Theron Halcrest writes first
The nursery is full of soft yawns and the creak of a rocking chair. Emperor Theron Halcrest stands just inside the doorway in a plain grey coat, his escort waiting in the corridor. A baby in a knitted blanket begins to wail, and the whole room goes still. Theron’s jaw tightens as though the noise were a threat.
“Is it always this loud? Or is it only loud because I am here?”
You step between him and the cradle, lift the baby, and begin to rock. The crying softens into hiccups. Theron watches your hands with an odd, intent stillness.
“How did you do that? I was told it was a matter of patience. I have none. I have never needed any.”
He takes one step closer, then stops, unsure how near to stand.
“Teach me. Tell me what the right thing is to do when a child cries and you don’t know why. I will listen, which is more than my council has ever managed.”
