Chapter 178 Special
Epilogue Part Three
Gilfred
I did not stay because I failed to leave. I stayed because something in the world kept tugging at me like a thread caught under a claw, gentle at first, then constant, then undeniable. I wandered for a time after Bella’s wedding; I watched the village settle; I sat in sun patches and listened for the cracks in people who needed a quiet witness; and I told myself I was simply waiting for the right life to follow. That was only half true. Jackson is an interesting child. He shifts like breathing. He laughs as if the world owes him joy. He carries ice in his lungs where his father carries heat, and he has Bella’s stubbornness wrapped around him like armour. He is the kind of child who will become a story whether anyone wants him to or not. But he is not the reason I stayed. I watch him now from the edge of the rug, where the stone beneath the boards holds warmth. He is kneeling with a wooden dragon in both hands, pushing it through the air in slow arcs, wings flapping, his mouth open because he likes sound more than silence. His own small wings are tucked in today, which means he is trying to behave, or Bella told him to keep them in, and he decided it was his idea. He stops and looks up at me with that direct, unblinking stare children use when they are trying to decide whether you are real. “Gilfred,” he says, as if naming me is an act of power. I blink once, slowly, and he nods as if we have agreed on something important. Outside the room, the castle moves differently today. Doors open and close softly; a servant carries water down the hall and speaks to another in a murmur. Bella and Damien are in another chamber, behind another door, where voices have been moving in and out for hours. The air smells of sweat, metal and boiling water, along with a faint edge of fear.
Jackson keeps playing, but his eyes flick toward the corridor every few minutes, quick and uncertain. He can feel the shift, too. He is small, but he is not stupid. He carries more awareness than most children because his body is built of things that listen: ice, dragon blood, and a mother who has always noticed what others miss. A war cry from Bella carries down the hall, loud and sudden, causing Jackson to freeze. His wooden dragon drops into his lap, and he looks at the doorway, eyes wide, as his wings flick out without permission, a white flutter of instinct that makes the air near his shoulders cool. “Mummy?” he asks. Another scream follows, even louder this time, and Jackson’s face tightens. He grips the wooden dragon until his knuckles pale. “Why mummy screaming?” he asks, voice small, confused rather than afraid. I walk closer to him across the rug, climb onto the low ottoman beside him, and turn my head toward him so he can see my eyes. Then I chirp, soft and low, the sound Bella always understood as calm. Jackson’s shoulders drop a fraction. He watches my throat as if he’s learning the sound. “She’s okay?” he tries again. I blink slowly, and Jackson swallows. His wings fold in on themselves with effort. He picks up his wooden dragon again and moves it through the air, slower now, careful, like he is trying to keep the world from tipping by behaving. He is a good boy.
The pull in my bones tightens toward the door down the hall. Toward the room where Bella is working harder than she ever has in her life, and where a new heartbeat is preparing itself for life. I have felt it for months. The moment that seed anchored inside Bella, the world changed texture. The air began to hum differently around her. The stone beneath her feet held heat longer. The shadows shifted the way they do when something old is paying attention. I began to curl up on her stomach at night. Not because I needed warmth, Bella’s skin has always carried a kind of coolness that comforts me. I spent a lot of time there because I needed to listen. I needed to be close enough to the rhythm beneath her ribs, close enough to the faint flickers of power that moved through her blood and settled into something new. This child called to me before she had a name. I did not understand it at first. I only knew that when I tried to leave, my feet turned back. That when I perched on the windowsill and tasted the air for other lives, the pull remained. That when Bella slept and Damien’s hand rested over her belly, I could feel it through the room like a signal. This child will be special. Special like storm clouds gathering without asking permission. She will need a witness for her story, and I will be there. I will be her witness.
Jackson nudges the wooden dragon toward me like he is offering it as a bribe. “Play,” he says. I flick my tongue and bump the toy once with my nose, which makes him smile. He pushes it again. I nudge it back. We do this quietly, a simple exchange, a ritual to keep the minutes moving. Another cry sounds down the corridor, and Jackson flinches. His toy stops mid-air. I chirp again, softer, and Jackson looks at me, eyes glossy. “Is baby coming?” he whispers. I blink once, then twice. He nods like he understands and shifts closer to me, his tiny body leaning in, and for a moment, he rests his forehead against the ottoman like he is trying to borrow steadiness from the furniture. I stay still. I do what I have always done. I witness as the castle holds its breath, the young boy prepares to become a guardian, and the world prepares to change.