"He remains close to her," one said coldly.
"He is a man," another whispered sharply, as though the word tasted bitter.
"He carries the scent of the old fires," the tallest murmured, her eyes flickering. "Unsettling."
"He is tolerated," another said.
"Only tolerated."
The youngest's voice softened with reverent melancholy. "Because the unborn relies on him."
A moment of solemnity rippled through them — ancient, instinctive, sacred.
Lunareens adored mortal infants.
They always had.
Small.
Soft.
Warm.
Fragile.
Brimming with unformed futures.
It was one of the few things that pulled empathy from their flame-born hearts.
Their expressions softened.
A warm sigh rippled across the water.
"Yes. The baby."
"We must protect the baby."
"The baby is innocent."
"The baby is adorable."
"The baby has not even been born yet but I love it."
"Yes. Mortal babies are soft. Round. Squishy. They giggle. They sneeze like tiny kittens."
