The Marches hum under my feet—a low, steady pulse.
Somewhere far away, Dagan is in the thick of battle, and here I am, about to help deliver a half-Dragon baby in a magical fortress that changes hallways when it thinks I look tired.
Wild.
“Alina,” Delia says suddenly, glancing up at me. “You good with charts and tracking? Timing contractions, pulse, that sort of thing?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “Spreadsheets are kind of my love language.”
“Great.” She thrusts a slate and chalk into my hands. “You’re on timing duty. And observations. Anything weird, you mark it.”
“Define weird,” I mutter, but I move to Jules’ other side.
Her hand shoots out and grabs mine, squeezing hard.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” she grits out as another contraction hits. “You leave, I hunt you.”
“Okay, staying,” I say quickly. “Definitely staying.”
She squeezes her eyes shut and breathes through it, Delia counting softly under her breath.
When it passes, Jules sags back, chest heaving.
“Sorry,” she mutters. “I’m… not usually murdery.”
“Girl, you’re in labor,” I say. “You get a free pass.”
Her lips twitch. “What part of Jersey you from?”
“Hudson County. Born and raised.”
“Figures,” she says. “All the best trouble is.”
The room hums with movement and murmurs, the air thick with steam and the sharp scent of herbs.
Somewhere down the corridor, I hear the scrape and thump of the birthing chair being hauled up from the depths.
I glance toward the massive doors leading out of the room.
No sign of our men, the other Lords, yet.
No message stone flaring to life with news from Stone’s Edge.
My bond with Dagan thrums low and steady—strained, but still there.
Still alive.
“Hey,” Delia says quietly, noticing where I’m looking. “You feel him?”
“Yeah,” I answer, throat tight. “Like… a pressure. Low-grade quake that won’t settle.”
“Good,” she says firmly. “That means he’s still out there fighting. And that means we do our job here.”
“Our job,” I echo.
Helping bring new life into a world that’s literally fighting for its own.