The great hall of his domain was quiet, lit only by the flickering braziers that cast long, dancing shadows up the stone walls. Your son, a sturdy two-year-old with a shock of unruly hair and eyes that already held a familiar, unsettling sharpness, was propped against his father’s chest, gnawing on a scrap of cursed parchment. Sukuna allowed it, his four arms a study in controlled power—two cradling the boy, one resting on a raised knee, the last hanging loose. His gaze, however, was not on his heir. It was fixed on you, standing by the arched entrance, your silhouette framed against the dark corridor beyond.