Ryan“Good morning, darling. How are you feeling today?” My mother's voice floats in from the open door. Glancing at the doorway briefly, I watch my guards bow as they let her in. Dressed in an emerald green dress, she moves with the type of dignity that has been honed from age.“Mother,” I mutter in greeting as she steps in front of me, bringing up her hand to cup my cheeks.Snapping a finger at my guards, they shut the door to give us some privacy. My attention is drawn back to my mother when she pulls my head down—due to the height difference—to plant a kiss on my forehead.As she steps back, she begins fussing over my ceremonial robe, and even though it makes me feel like a child, I let her.She had single handedly raised me up after the death of my father in a war twenty years back. I was two years old at the time but I can still remember how she went to bed every night, crying herself to sleep. And even with her weakened state, coupled with the loss of her mate, she still some
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