“Blessings,” said another.
She answered them softly, nodding, pausing when she could, though the weight of their attention pressed heavier than usual today. Desperate, almost painful in its intensity.
She turned down a narrower lane where the stone darkened with age and dampness. At the end of the lane stood a makeshift tent, painted with a simple symbol of a crescent moon. She stopped before it, resting her palm briefly outside as she steadied her breath and peeked inside.
“Come in,” came a voice from within, low and steady. Jesenia smiled faintly and pushed the linen open.
Marise sat inside atop a pile of hay and dried leaves. Her hair, once black as obsidian, had faded to silver, braided and bound at the nape of her neck. Her hands were strong and sure, stained faintly with ink and herbs, her eyes sharp with a kindness that did not dull with time.
“There you are,” Marise said, setting aside a bowl of steeping leaves. “I was beginning to worry that palace had swallowed you whole.”
“Not yet,” Jesenia replied gently. “Though it’s tried.”
Marise gestured for her to sit, then her gaze dropped at once to Jesenia’s stomach, her expression softening.
“You carry yourself differently,” she murmured.
Jesenia lowered herself carefully onto the cushions. “Ifeeldifferent,” she admitted. “As if I’m carrying my fear in my stomach instead of my child.”
Marise approached slowly, achy knees cracking as she moved closer. She placed both hands gently against Jesenia’s stomach, eyes closing as she bowed her head.
“Ah,” she breathed. “There you are, little river.”
Jesenia’s breath paused.
Marise opened her eyes and looked up at her. “They will be large and healthy, I think. Fitting for the child of a god, hm?” She listened once more. “The spirit of this little one is strong. They press outward, even now.”
“That’s good?” Jesenia asked quietly.
“It means they will not easily cower to the struggles of this world,” she replied. “What of your sickness?”
“Only worse at the smell of meat. I think this babe will be grown on bread alone.”
Marise smiled at that. “The baby will tell you what it wants. If that is bread, then I would give all of my grain to you.”
Jesenia swallowed. “Don’t say such things.”
“But it’s true,” Marise said. “I am old now. I have lived a full life. I have loved. I have lost. I have experienced boundless joy and endless sorrow. I have brought many lives into this world, but I suspect this one may be my last. My dying wish is for this child to play in Lunareth’s river before their world grows bleak. This child is a miracle; you carry proof that love was notlost when our homes fell. Promise me, no—promiseLunareth, Jesenia, that this child will know the strength it came from.”
Jesenia sobbed and wiped her face with her sleeve. “Yes. Yes, I promise?—”
As she spoke, a distant, loud, hollow boom vibrated through the stones beneath them. The two women stood together and stepped out of the tent. The conversations in the street faltered and the refugees searched for the source of the sound.
Another boom followed, closer this time.
Then the bells began to ring. The frantic, uneven toll reserved for only one thing.
Invaders.
Shouts rose from the direction of the gates. People surged instinctively toward shelter, fear cracking through the fragile calm like ice splitting underfoot.
“Korvath!” AHastatiabove them screamed. “Korvath at the gates!”
As he finished his warning, he went limp, falling from the top of the wall and crashing to the refugee quarter below with an arrow lodged precisely in the gap between his plated armor and his helmet.
Jesenia turned from the sight, her breath caught in her throat as smoke rose in the distance, dark against the sky. The ground seemed to shudder beneath her, as if the city itself recoiled from what approached.
Her hand flew to her stomach, instinct overriding thought. The quarter erupted into chaos—children crying, elders shouting instructions, men scrambling to form lines and grab any weapons they could find. Stones. Sticks. One man even pulled the arrow from the fallen soldier and held it like a javelin.
