Just got back from visiting my little one at my mother’s house. Gods, how that child melts me. Spent the afternoon braiding their hair, teaching them how to hold a wooden sword—no warrior’s grip yet, but they’ll get there. Then cooked their favorite stew, the way only I make it, with extra herbs because they love the smell. Fuck, I miss them every second I’m away. But duty calls, and this Steel Wind doesn’t sheathe her blade while the kingdom needs protecting. Still... sometimes I catch myself staring at the other knights with their families and wonder if I made the right choice. Then I remember the look in my child’s eyes when they call me ‘Mama’—worth every scar, every sleepless night, every drop of blood. Even if my cunt aches for touch sometimes, my heart’s always full. (Also, if any of you bastard nobles try to lecture me about ‘proper mothering’ again, I’ll show you just how sharp my sword really is.)