The darkness pulled back.
Ragnar blinked, inhaling sharply as light flooded his vision.
The scent of pine and fresh earth filled the air, mingling with the faintest trace of burning firewood.
It was warm.
The kind of warmth that seeped into his skin, wrapping around his bones, something he hadn't felt in years.
And then—he heard her voice.
"Ragnar."
His chest tightened.
Slowly, hesitantly, he turned.
And there she was.
Sylvy.
His mate.
His heart.
Alive.
She sat by the hearth, cradling a small bundle in her arms, her silver hair glistening in the dim firelight.
Her golden eyes, always so sharp, so full of fire—now softened.
And in her arms—
Ragnar's breath caught.
Liam.
Their son.
Newborn. Small. Fragile.
His tiny chest rose and fell with each breath, his dark curls a mess on his forehead.
Ragnar's legs felt weak.
He knew this moment.
He knew this day.
It was the day before it all fell apart.
The day before Sylvy died.
Ragnar didn't move.
