Destiny had already chosen where this would end, and Val-Theris would see it coming far too late to change it.
TWENTY-SIX
The chamber smelled faintlyof a soft rain. A brazier burned low in the corner, filling the room with gold light that shimmered against the marble. Jesenia sat near the fire, one hand resting lightly on her abdomen, the other nervously fraying the edge of her shawl.
The woman they’d summoned, Marise—one of the oldest Lunarethians and the last living midwife from the country—stood before them with her head bowed, her hands folded against her apron. Her skin was lined like dried riverbeds, her hair silver and braided with twine.
Rohannes stood near the door, silent and watchful. Val-Theris paced. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but sharp.
“You’ve delivered children before?”
Marise nodded, her voice rasping with age. “More than I can count, my lord. From mothers who had nothing left but faith and dirt.”
“And they lived?”
“Most.”
“Most,” Val-Theris repeated, his tone clipped. “Most is not good enough for me.”
“Nor to me, Majesty,” she replied evenly. “But birth is not a thing men can command.”
“Enough,” Jesenia said softly, rising from her chair. “Val-Theris, please.” She crossed the room and touched his arm. “This is Marise of Lunareth,” she said, her voice gentler now. “I’ve known her since I was born. She brought half our village into the world, including me. She’s never lost one without fighting the gods for it.”
Marise inclined her head humbly. “I remember you, little Jesenia. Your mother would be very proud of the woman you’ve become.”
Something in Val-Theris’s expression flickered, that brief vulnerability only fear of fatherhood could summon. But still, his tone remained cool. “Do you understand what is at stake, Lady Marise?”
The midwife hesitated. “I do, my lord.”
He stepped closer, the light from the brazier cutting across his features. “If word of this child reaches the wrong ears, the council will turn on her—and on your people. This is not simply a request for you to deliver this child, but to carry this secret.”
Marise’s voice was steady. “I understand.”
“Then you will swear an oath of silence. You will tell no one what you see here—not your kin, not your gods.”
The woman looked up at him, her eyes sharp despite her age. “You think I’d endanger her or her unborn child?”
Val-Theris stilled. “I am not a cruel man, but trust is not so easy to come by in my position.”
A long silence followed. Rohannes shifted his weight, eyes flicking between them.
Finally, Jesenia spoke, her voice firm. “I trust her,” she said to the king. “She is our only hope of ensuring this child is healthy while I carry them, and frankly, the only woman I’d trust to help me deliver.”
Val-Theris turned to her, his face softening in the firelight. The fury that had simmered beneath his restraint ebbed into something closer to sorrow. “You know I would burn the world to keep you safe,” he said.
“I know,” she whispered. “But I do not want our child to be born into ashes.”
Silence followed again, and Val-Theris approached her, placing a soft kiss to the crown of her head before his eyes settled once more on the midwife. “You will be compensated for your discretion.”
Marise bowed her head. “You’ve been blessed, you know. Not by your Val-Or or your crown, but by her. The Light loves to pretend it makes miracles—but I’ve come to learn that sometimes miracles are just true love in disguise.”
The king paused, the words catching him like a blade slipping between armor plates. He didn’t answer—only inclined his head faintly before he escorted the woman out of the palace himself.
When the door shut behind him, Jesenia exhaled, sinking into her chair again, her hand instinctively finding her belly.
Rohannes lingered, studying her. “Forgive me for saying so, my lady,” he said, “but I think you’re the only person alive who can break through his stubbornness.”
She smiled faintly, eyes tired but warm. “It’s because he knows I don’t speak to a king or a god. I speak to Val-Theris.”
