The palace was quiet when Seren fell into labour.
It was midnight, the moon full and silver, casting long shadows across the garden. The fountain sparkled in the pale light. The roses were dark, heavy with dew. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something new to enter it.
Seren had been feeling the first twinges since sunset, but she had said nothing. She had learned, in her years as a servant, that pain was private. That showing weakness meant inviting cruelty. That the world did not care about the suffering of those who scrubbed floors and emptied chamber pots. But the triplets had felt it through the bond—the tightening, the wave of heat, the sudden certainty that something was about to change.
Aeron was at her side in an instant, his hand on her back, his voice calm. Kael was already calling for the healers, his boots pounding on the stone floor. Theron was holding her hand, his face pale beneath his usual composure.
