Sawtooth Spire there's lots of middle ground between the kings and centipedes

phaedra laughed, a burbling sunlit sound that reverberated through every inch of her small body. mahler caught a chuckle in his own throat, but what came next was the fluted roughness of a sob, followed by another, and another, until the gargoyle found he could not stop the hoarse cascade of them.
and so his baby daughter blurred from sight, and mahler choked upon a deluge of saltwater so unfitting for her but so befitting her long-dead siblings, and how the memory of holding them so had long faded from the hallways of his heart.
poor phaedra, to be so showered in sorrow at the very apex of her heartfelt giggling?
would he ruin all things? oh — mahler gathered himself and swallowed and smiled blearily at the new-made little cub.
"it is good to hear you laugh, phaedra."