The Birth of his First Son

The spires of Wyvernmore pierced the overcast skies, their dark stone bathed in the golden hues of the late afternoon sun. The air was cool, carrying with it the scent of autumn leaves and distant sea salt from the eastern coast. For the first time in years, Osiris Redwyn felt something he hadn't in a long time—nervousness. Not the tension of battle, nor the cold edge of fear that accompanied him on every campaign, but something deeper, something more personal.

The towering gates of Wyvernmore opened as his black wyvern, Alicus, landed with a low growl, its wings folding neatly against its sides. Stable hands rushed forward to take the reins, but Osiris held up a hand, dismounting with practiced ease. He ran a gloved hand along Alicus' scaled neck, the wyvern releasing a low, rumbling purr before obediently letting itself be led to the stables.

"Rest now," Osiris murmured to the creature before turning toward the entrance of the castle.

He did not stop to remove his armor, nor did he acknowledge the bowing servants who greeted him with murmurs of "My lord." His strides were long and purposeful as he made his way through the shadowed corridors of Wyvernmore. His cape billowed behind him, the black and crimson emblem of House Redwyn stark against the dull gray stone.

The letter he'd received two weeks earlier had been brief but enough to send him flying home at breakneck speed: "The child is coming."

Now that he was here, Osiris's chest felt tight. The Black Baron, conqueror of Ravenhold, breaker of rebellions, and terror of Estil's warbands, was helpless in the face of this moment.

When he reached the chamber doors, he paused. A midwife emerged, her hands stained with water and linens. She bowed quickly, her face flushed.

"My lord," she said. "Lady Redwyn is strong, but the labor has been long. The child is coming soon."

Osiris clenched his jaw, his gauntleted hands flexing as if they still gripped the hilt of his sword. He nodded curtly and pushed open the doors, stepping into the room.

The air inside was warm, a stark contrast to the chill of the stone hallways. The room was dimly lit by several braziers and the soft glow of candlelight, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The scent of lavender and herbs hung thickly in the air, meant to calm the laboring mother.

On the bed, his wife lay propped against a mound of cushions, her dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her usually sharp features, the ones that had captivated him from the first time they'd met, were softened now with exhaustion and determination. Despite her weariness, her amber eyes snapped to him the moment he entered, and a small, strained smile curled her lips.

"You came," she whispered, her voice hoarse but full of relief.

"I would ride through hell itself to be here," Osiris said, his voice low and steady. He crossed the room quickly, dropping to one knee beside her. He reached out, his gauntlets clinking as they slid off, and gently clasped her hand in his.

Her grip was weak but firm enough to remind him of the fierce woman he'd married. "You're still in your armor," she teased, though her words were labored.

"I came straight here," Osiris admitted. "I couldn't waste a moment."

Her smile faltered as she inhaled sharply, her entire body tensing. The midwife rushed to her side, murmuring instructions as another contraction rippled through her. Osiris's heart clenched as he watched her strain, his hand tightening around hers as if he could will some of his own strength into her.

"You are my everything beloved," he whispered to her, his voice trembling slightly.

Her laugh was breathless, almost a sob. "That's because I married the Black Baron. You would expect no less of me."

He couldn't help the small, rueful smile that tugged at his lips. "No less," he agreed. "And far more."

Time blurred after that. The midwife's instructions, his wife's cries, and the soft murmurs of the attendants all blended together into a haze of urgency and expectation. Osiris's world narrowed to the woman before him, the woman who had given him purpose beyond the battlefield. He felt helpless in a way he hadn't since his youth, standing there unable to fight, to control, to protect her from the ordeal she endured.

And then, at last, a sound cut through the tension—a piercing, newborn wail. Osiris felt his breath catch in his chest as the midwife stepped away from the foot of the bed, holding a squirming, red-faced infant wrapped in a soft linen cloth.

"You have a son, my lord," the midwife said, her voice reverent.

A son.

Osiris stared at the tiny bundle as the midwife placed him gently in his arms. For a moment, he didn't move. He barely even breathed. The infant was impossibly small, his fists clenched tightly as he let out another cry, his face scrunched in displeasure at the cold air.

Osiris had held many things in his life—a sword, a shield, the reins of his wyvern, the weight of an entire kingdom on his shoulders. But nothing felt as heavy, or as precious, as the child in his arms.

He looked down at his son, his expression softening in a way it never had before. The Black Baron, the ruthless general who had carved a bloody path across Astad, was gone in that moment. All that remained was a man—a father.

"Hello, Alden," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The baby quieted slightly at the sound, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. "You've come into a world that is far harsher than it should be. But I swear to you, I will make it better."

Osiris turned to his wife, who was watching him with tears in her eyes. She looked tired, but there was a radiant joy in her expression that took his breath away.

"He's beautiful," she said, her voice breaking.

"He is," Osiris agreed. He knelt beside her again, carefully placing Alden in her arms. She cradled the baby to her chest, her tears falling freely now.

Osiris reached out, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. "You are incredible," he told her. 

He sat beside her, his arms wrapped around both her and Alden as they rested together.

As the baby stirred in his wife's arms, Osiris made a silent vow. He would be better. For Alden, for his wife, for their family. The world he had helped shape was broken, scarred by war and greed. But Alden deserved more. He deserved a father who could teach him not just how to wield a sword, but how to live a life worth fighting for.

No longer would Osiris be only the Black Baron. From this moment on, he would be a man who built something worth leaving behind. For his son. For his family.

For the future.