“Then stop counting internally.”
I didn’t stop. I simply stopped reporting the results.
The birthing chamber was warm.
The bed was oversized, built for exactly this purpose, and Mira lowered herself onto it with the careful coordination of a woman whose body was doing several impossible things at once.
Percy arrived with the midwife, a lycan woman named Orinne who’d delivered more pups than anyone in Veyndral’s recorded history. She assessed Mira with the efficient calm of a professional who’d seen this thousands of times and still treated each one as singular.
“The heartbeats,” Orinne confirmed, hands on Mira’s belly. “All strong. The first is already in position.”
“How long?” Lucian asked.
“Lycan triplets? Could be hours. Could be less.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Birth doesn’t operate on your schedule, Your Majesty.”
Mira laughed through a contraction, which turned into a groan, which turned into a string of words I chose not to catalogue for the sake of diplomatic record.
Percy positioned himself on her right side. Pressed his mouth to her knuckles and stayed there. Lucian took her left. His hand engulfed hers, and through the bond I felt his emotions: terror dressed in composure.
I stood at the foot of the bed. Orinne beside me. The position of assessment. The vantage point that allowed me to see all of it.
The hours passed. Mira cycled through pain and fury and dark humor.
Orinne checked again. “First one is ready.”
The room shifted. Percy tightened his grip on Mira’s hand. Lucian leaned forward. I remained where I was.
“Push,” Orinne said.
Mira pushed.
The sound she made wasn’t a scream. It was deeper, primal. The effort contorted her face into an expression I’d never seen on her before. Not in battle or in the compound. Not in any of the horrors she’d survived.
Percy was murmuring in her ear. Encouragement, endearments, words I couldn’t hear clearly but could feel through the bond. Lucian hadn’t spoken. His knuckles were white around her hand and his eyes never left her face.
“Again,” Orinne said.
Mira pushed again. And the sound that followed wasn’t hers.
A small cry.
Orinne lifted the first baby.
“A girl,” she said.
Mira’s sob broke through the room before the words had fully landed. Her head dropped back against the pillow, tears streaming, and through the bond the emotion that hit me was so concentrated I had to brace against the bedframe.
“Mireille,” Mira whispered. “Her name is Mireille.”
Percy pressed his face into Mira’s hair. His eyes were red and his shoulders shook.
There was no time to hold her. The second contraction came hard and fast, and Orinne passed Mireille to the attending nurse while Mira bore down again.
The second baby arrived twelve minutes after.
