The golden hues of the late afternoon sun filtered through the towering trees, casting soft rays of light upon the gentle path. Michael walked with quiet purpose; his large, calloused hand wrapped around Rory’s much smaller one. His grip was firm yet tender, a silent promise of protection and love.
He had heard of what happened in the kitchen—of how Rory, in front of Jean and Noloty, had let something slip. A power too young to be understood, a spark of something divine, yet wild. He knew what his father had said. The Almighty’s words lingered like an echo, ever-present in the back of his mind. Yet Michael knew his father too well. He had no doubt of the weight such declarations carried, but he would not let them shape his daughter’s path.
Rory giggled, swinging their hands playfully as she skipped beside him. Her fiery red hair bounced with each step, catching the light in brilliant, flickering strands. Those eyes—those beautifully mixed, swirling colors—held an innocence he vowed to protect.
“Papa,” she called, her voice soft but brimming with joy. “Are we almost there?”
Michael glanced down; his usually sharp, piercing gaze softened by warmth. “Almost, little star,” he murmured.
For a moment, he thought of his own father—the weight of expectation, the burden of duty. But Michael was not just the warrior, the messenger, the angelic force of judgment. Here, in this world, in this moment, he was simply a father. And no decree from the heavens would ever change that.
Bending slightly, he lifted Rory into his arms, twirling her in the air as her delighted laughter rang through the park. Whatever future lay ahead, whatever powers she would one day have to face, he would make sure that she never had to do so alone. @Rory