The baby stirred in Astrid’s arms, and Akkael watched her smile. “You’ve always been better at this sort of thing.”

His wife looked at him with the same green eyes as his newborn daughter. He sighed. “Okay.”

He thought for a second about the names of influential women in his life. Namesakes were a long-standing tradition in Solstic culture. Akkael was his uncle’s namesake, Doran was named after their father, and Magar has the name of their grandfather. Every Solstic child is named after someone else. Continuing the tradition with his daughter made sense.

Suddenly a face popped into his head he hadn’t thought of in years. Someone he’d forgotten how to miss but somehow still did. He chewed the name around for a bit, realising how perfect it was.

“How about Alani?”

Astrid turned sharply, carefully finding voice for her concerns. “Are you sure you want to name her after-”

She stopped, seeing clearly that nothing she said mattered to Akkael. His grin reached ear to ear as he stared at the baby in her arms. After a moment she smiled back.

“Alani,” she said, nodding slowly. “It suits her.”

“Yeah,” Akkael agreed, looking at Astrid briefly before returning to Alani.

“Are you sure you don’t want to hold her?” asked Astrid.

Akkael’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates as he looked back at his wife. After a moment of staring silently, he gestured towards Alani with both arms, and Astrid gently passed her over.

Alani was still awake, though clearly exhausted. She was too curious about the new man holding her to sleep. She needed to know more. Doran was right, she had Akkael’s curiosity. It made him smile.

“My Alani.” He said it like he was testing it out. It sounded too perfect. “My baby girl. You will be the greatest thing the world has ever known. You will be strong and courageous like your mother. You will be smart, brave, and kind… and you will live forever.”