The heavy doors of the imperial chamber creaked open as a messenger rushed out.
Illena cradled the child against her chest, her fingers tracing the damp curve of his tiny head. His silken silver hair, just like his father's, clung to his scalp, wet.
His flushed cheeks pressed against her bare skin. Despite the ordeal she had endured, a weak smile could be seen on her face, her emerald eyes—still fever-bright—locked onto the fragile life in her arms.
"He's perfect," she murmured, her voice hoarse and cracked from hours of screaming.
Selvia dipped a cloth into a basin of warm, herb-infused water, wringing it out before gently dabbing the Empress's sweat-slicked brow.
"He is my lady, he is the future of this empire."
The midwives moved, their hands stripping the soiled linens from the bed, replacing them with fresh, warm sheets. A maid approached cautiously, carrying a tray with a goblet of honeyed wine and a bowl of thick, nourishing broth.
