March 7, 1810
Regine studied her son – her only son, her only child. She studied his Change, the echo of her father, all those years ago, muttering in the back of her mind.
She took three measured breaths, and then a fourth. “You are my son.”
She affirmed this truth, in case anyone had any doubt. “We will find an appropriate Mentor for you, who can teach you what I have not.”
“If there is anything you have not taught me.”
“I am certain I have missed, perhaps, one or two things.” Regine did not touch easily, but she made herself touch the fluted, fin-like ears that his Change had brought. “You are my son.” She did not know if she was reassuring him, or herself.
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