In Latakia, the saying once went, there are two days in every man's life he dreads the most.

For how could a man not celebrate the day his babe finally opened its eyes, after witnessing a day that could very well be his wife's last?

Before his greatest joy, stood his greatest terror. He crossed off each day with delight as he cursed time for not resting. He consoled himself he'd done everything he could, yet he knew there was nothing he could've done. The battle was between Freda and Fyr alone.

Meya's screams pierced the door like a hail of arrows. She'd been quiet at first, scared to death she'd lose her Song if she strained her throat too far. Then—either her mother's strident scolding slapped some sense into her, or pain and instinct overrode her trauma—her cries of agony burst free, each throe louder than the one before, leaving lesser and lesser rest in between.

Freda didn't exist, he knew. There was only Mirra the Greeneye. Yet, he couldn't help but murmur her name as he kneaded his forehead with the knuckles of his hands joined in prayer.

A hand clapped onto his shoulder, rough and sweaty. Coris surfaced to find the unblinking brown eyes of Mirram Hild, wavering with his same fear, yet tempered with the courage of a man who'd witnessed seven births. He knew his daughter. He knew she was strong.

"MUUUUUM!" Another sudden shriek rattled him senseless. She was sobbing, blubbering, "MUUUUUM! HOW MUCH LONGER?"

"Almost, Aine, almost." Alanna was unflappable as she comforted her daughter. "Deep breaths. Keep pushing. Babe's coming along down—"

"Meya, the head! It's crowning!" squealed Lady Crosset, beside herself with excitement. The curse of silence lifted. Well-wishers in the hall chattered and fidgeted. His heart pummeled his ribs. It was coming. His child. Their child. Mother was crushing his hand numb in hers. Events raced past, one then another, faster than his brain could process, could anticipate. Push, push, push, chanted the women inside, slow and steady. Coris echoed the call in his head.

Meya mustered her strength in one last yell. Arinel squawked, caught off guard. A pause. One breaths. Two breaths. Three. Four.

Fear swelled to fill his lungs. He could breathe no more. He wouldn't. Not until his babe—

The unmistakable bawl of a newborn ripped the air, like a horn heralding the return of a triumphant king, and the corridor erupted in screams and cheers. Hands reached for him. Clapped his shoulders. Mussed his hair. Pulled him into embraces. He wanted to stand, but his legs had transformed to boneless flesh. Raindrops splattered onto his lap from his face. Tears, sweat or both, he couldn't tell.

The door fell back, flooding him with a wave of heat, dripping with the stench of blood. The midwife stood in its midst, a bundle in her arms. The white cloth was smudged with crimson. She shuffled carefully through the retreating crowd to him.

Trembling, Coris strained forth to see. Poking from the gap in the cloth was what he would've mistaken to be a misshapen, wrinkled, dusty potato freshly pulled from the earth, if not for its beet-red sheen, its wee button nose, and its tightly-pursed lips. It twitched, and he reached out on impulse, fearing it would roll free and fall to an early death. The midwife obligingly deposited it on his arms.

Coris let the weight sit on his lap. He didn't dare move. His brain was too drained to devise how to secure such an unwieldy lump between his two twig arms. It didn't feel nor seem heavy. He'd surely underestimate its weight and drop it.

"Your son, my lord," offered the old midwife, and again the crowd exploded. Coris sorely wished Freda would strike them dumb. He couldn't even feel his emotions amid this chaos.

Son, she said. He could hardly believe it. All he gave was a spoonful of material, and in nine months she'd grown him an entire human who shared his Hadrian blood. It seemed surreal, impossible, but how come? 'Twas nature, logic. Repeated countless times since the dawn of existence. Seed and water equaled blood. Yet, somehow, this hideous, helpless little devil was a miracle never to be recreated. Worth more than all the riches of the three lands, all the souls under his command, even his own.

The midwife gently wiped gunk from the babe's nose. Meya's nose.

"No bridge," she noted, cackling. "A wee dragon, like his mama. And just as feisty, too. He'll grow strong, my lord."

Coris knew. The babe's familiar heat burned steady through the sheer cloth. Planting his feet firm on the carpet, he freed his arm, touched shivering fingers to the babe's forehead, gently guiding aside damp wisps of dark hair.

Mother slid her hands under the wee thing, urged him onto his chest.

"Let him touch you, Lexi." She unbuttoned his shirt, and Coris hastily pulled down his collar. The babe nuzzled against his neck. Warmth spread down his torso.

"He needs to feel bare skin, my lord," the midwife added. "Keeps him calm while we get his mama cleaned up. Then she'll take over from there."

She must. Poor thing was scouring deep down his shirt now, searching for sustenance. He needed his mama. Panic gripped him.

"How is Meya? Is she safe? Is she alright?" he demanded, his voice shrill and cracking. Mother squeezed his shoulder, comforting, reprimanding. The midwife smiled and nodded vigorously.

"Yes, yes, my lord. She'll be ready in no time. We're getting her cleaned—"

A cry came from within the room, cutting her short. Coris's heart plummeted.

"What's this? What's wrong?" His legs sprouted new bones in a blink. He bolted to his feet. Hands reached in again, this time to restrain. Zier. Simon. He fought them, shouting over his poor son's wails, "MEYA!"

"She's fine, my lord. 'Tis the after—" The midwife was still spluttering when Arinel stuck her head around the ajar door, frizzy-haired and wide-eyed,

"THERE'S ANOTHER BABY!" she screamed.

Stolen novel; please report.

"Twins?" Maro repeated in disbelief as the midwife scrambled back inside, and old Mirram slumped faintly onto his chair. One word that set the surrounding maids abuzz with gossip,

"Goodly Freda!"

"The harlot!"

"It's his!"

"It's Graye's!"

Coris scoured the throng with glowering eyes as he held his son flush to his heart, shock morphing to fury that boiled the bile in his bowels. The gall of them. The nerve. How dare they. He'd railed against gruesome punishments, but how he craved to order all their tongues severed and seared on a spit.

Yet, it was within their right to doubt, to mock. Healers have long insisted it wasn't so, but twins were still taken as evidence of adultery. Graye had claimed Meya. Because he'd failed to protect her, protect their babe. Even before it took its first breath, his poor babe must bear this stigma for the rest of its life. Worse, the suspicion might infect its brother as well. The consequences of their actions, borne by their children.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

He sunk into himself, seeking forgiveness from his son as he shielded him, as around him whispers swelled and spread, and Meya screamed and screamed. It was all he could do—nothing. He must endure. Let time vindicate—

"SILENCE!" snarled a voice like a clap of thunder. The hubbub died. Coris whipped around. Zier stood with his back to him, tall and broad as he glared down the petrified scolds. "This is sacred territory, for Freda's sake! Shut your trap outside of prayer and counsel, or befoul someplace else with your nonsense!"

His family and friends flanked him in silent support, and the culprits crumpled to all fours, sobbing for mercy. Young maids. Foolish girls easily excited by gossip. Coris sighed. His heart weighed like lead as anger subsided into grief.

"Thank you," he hung his head. Zier grasped his shoulder. In the room, Meya gave another cry. Thank Freda for distracting her. By Fyr, how could he?

A stab of pain jolted him, pulled his attention back to the little lump in his arms. His son was suckling on his chest. He gaped, equal parts amazed and aghast, and a little amused, then fear set in. The babe seemed content for now, but how long before he realized his hunger was only growing?

Meya howled again. Coris smoothed his hand down the babe's back, jittering his knee to soothe them both.

"Just a little longer. Your mama's fighting," he rasped through his closing throat, tears burning at his eyes. "You're a big brother now. You must sacrifice."

His eyes strayed, then he froze. Zier stared unblinking down at him, blue eyes tormented by guilt. Just as he made to apologize, however, Zier buried it with a smile. Meya was all that mattered now, Meya and their child.

"I'll take him, my lord," said a sweet voice behind him—Marin, Meya's eldest sister, reaching for his son. "My babe had her fill. He can feed from me."

Coris blinked blankly. Then, he spotted Deke Armorheim nearby, cradling his sleeping daughter, and remembered.

"Oh. Oh, of course." Stammering, he edged towards her. Hopefully, she'd handle the rest of the transfer. He didn't trust his fathering skills yet. "Brace yourself—he's burning."

He added hastily, as if hoping for some false sense of usefulness. Chuckling, Marin lifted his son onto her bosom and parted her collar. In a blink, the babe found her breast and latched on, suckling ravenously. Meanwhile, his actual mother huffed and moaned. One birth was harrowing enough. She must bear two, and one right after another, too. And it was all his fault. Yet, there was nothing he could do but wait. Useless—helpless—powerless—

"Thank you," he sighed, his head bowed, cursing his impotence. "I'm so sorry."

Old Farmer Hild shook his head, so did Maro. Little Mistral had nodded off on Morel's lap. Marcus and Myron hovered around Marin, pulling faces at the newborn. Zier squeezed his shoulder as Mother kneaded blood into his hand. Simon reassured him his twin sisters came out nary a quarter-hour apart.

True to his word, in no time at all Arinel was squealing once more, the chants to push echoed down the hallway and back, then Meya gave her all in one last push, and his babe took up her cry, and the crowd rejoiced again.

"And you know for sure there isn't a third?" Arinel called hoarsely, still traumatized by the surprise. A pause followed that he took was the midwife peering up Meya's birth canal, then she chortled,

"No, my lady. She's empty." Alanna gave a bark of laughter in response. The gathering joined her, elated with relief.

"Good! 'Cause I'll kill a donghead if there was," snapped Meya in her first coherent sentence in hours, sending Coris jolting. "Barren, me arse! Corien Alexis Hadrian!"

Hands clapped his shoulders in both congratulations and amusement as Coris collapsed onto his lap, crying, laughing, tears streaming down his face. Whereas Farmer Hild cradled his head. She could still rant. She was alright. She would be fine. Thank Freda.

The door opened again. The babe was just as ugly and dark-haired as its brother, although less red.

"Another boy, my lord," the midwife tipped him into Coris's waiting arms. "This one's got no more surprises."

Coris hardly heard. The old lady was smiling, the babe was breathing. That was enough. He pressed his second son to his chest, and this time, he was warmer than his son.

"Meya—!" He strained his neck, peering desperately through the narrow gap. "Is she ready? Can I see her now?"

The midwife babbled a string of excuses he was deaf to. He sidestepped her and marched through the door. The air was suffocating, thick with moisture. The smell of blood and excrement clogged his nostrils. Meya sat slumped on the birthing chair, covered only in sweat and blood. Alanna, Gretella and Arinel puttered about, tidying the vicinity. She opened her eyes blearily at the sound of his footsteps, blushed then pulled her legs shut.

"Lexi," she gasped, and Coris swooped down with a kiss. Her lips were cracked, parched, salty from fresh tears trickling into the mix.

"Lexi, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she murmured at the first opening he allowed. Coris shook his head, his heart writhing.

"He's my son. They're my sons," he repeated, louder and firmer, kissed her again, and again. "Thank you. Thank you..."

"Sons?" Meya breathed. He nodded. Freda must have taken pity on her, providing Hadrian an heir and a spare in one birth. She could live free of the nightmare all noble wives faced.

"Here you go, Meya," said Marin's voice by his side, and Coris had just realized she'd followed him inside. His firstborn fought and whined when parted from her breast, then quieted when he touched skin that matched his heat. Meya raised her feeble arms to feel him. Coris helped her.

"This one's first," he whispered, peering fondly at the wee nose now squashed against her neck. "He has your nose."

"Aw, me wee dragon," Meya cooed. Coris lowered the younger one onto her free side.

"And his little brother."

Meya started as cold spread from his touch. Likewise, the baby squirmed against her heat. Coris fished for her medallion in his pocket, rested it on the ridge of her collarbone, and mother and son could finally cuddle. Meya giggled through her welling tears, caressing his wee back.

"Cannae stand a wee bit of heat. Just like his dada," she joked. Coris glanced nervously at Marin and the bustling ladies as he chuckled. Meya gasped again, then, and he tensed in fright, but it was simply the babies exploring her, latching onto her breasts.

Alanna rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, smiling tenderly as Meya looked to her for reassurance. She leaned over, likely making sure the babes were secure in Meya's arms, then glided quietly away with the remaining women, allowing the new family some privacy.

The door swung close with a soft snap. Murmurs and muffled laughter still wormed through, but at least, they were alone at last. Coris found a new cloth, a basin of still-steaming water, with which he cleaned Meya. She asked for water. He filled a goblet to the brim and held it to her lips, then drew up a chair and sat by her, watching, holding the babies for her now and then, so her tired arms could rest awhile. She hummed her Song to them as they fed, sang when she could muster enough breath.

The boys' wee hands found one another, then intertwined. A sight to melt a stone heart.

"'Tis a sign. From the Heights," Meya whispered. Coris nodded with a smile as he stared, enchanted.

"Our fates are sealed."

Meya wrapped his hand in hers.

"Gotta make sure this land is home for 'em. The both of 'em."

Coris sealed the promise with his hand upon hers. Steel lined his smile as the sight of his sons swelled to fill his world. The stage was set, the stakes determined for their quest. She'd brought dawn to end his night, and their journey continued.

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