Two weeks after Ana's birth, Iron Hearth had begun to grow accustomed to the sound of a baby's cry in the west wing.
That morning, Arvid no longer panicked every time his daughter cried—at least, not as severely as he had on the first day. He sat on the edge of the bed, carefully cradling Ana, while Rhea lay beside him, her eyes half-closed but alert as always.
"She's hungry again," Rhea murmured.
"How can you tell?"
"Because she's clenching her fists. Look." Rhea pointed to Ana's tiny fingers, gripped tight. "That's the sign."
Arvid observed his daughter with intense focus, as if he were examining a rare specimen. "I never read about this in any of the books."
"That's because you read history books, not baby manuals." Rhea took Ana from Arvid's arms and began to nurse her. "You need to read more useful books."
"I'll look for some in the library."
Rhea let out a huff—a sound that was almost a laugh. "The library won't teach you how to be a father."
