Lost

The chamber was a tempest of motion, thick with the scent of sweat, burning tallow, and something far more primal—fear. Shadows flickered wildly against stone walls as candle flames quivered in the turbulent air. The frantic rustling of skirts, the hurried shuffle of feet, the sharp cries of the laboring princess—all blended into a storm of sound and sensation.

A piercing scream ripped through the suffocating heat.

"Ahhh!" The cry erupted from Luciana's throat, raw and ragged, the sound of a body waging war against itself.

"Hold on, my lady! Just a little more!" A midwife clutched her trembling hand, her voice steady but edged with urgency.

At the foot of the grand bed, the senior midwife peered between bloodied sheets, her brow furrowed in concentration. "The head is crowning!" she called out, her voice a beacon of command amid the chaos.

Luciana's face was slick with sweat, her hair that was the color of fresh snow, clinging to her damp forehead in tangled strands. Her body convulsed, wracked with agony that stole the very breath from her lungs. Around her, servants whispered in anxious voices, their eyes darting toward one another in unspoken dread.

"More towels! Warm water! Fresh linens—now!" The senior midwife's sharp orders sent servants scurrying, their arms laden with supplies.

"You're almost there, Your Highness!" another midwife encouraged, pressing cool cloths to Luciana's burning skin. "Push!"

And so she did. With every ounce of strength she had left, she pushed, her body screaming its protest. The world around her blurred, the candlelight smearing into golden streaks as pain consumed her.

Somewhere beyond the veil of her suffering, whispers slithered through the chamber.

"Lord Octavius should be here…" one voice murmured, quiet but weighted with judgment.

"She needs him by her side," another whispered.

" What are you talking about? The princess was never betrothed to him." The third one denied their assumptions.

But their words were drowned out by the final, primal cry that tore from Luciana's throat. And then—

A new sound filled the room. A wail, sharp and demanding, a voice newly born into the world.

Gasps of relief swept through the chamber like a cleansing tide.

"The child is here!" the midwife announced, her voice shaking with joy. "A boy!"

Tears glistened in the eyes of the attendants. A new prince had arrived. A child of royal blood. And yet—

The joy faltered. A hush fell like a shroud.

Gasps rippled through the crowd of onlookers, their faces blanching as they caught their first glimpse of the infant.

"B… black hair…" someone stammered, barely above a whisper.

A silence colder than steel spread through the chamber, heavier than the air itself.

Luciana barely registered it. The sound of her baby's cries was a distant echo in the haze of her exhaustion. The agony had drained her, hollowed her out until she was weightless. Darkness curled at the edges of her vision, soft and all-consuming.

Her body gave one final, heaving breath.

And then, silence.

"Your Highness!" A lady-in-waiting let out a strangled cry, her hands shaking as she turned and stumbled toward the door. "Fetch the physicians! Now!"

The once-chaotic room had transformed into something else entirely—an eerie stillness, fractured only by the newborn's wails.

Aurora, kneeling at Luciana's side, clutched her limp hand, her breath coming in uneven gasps. She dabbed at the princess's fevered brow with trembling fingers, whispering desperate prayers.

"Stay with us, my love, Oh my beloved neice٫" she pleaded. "Your son needs you. We need you."

As healers and physicians of all status flooded into the chamber, their faces grim with urgency, another scene unfolded just beyond the heavy doors.

Leila cradled the wailing newborn against her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. The weight of him, so small yet so impossibly fragile, sent fear threading through her veins. The midwife's words rang in her ears.

"He cries from hunger."

There was no time to waste. With quickened steps, she hurried toward her chambers.

The moment she entered, another sound met her ears—tiny, hiccuping sobs.

Apollonia.

A fresh wave of panic surged through her, but she swallowed it down. Now was not the time for fear. With the gentle care of someone who had long since learned to bear burdens too heavy for one heart, she settled onto her bed, shifting the newborn into one arm while gathering Apollonia with the other.

Her body trembled under the weight of them both, but she did not falter.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice thick with sorrow. "I'm sorry you are separated from your mother."

The child nestled against her, his cries softening to weak whimpers. She pressed a kiss to each of their heads, murmuring prayers into the quiet.

"Please," she whispered to whatever gods might listen, "bring her back to him."

Back in the birthing chamber, Aurora wiped the dampness from her face and forced herself to stand. Her limbs ached, her spirit felt hollow, but there was no time for grief.

"The Emperor," she gasped. "He must know."

She turned sharply, gathering her tunics as she hurried to her quarters. The moment she stepped inside, her maid greeted her with a bow.

"Quill and parchment. Quickly."

The maid obeyed without question, placing the ink and parchment upon the polished desk. Aurora sat, her fingers trembling as she dipped the quill into black ink.

The words spilled onto the page in hurried strokes.

Luciana has arrived and has given birth. A son. But she… she is not well. You must return at once. To Olympus!

She read the message once, then folded it with precise hands.

Crossing the room, she approached a gilded cage where a sleek white dove perched, its head tilting in quiet curiosity.

With careful fingers, she tied the message to its delicate leg and carried it to the open window.

"Go," she murmured, lifting it into the cool night air. "Find His Majesty."

The bird hesitated only a moment before taking flight, its wings slicing through the darkness. Aurora watched it disappear into the night, her heart pounding in time with the frantic beat of its wings.

She could only hope—pray—that it would reach him in time.