Chapter 45: TWENTY-FOUR HOURS

Lyria said yes at breakfast.

"Yes," she said, over porridge, like she was agreeing to extra honey. "To the simulation. Twenty-four hours. Let’s do it."

Vael stopped chewing. "Now?"

"Now’s good. The inn’s quiet. Toma’s at the mill. Morrigan’s —" she glanced at the general, who was oiling the poleaxe, "— available."

"Lyria. It’s a *baby*. Simulated."

"It’s *opt-in*." She smiled. "You said it was my decision. All of it. I’m deciding." She stood, stretched, and addressed the counter: "Module. We accept."

The crystal DINGed — the brightest DING it had ever produced, the beige going almost gold:

[SIMULATION ACCEPTED.]

[The module is delighted. The module does not get delighted often.]

[Initializing SIMULATION UNIT 1...]

[Warning: fully realistic. Feeding. Crying. No sleep. The module repeats: no sleep.]

There was a shimmer above the counter — pink-beige light, folding in on itself — and then, in a wicker basket lined with blankets, a baby.

It was small. It was wrinkled. It opened its mouth and produced a sound like a siege horn at dawn.

"Oh no," Vael said.

"Oh yes," Lyria said, picking it up with the ease of a woman who’d held her cousins’ babies. "Hello, you." The baby stopped crying. It stared at her. "See? Easy."

She handed it to Vael.

It started crying again. Louder.

"It’s *you*," Lyria said. "It doesn’t like you."

"It doesn’t know me."

"It knows." She took the baby back. It quieted. "F-minus."

Morrigan appeared at Lyria’s elbow, standing at attention. "MY— LADY. I REQUIRE ASSIGNMENT."

"You’re on diaper duty," Lyria said.

Morrigan saluted. "UNDERSTOOD." A pause. "WHAT’S A DIAPER?"

---

Hour one: feeding.

The module provided a bottle, with instructions projected in the air:

[FEEDING PROTOCOL:]

[1. Warm milk to precisely 37 degrees.]

[2. Test on wrist.]

[3. Offer bottle at 45-degree angle.]

[4. Do not juggle.]

"Who would juggle a baby?" Vael asked.

[The module has seen things.]

Vael warmed the milk with military precision — 37 degrees, tested on wrist, 45-degree angle. The baby drank for thirty seconds, then spat up directly onto Vael’s shirt.

"Biological warfare," Vael said, staring at the stain.

"It’s called spit-up," Lyria said, taking the baby. "It’s normal."

"It’s *my* shirt."

"You have other shirts."

Hour three: the first nap. Or rather, the first *attempted* nap.

The baby slept for eleven minutes. Then woke screaming.

"WHAT’S WRONG WITH IT?" Vael asked, at full volume, which made the baby scream louder.

"You’re loud," Lyria said. "It’s loud because you’re loud."

"I’m not—" He lowered his voice. "I’m not loud."

"You were loud."

Seraphina, documenting from the corner, wrote: *Hour 3: host discovers volume control. Progress.*

Hour six: diaper duty.

Morrigan emerged from the succession chamber — designated changing station — with the expression of a soldier who’d survived something.

"REPORT," Vael said.

"THE — THE SITUATION —" Morrigan removed her gloves with tongs. "IT’S BIOLOGICAL. IT’S —" she swallowed, "— EXTENSIVE."

"Did you complete the change?"

"I DID. BUT AT WHAT COST." She sat down heavily. "MY— MANAGER. I HAVE HELD A PASS AGAINST THREE BATTALIONS. THIS WAS WORSE."

"The baby’s fine," Lyria called from the rocking chair, where the baby was sleeping on her chest. "You’re the one who needs changing."

---

Hour nine: the crying wouldn’t stop.

It had been forty minutes. Lyria had tried feeding. Vael had tried rocking. The module had projected seventeen different soothing techniques, all of which the baby rejected with the discernment of a food critic.

"MY TURN," Morrigan announced.

She took the baby — carefully, the way she’d practiced — held it at arm’s length, and barked: "AT EASE, SOLDIER!"

The baby screamed louder.

"IT’S NOT RESPONDING TO COMMAND."

"It’s four months old," Vael said. "Simulated."

"RANK IS IRRELEVANT. DISCIPLINE IS UNIVERSAL." Morrigan tried again, softer: "...At ease?"

The baby screamed.

Seraphina stepped forward, notebook in hand. "My turn. There’s a theory —" she cleared her throat, "— that infants respond to rhythmic vocal patterns." She began reading aloud: "’Appendix C: On the Varnishing of Charcoal Surveys—’"

The baby screamed.

"It’s the footnotes," Lyria said. "Even I want to scream."

Halric appeared with a cup. "A little ale? For the baby?"

"NO," said everyone.

"What? It’s traditional. My grandmother—"

"Your grandmother," Vael said, "is not our pediatrician."

In the end — at hour ten, with everyone frayed — Vael took the baby, walked to the window, and hummed. Not the bridge song. Something older. A lullaby, half-remembered, from a language he hadn’t spoken in decades.

The baby quieted. Then slept.

The room exhaled.

"What was that?" Lyria whispered.

Vael looked down at the sleeping baby. "...I don’t remember. Something my —" he stopped. "Someone sang it. Once. A long time ago."

Lyria didn’t ask who. She just leaned her head against his arm, and they stood at the window together, with the baby asleep and the night quiet, and Seraphina wrote: *Hour 10: host remembers a lullaby. Origin unknown. Effect: total.*

The module DINGed, very softly:

[Note logged: lullaby. Effectiveness: 100%.]

[The module does not have this song in its files.]

[The module would like to learn it. When the host remembers.]

---

Hour fourteen: the night shift.

The module had been clear: no sleep. The baby woke every two hours, screaming, and Vael — who had once stayed awake for six days during a siege — discovered that a siege was *easier*, because at least the enemy had the decency to attack on a schedule.

At 2 AM, he walked the hallway with the baby, humming the bridge song. The baby screamed.

At 3 AM, Lyria took over. The baby screamed.

At 4 AM, Toma — who’d come back from the mill late and refused to leave — took the baby, tucked it against his shoulder, and sang. Not the bridge song. A mill song, soft and tuneless.

The baby stopped crying. In thirty seconds, it was asleep.

Vael and Lyria stared at him.

"What?" Toma whispered. "My cousins. I’m good at this."

"He’s ten," Vael whispered.

"He’s *experienced*," Lyria whispered back. "Let him work."

Toma rocked the baby for an hour. When he handed it back, he said: "For the record: you’re doing it wrong. You hold it like a weapon. Hold it like —" he demonstrated, "— like it’s already safe."

Vael held the baby the way Toma showed him. The baby sighed — a tiny, contented sound — and slept.

"Oh," Vael said quietly.

"Oh," Lyria agreed.

---

Hour twenty-four: dawn.

They were wrecked. Vael had spit-up on both shoulders, Lyria had dark circles, Morrigan was asleep sitting up (at attention), and Seraphina’s notebook had seventeen pages titled THE SIMULATION: FINDINGS.

The baby — SIMULATION UNIT 1, Private Waaah, the siege horn — slept peacefully in its basket, oblivious to the devastation it had caused.

The module DINGed — soft, almost gentle:

[SIMULATION COMPLETE.]

[Duration: 24 hours. Sleep obtained by hosts: 3 hours, 12 minutes.]

[Feedings: 8. Diapers: 11. Crying episodes: 14. Moments of quiet: 6.]

[The module has compiled its assessment.]

[Vael Zar Astaroth: Parental Readiness — D+.]

[Lyria Valcrest: Parental Readiness — B+.]

[Note: D+ is two full grades above F-minus. The module has checked: this is the largest single improvement it has ever recorded.]

[Note 2: The host held the baby "like it’s already safe" at hour 19. The module logged this. The module does not know why it’s logging it. It just is.]

"D-plus," Vael said hoarsely.

"D-plus," Lyria agreed. She was smiling — exhausted, radiant. "From F-minus. That’s —"

"A miracle," Morrigan mumbled in her sleep. "MY— MANAGER GOT A D-PLUS..."

The simulation shimmered — the baby, the basket, the bottles — and folded back into light. Gone. Twenty-four hours, dissolved like a dream.

Vael stood in the sudden quiet, in his stained shirt, and felt the strangest thing.

Not relief. Not exactly.

An absence. Small, and specific, and shaped like a weight that had been there for a day.

Lyria saw it on his face. "Hey," she said softly.

"I’m fine."

"You’re not fine. You’re —" She took his hand. "What is it?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I didn’t hate it."

"I know."

"The no-sleep part. The — all of it." He looked at his hands — the sword scar, the kitchen burns, the phantom weight. "I thought I’d be — relieved. When it ended."

"And?"

"And I’m —" He searched for the word. "Pending."

She laughed — tired, warm. "Everything’s pending." She leaned against him. "Ask me again in a month."

"About the simulation?"

"About —" she gestured vaguely, encompassing the basket’s absence, the quiet, the future, "— all of it."

Behind the counter, the crystal glowed — beige, patient, quietly triumphant:

[SIMULATION DATA ARCHIVED.]

[The module notes: the host did not hate it.]

[This is the most important finding. The module has put it in bold.]

[**The host did not hate it.**]

Vael read the bold text. Then he went upstairs — past the dresser, past the wooden box (unopened, patient) — and slept for six hours, the sleep of the just and the profoundly exhausted.

When he woke, Lyria was beside him, and the inn was quiet, and the box was still there.

Soon, he thought. Not now. Soon.

And for the first time, "soon" felt like it was getting closer.