The twins grow stronger. I feel them constantly now—two distinct presences, two heartbeats alongside my own. Our son is calm in a way he never was before, the curse's absence leaving him peaceful. Our daughter is bolder, no longer hiding, her kicks growing stronger every day.
The mystic says another month. Maybe six weeks.
I'm not ready to be a mother. Don't know if I'll ever be ready. But I'm going to be one anyway, and somehow that feels right. Like everything that came before—the violence and the fear and the betrayal and the breaking—was leading here. To this moment. To this family we're building from the wreckage.
Rhystan and I don't talk about forgiveness anymore.
We don't need to.
It's there in the way he brings me tea every evening—just chamomile, always just chamomile, and I've stopped checking.It's there in the way I let him hold me when the rage gets too big, let him see me at my worst without fearing he'll use it against me. It's there in the slow, patient rebuilding of trust that happens not through grand gestures but through a thousand small moments of choosing each other.
He lied to me. Drugged me. Made decisions about my body without my consent.
I love him anyway.
And maybe that's not weakness. Maybe that's just what love is—seeing someone's worst and choosing to stay. Watching them break everything and believing they can put it back together. Giving them the chance to be better, and holding them accountable when they're not.
We're not fixed. We might never be fixed.
But we're together. And right now, that's enough.
40
Rhystan
The contractions start at midnight.
I'm half-asleep when Kess goes rigid beside me, her clawed hand suddenly crushing mine hard enough to grind bone. The sound she makes isn't quite a scream—more like a growl that builds from somewhere deep in her chest and escapes through clenched teeth.
"Kess?"
"It's time." She breathes the words through another wave of pain. "Get the mystic. Now."
I'm out of bed before she finishes speaking, yanking on pants with hands that won't stop shaking. Three hundred years old and I'm trembling like a boy at his first battle. But this is different. This is everything.
The mystic is already awake when I reach her chambers—probably felt the shift in the castle's energy, the way she feels everything. She takes one look at my face and starts gathering supplies.
"How far apart?"
"I don't know. Minutes. She just—it started suddenly."
"First births are rarely sudden." She hands me a stack of clean linens. "More likely she's been having small contractions for hours and didn't want to worry you."
That sounds exactly like Kess.
We make it back to find her on her feet, one hand braced against the bedpost, breathing in controlled bursts that fog the cool night air. Her scales are visible even in the dim candlelight—black and gold rippling across her shoulders as her body works through another contraction.
"Lie down," the mystic orders.
"I can't." Kess's voice is strained. "Lying down makes it worse. I need to move."
"Then move. But let me check how far along you are."
What follows is the longest night of my very long life.
Kess labors for hours.
She paces the room, pausing every few minutes to grip whatever's nearest—the bedpost, the windowsill, my hand—while contractions roll through her. The sounds she makes are barely human, growls and snarls mixed with something more vulnerable underneath. Her gold eyes are wild, pupils blown, the curse inside her responding to the stress with surges of rage she has to fight to control.
