The palace was quiet when the labour began.
Lysa had been feeling the first twinges since dawn, but she had said nothing. She had learned, in her years as a servant, that pain was private. That showing weakness meant inviting cruelty. That the world did not care about the suffering of those who scrubbed floors and emptied chamber pots. But Rowan had seen it in her eyes—the tightening of her jaw, the way her hand pressed against her belly—and he had insisted.
Now, hours later, the birthing chamber was full of heat and candlelight and the sound of a woman's breathing. The fire crackled in the hearth. The healers moved with practiced efficiency. Bryn stood at the foot of the bed, her hands steady, her voice calm.
Seren stood at the door. She had been summoned, though she had not been needed. Bryn was inside, and the healers, and Rowan, and Lysa. She was not necessary. She was not family, not really. But she had come anyway, because Lysa was her family in every way that mattered.
