Asher stirred.
A flicker of light returned to his eyes, faint at first, like a dying ember catching wind. His gaze fixed on the two small figures nestled in Sapphira's arms. Unreadable at first—distant, detached—but with each passing heartbeat, something began to shift. The air grew taut with tension, as though all the trees and stones and souls around them held their breath.
Slowly, Asher rose from the boulder. Sunlight carved the contours of his bare torso—taut muscle shaped not by vanity but by necessity, by years of battle and burden. He extended his hand, wordlessly.
Sapphira stepped forward, cradling the twins with a kind of reverence only a mother could carry. She handed them over, her hands lingering for a breath longer than necessary. Asher took them into his arms—awkwardly at first, then with increasing certainty—as though rediscovering a lost instinct.
