The door opens without ceremony, and Maedra shuffles in carrying her usual tray of steaming tea and suspicious-looking herbs. Her gray-green face takes in my pallor with the practiced eye of someone who's seen too many difficult births.
"You look like death chewed you up and spat you back out."
"Charming bedside manner." I ease back against the pillows, trying to find some way to sit doesn't make my spine feel like it's being twisted by invisible hands. "I need fresh air. Real air,not this stale temple atmosphere that tastes like old prayers and regret."
Maedra sets down the tray with deliberate care, her ritual scars catching the firelight. "Fresh air won't cure what ails you. And stepping outside these walls will cure you permanently—of breathing altogether."
"I can't stay cooped up like this forever." My words come out bitter and sharp, frustration bleeding through my carefully maintained composure. "I'm dying by inches in here, and you keep bringing me tea that tastes like punishment."
"The tea keeps your blood strong and your child healthy." She pours the steaming liquid into a clay cup, the scent of bitter herbs filling the small space. "Drink."
I accept the cup reluctantly, inhaling the medicinal steam. "For my own good, I suppose?"
"Everything I do is for your good. Whether you're wise enough to see it remains unclear."
The tea burns going down, coating my throat with the flavor of earth and something darker I can't identify. But as the warmth spreads through my chest, the tightness in my lungs eases fractionally.
Maedra watches me drink with the intensity of a hawk studying prey. The lines around her eyes deepen with something that might be worry, though she hides it behind her usual gruffness.
"The cramps are getting worse," I admit quietly, setting down the empty cup. "And I can't seem to catch my breath anymore."
Her weathered hands fold in her lap, but I catch the way her fingers tighten. "Your body prepares for what's coming. Nothing more."
"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"
"Truth rarely is."
I shift against the pillows, trying to ease the persistent ache in my back. Through the small window, I can see the flicker of something bright beyond the courtyard walls—not torchlight, but something cleaner, more intense.
"What is that flame outside?" I ask, nodding toward the window. "It's been burning since I arrived, but I've never seen anyone tend it."
Maedra follows my gaze, her expression shifting to something almost reverent. "It is no ordinary fire. It lives."
"Lives?"
"Burns without fuel. Grows brighter when you move through the temple. Dims when you sleep." She turns back to me, her ancient eyes holding depths I can't fathom. "It knows you're here."
The baby kicks hard against my ribs, as if responding to her words. I press my hand to the spot, feeling the restless movement beneath my skin.
"That's impossible."
"Many impossible things walk these halls now." Maedra begins gathering her empty vessels with practiced efficiency. "The question isn't whether it's possible. The question is what you'll do when the impossible demands an answer."
I shift restlesslyon the narrow bed in search of comfort, settle into a position that doesn't send shooting pains down my spine or make my ribs feel like they're being crushed from the inside.
The sensation creeps over me gradually—that prickle between my shoulder blades that means someone's watching. I turn toward the door, expecting to see a shadow in the corridor, but there's nothing. Just empty stone and flickering torchlight.
Yet the feeling persists. Intensifies.
It's ridiculous. Vargath hasn't been here since that awkward encounter in the bathing chamber, when he stared at me like I was some puzzle he couldn't solve. Since then, nothing but silence from the man who put this child in my belly and then walked away without a backward glance.
But I can almost feel his presence anyway—that particular weight to the air when he's near, the way my skin seems to hum with awareness despite my better judgment. It's as if he's standing just outside my peripheral vision, watching over me with that intense, unreadable stare.
"Stop being ridiculous," I mutter, rolling onto my side and immediately regretting it as the baby protests with a sharp kick to my bladder. "He made it clear he wants nothing to do with this."
I punch the pillow, trying to mold it into something resembling comfort. The fur coverlet tangles around my legs, too warm but somehow still leaving me shivering. Every position feels wrong—on my back makes me dizzy, on my side cramps my hips, sitting up makes my spine ache.
The phantom sensation of being observed follows me through each restless movement. I find myself glancing toward the small window, half-expecting to see a familiar silhouette against the strange eternal flame that burns in the courtyard. But there's only empty night beyond the glass.
