Mabel’s POVMy son should not be looking at me like that.Newborns are supposed to squint at light, to root blindly against skin, to cry because the world is too loud and too cold. They are not supposed to meet their mother’s eyes with ancient patience. They are not supposed to look… aware.But he does.The cave is silent except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. The Rage is still frozen at the entrance, suspended mid-lunge, its claws stretched toward us, its fury caught like a storm trapped in glass. Dust hangs in the air. Time itself feels brittle.And in my arms, my son blinks up at me.“You look confused, Mama,” he says gently.The voice is wrong. Not loud, not monstrous, just layered. As if several tones overlap beneath the one I hear, echoes speaking beneath the surface.Behind me, someone chokes. I think it’s Alistair. It might be Donald. It might be me.My baby shifts against my chest, settling as though we’re alone in a nursery instead of standing at the edge of annihi
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