Tears stream down my face, though whether from pain or relief, I can't tell. Mira wipes my forehead with a damp cloth that feels like heaven against my burning skin.
Outside the cave, the rhythmic scrape of boots on stone tells me the orcs maintain their watch, weapons ready against whatever might emerge from the wilderness. Their low voices carry on the wind—protective, vigilant, foreign words that somehow sound like prayers.
The pressure builds again, different from before. Final. My body knows what it needs to do even as my mind fractures with exhaustion.
"One more." Kaela's voice cuts through the chaos. "You've got this."
I don't have anything left. My muscles shake with fatigue, my throat raw from screaming, my hands cramped from gripping Vargath and Brittany like lifelines. But something deeper than strength takes over—something primal and ancient that doesn't care about my limitations.
I scream and push with everything I have left, every fiber of my being focused on this single, impossible task. The world narrows to fire and pressure and the desperate need to bring this life into existence.
And then?—
A cry. Sharp. Alive. Furious.
The sound hits me like a physical blow, so perfect and real that I sob before I can stop myself. My body goes limp against the furs, every muscle releasing at once as relief floods through me.
"There we go." Kaela's voice carries pure joy as she lifts something small and red and writhing. "Look at him. Look at your son."
She places him against my chest, this tiny, slippery creature who's been living inside me for months, and suddenly he's real.His skin is dark like mine but with Vargath's olive undertones, and he's covered in blood and vernix and absolutely perfect. His cries fill the cave, demanding and alive, and I can't stop laughing through my tears.
"Hello, little one," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Hello, my brave boy."
Vargath drops to his knees beside us like his strings have been cut. His hands hover over the baby, shaking so violently I can see the tremor from here. When he finally touches our son—just one finger against the tiny fist—his breath catches audibly.
"He's so small," he says roughly, wonder thick in his voice.
"He's perfect," I correct, shifting the baby slightly so Vargath can see his face better. "Look at his eyes."
Dark eyes, already focusing with that intense newborn stare that seems to see everything and nothing at once. He quiets at the sound of our voices, tiny mouth working as if he's trying to speak.
Vargath leans down slowly, his massive frame folding until his lips brush against my forehead. The kiss is feather-light, reverent, like he's afraid I might shatter if he presses too hard. When he pulls back, his dark eyes shine with something I've never seen before—pure, unguarded joy mixed with awe.
"You did it," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "You were magnificent."
I laugh, the sound hearty and genuine despite my exhaustion. "Magnificent? I screamed loud enough to wake every predator within ten miles and probably crushed your hand to powder."
"You gave me a son." His gaze drops to the baby nestled against my chest, tiny fist curled around my finger. "I've seen warriors charge into battle against impossible odds, but what you just did..." He shakes his head, wonder clear in his expression.
"What I just did was survive something you couldn't even attempt." I shift the baby slightly, wincing as my body reminds me of everything it's just endured. "Let's see you push something the size of a melon through an opening the size of a grape."
Vargath chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest like distant thunder. "You're right. I'm man enough to admit I'd probably faint at the first contraction."
"Probably?" I raise an eyebrow, grinning despite my fatigue. "You went pale as winter snow just watching."
"Fair point." He reaches out tentatively, stroking one finger along the baby's downy hair. "I'd have been useless. Good thing you're tougher than any warrior I know."
The baby makes a soft sound, mouth working against my skin as he searches for food. Everything about him feels impossibly delicate—his paper-thin eyelids, the translucent quality of his fingernails, the way his tiny chest rises and falls with each breath.
"He's hungry," I murmur, adjusting my position carefully.
Vargath's arms come around both of us then, enveloping us in warmth and the familiar scent of leather and steel. His embrace is gentle but protective, like he's creating a fortress with his body alone.
"Rest now," he says softly, lips brushing against my temple. "Both of you. You've done enough for one lifetime."
I lean into his strength, feeling the last of my adrenaline drain away. The cave suddenly feels smaller, cozier, filled with the quiet sounds of our breathing and the baby's contented murmurs.
36
