A colorful celebration of life

If he had said those words with a happier tone, with less sadness to them, Eularia would have been excited to learn about his child. But the room was sad, he was sad. And she knew better than to ask when she could meet the child; something in his face, the way he reached for her hand, told her she'd never meet her.

Eularia adjusted the tray of food, so that she could turn to face him. Her fingers twined through his, Okay. She squeezed his hand.

Some part of her imagined this conversation, these thoughts, were why his magic had been so unstable the day prior. It'd seem Magnus Rhysand wasn't as strong as she thought; not as unshakable as he liked the world to believe.

Zita. That's a gorgeous name.