The big table’s been shoved aside to clear space.
Alaric is on his knees beside Jules, who’s hunched over, one hand braced on a chair, the other clamped around his wrist.
Her face is pale, jaw clenched, sweat beading along her hairline.
“Hey, hey—what’s going on?” I demand, crossing the room fast.
Jules sucks in a breath and glares at Alaric. “Stop looking like that or I’ll throw something at you,” she gasps.
“She’s in labor,” Delia says from Jules’ other side, voice tight.
The former EMT looks worried—really worried.
“Okay,” I say, trying for calm. “I mean, you’ve seen this before, right?”
Delia nods, then shakes her head in the same motion.
“Plenty of human births,” she answers. “But this? This is more. This kid is half Lord of Air. Heir to a magical throne. I—I don’t know if all the same rules apply.” She huffs out a breath. “Oh my God, that sounds crazy when I say it out loud.”
Jules lets out a short, strained laugh that turns into a groan.
“Welcome to our new life.”
“Alright,” I say, slipping into practical mode because if I think too hard about Dagan and SoulTakers and Stone’s Edge right now, I’ll fall apart. “We need help. Clarisse?”
She appears like I summoned her—brown hair braided tight, apron already dusted with flour and herbs.
The woman is everywhere at once.
“Yes, milady?” she asks, eyes sharp.
“Do we have a doctor? A healer?” I ask.
“Of course.” She pauses, assessing Jules with a quick, experienced glance. “But what you need right now is a midwife. I am qualified.”
Her expression softens into something fierce and soothing all at once. “We shall bring up the birthing chair. It has been standing ready since the Eyrie sent word of the pregnancy.”
Delia’s eyes light up with instant relief. “A birthing chair? Yes. That will help so much.”
“I’ll fetch it,” Clarisse says briskly, already turning to bark orders at nearby servants. “More hot water, clean linens, and someone inform the infirmary that we may need an extra pair of hands.”
“Alaric,” Jules pants, tugging on his sleeve. “Breathe. You’re scaring everyone.”
He looks like he’s about two seconds from shifting into full Dragon and trying to fly her to the moon for safety.
“You are in pain, Myrrin. My heart aches with it. How am I to breathe calmly when?—”
“Because I need you to,” she snaps, then softens. “Please, viyen. Be my calm, not my panic.”
He shuts his mouth. Swallows. Nods.
Delia moves to help Jules ease onto a cushioned seat while we wait for the chair.
“Phoebe, can you grab some towels? Extra pillows?” Delia asks.
“On it,” Phoebe says, already sprinting toward the linen carts.
I hover for a second, feeling utterly useless.
