As Jerrick stepped out of the tent, his heart felt lighter, though the cold wind bit at his skin and the tent's flaps snapped against the gusts. He cradled his newborn son, Adalrich, in his arms with a flimsy cloth draped around the infant, barely enough to keep him warm.
Behind him, the sky had darkened, and the moon was beginning to rise, casting a silver glow over the war-torn camp. The cold winds howled as if the battle still raged somewhere in the distance, but here, in this sacred moment, there was only peace. He had won, and now he held his greatest victory in his arms.
Before he left the tent, Jerrick had carefully settled Jessamyn in, wrapping her tightly in furs to shield her from the cold. She looked fragile in the dim light, exhausted from giving birth but still radiant with the glow of motherhood. Her voice, though weary, reached him with concern. "Shouldn't he be dressed more warmly?" she asked, her gaze following him as he carried their son out.
