The torches lining the western wall sputtered in silence as the king slipped into the forgotten corridor, where few dared to tread. The passage twisted behind the library of lost scriptures, through an arch framed with blackened ivy and sealed by a door veiled in dust. Only one man had the key to this place—and he carried it not in his hand, but in blood.
King Daemar pressed his palm to the sigil etched into the iron, an ancient symbol of House Valeria, not seen by public eyes for over three reigns. With a low rumble, the seal loosened, and the chamber welcomed him into its belly.
The air inside was still, thick with the weight of whispered oaths and secrets buried beneath layers of stone. No throne, no banners—just quiet and the smell of aged paper and herbs. Here, the king removed the mask he wore to the world: not of metal or cloth, but of duty.
She was already waiting.
The healer woman—Amiria, once a midwife in the outer villages before war tore her home from under her—stood near the makeshift bed. Her hands were pale, gently smoothing cool cloth over the forehead of the pregnant woman lying beneath layered furs.
The Jaka'ar woman.
Dark-haired and silent, her eyes closed in pain, though no scream had yet crossed her lips. Her belly swelled with life, and beads of sweat clung to her brow like dew before dawn.
Amiria turned as she heard the door close.
"Your Grace," she whispered, bowing her head.
Daemar approached quietly, eyes studying the woman on the bed. "How long?"
"She's close," Amiria said, voice soft and careful. "The babe stirs, and her breathing has changed. It could be hours. Perhaps less."
The king nodded once, then looked to Amiria. "Stay with her. Do not leave her side. If she dies, the child must not."
"I gave my word," she said. "And I meant it."
Daemar reached into his cloak and pulled out a silver medallion, one of the king's own signets.
"For your service," he said. "And your silence."
"I need no trinkets," Amiria replied gently. "Only that the girl lives."
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Then if she lives, you will have a place in this court. I swear it."
She inclined her head again and turned back to her patient, wiping the woman's forehead with fresh cloth. Daemar lingered a moment longer, then stepped away into the back chamber—one lit with old lanterns, maps, scrolls, and weapons long out of commission.
There, waiting, was the man who had never been defeated in battle.
Diego knelt at the edge of the firepit, cloaked in a deep violet tunic embroidered with serpent runes, overlaid with sleeveless black steel etched in obsidian glass. He looked up from the dancing flames, then rose with ease, bowing one knee.
"My king."
Daemar sighed. "Must we play this game, Diego?"
The knight smirked and rose. "I suppose not."
"Then pour the wine."
Diego obeyed without question, pulling a dark bottle from beneath a leather satchel and filling two iron goblets. He passed one to the king, then lifted his own.
"To secrets," he toasted.
"To burdens," Daemar countered, and they drank.
The silence between them was not uncomfortable—it was old, familiar, carved from years of surviving together, of bloodshed and cold decisions. Diego had once been nothing more than a mercenary of the far east, a sword for hire with no name and no past. But in war, the king had seen something else—something brutal, yet loyal.
And so, Diego had risen—not through titles, but through victories. The people called him the Black Wolf. But to Daemar, he was simply the man who had never lost.
"I watched her sleep," Diego said after a long pause. "The girl. The Jaka'ar."
Daemar turned. "And?"
"She dreams of fire. She whispered names I couldn't understand. In her tongue, not ours."
"She is not a spy, Diego," the king said.
"Then what is she?"
Daemar's fingers traced the edge of his goblet.
"Hope."
The knight chuckled darkly. "Hope? You speak of hope like a priest. We are surrounded by knives and dying loyalties. Why risk your neck for a Jaka'ar womb?"
"Because my instinct says I must."
Diego stared at him for a moment, unreadable.
"I've seen you follow your instinct into battle," he said at last. "But this... This is not war."
"It is," Daemar answered. "It's the war after the swords go silent. It's the war of birthrights, of lineage, of stories that outlast our bones."
"I see"
"My wives are not yet filled with life,aside their own even those who are…their prophecies are the opposite of men."
"A girl child you mean"
" Aye" King Deeamor adjusts on his seat before continuing " the maiden says it's a boy."
"So you think the Jaka'ar woman child will bring peace?"
"I think her child may be the only thing that stops the storm."
"What storm?"
"Our prophecy,their prophecy, they all have something in common."
"You mean...they're all somehow no different from the flameborn?."
Diego stepped closer, voice lower. "And what if she's lying? What if the baby inside her grows into a dagger pointed at your son's throat?"
Daemar looked into the fire.
"Then I'll raise him myself and teach him the difference."
"You would raise a Jaka'ar child?" Diego asked.
"I would raise a child of two worlds. One that neither side can claim without understanding the other."
Diego sipped his wine, slowly. "And what of your enemies? If the nobles learn of this, they'll call you a traitor."
"Then let them. I have worn worse names."
"Bold move here my king…..Bold move."He repeated,a glance at the wine jar,his mind switching between having another pour.
"One Ive decided to take….I won't fall like my forefathers"
They sat for a time in silence. The fire between them hissed and popped.
Then Diego said, "If she dies when the baby is born, I'll take the child myself. I'll see him live."
Daemar turned, surprised. "You would?"
The knight's expression didn't change. "Yes, including your heirs.If you trust her that much... then I trust you."
The king smiled faintly. "You surprise me, old friend."
"I'm full of surprises," Diego said, draining his goblet empty.
A loud groan echoed from the secret chamber behind.
Amiria's voice followed, quick and urgent. "It's time!"
The king stood at once, eyes burning with purpose. He handed Diego his goblet.
"Stay. Watch the door."
"Yes,my king."
Daemar pushed into the birthing cell room, the scent of sweat and blood already thick. Amiria crouched beside the woman, coaxing, calming, guiding.
The Jaka'ar woman cried out, her voice sharp and cracked. But there was strength behind it. She clutched the sheets with trembling hands, teeth clenched as another contraction gripped her.
Daemar approached and took her hand.
She opened her eyes—and for a moment, they were filled with something more than pain. Recognition. Trust.
And perhaps... something like forgiveness.
He said nothing. Only held her hand and prayed— not to the flame.
To fate.
To instinct.
To whatever force had whispered to him that this child, born of flame and war, would be more than a symbol.