The heavy, iron-wood doors of the royal chambers did not just open; they were violently shoved apart by Syris.
The King of the Swamps, usually the absolute pinnacle of aristocratic grace and composure, stumbled into the room like a starving man.
Behind him, Zarek, Kaelen, Torian, and Caspian poured into the birthing chamber, entirely abandoning the terrifying, untouchable mantles they wore before the continent. They were not rulers in this moment.
They were just frantic, desperate fathers.
The heavy, metallic scent of blood and sweat hung thick in the warm air, mixed with the sharp, clinical smell of restorative magic.
The elite midwives stepped back from the massive bed, bowing their heads respectfully.
"She did flawlessly, my Kings," the head midwife murmured, her hands still glowing with a faint, fading light. "She is just exhausted."
