The chamber was quiet, save for the sound of her breathing.
Labored. Steady. Then uneven again.
Elysia gripped the edge of the velvet-lined headboard, her fingers curling so tight her knuckles turned white.
Sweat clung to her temples, beading along her brow, tracing warm lines down the curve of her jaw.
The contractions came in cruel waves—sharp, coiling pain that stole her breath and left her gasping for air between each surge.
Malvoria's hand was in hers.
That was the one anchor, the one weight that kept her grounded in this moment—this terrifying, raw, unstoppable moment.
Malvoria hadn't said much. Her sharp tongue, for once, had failed her. Her silence wasn't cold or distant it was thick with fear. With awe. With something more sacred than words.
"You're doing great," Malvoria finally whispered, her voice cracked around the edges. "You are… magnificent."
