Born with a grief

CHAPTER 1

The night was cold, yet within the birthing chamber, the air was thick with heat and anguish. The scent of incense and burning sandalwood mixed with the sharp tang of blood, lingering beneath the heavy silk drapes that swayed gently in the wind. The dim lanterns flickered against the wooden lattice windows, their trembling flames barely holding on, as if mirroring the life slipping away before them.

Lumin lay upon the grand bed, her long black hair damp with sweat, clinging to her pale skin. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, her hands gripping the silk sheets beneath her. Pain wracked her body—unbearable, relentless. She had endured much in her life, but nothing like this. It felt as if something within her was tearing her apart, as if heaven itself demanded a price for bringing this child into the world.

"Aaah—!" Her anguished cry echoed through the chamber.

Haofeng knelt at her side, his strong arms wrapped around her trembling body, holding her as if he could shield her from the torment. His once-steady hands, accustomed to wielding a sword, now trembled as he cradled the woman he loved.

"Lumin, I am here," his voice, thick with emotion, wavered against the weight of helplessness. He pressed his forehead against hers, his fingers brushing damp strands away from her face. "Just a little longer… Soon, it will be over. Our child will be born, and we—" He swallowed, forcing a smile through his pain. "We will finally live happily, just as we always dreamed."

Lumin whimpered, her body tensing against another wave of pain. She clung to Haofeng's robes, burying her face in his chest, her nails digging into his skin. "Haofeng…" she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. "I… I don't think I can—"

"You can," Haofeng said firmly, gripping her hand tighter. "We have endured so much, fought against fate itself… and now, our debts have come to an end. No more running, no more suffering. We will raise our child together, live the life we were meant to. You will see—" His voice cracked, but he forced himself to believe his own words. "You will see, Lumin… we will sit beneath the plum blossoms, watch the seasons pass without fear… This child will be our new beginning."

A tear slipped from Lumin's eye. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to see that future. But the agony was too great, the weight of death already pressing upon her.

The midwife, her hands stained crimson, finally lifted the newborn from the bed. "The child… is born," she announced softly.

But there was no cry.

The air stilled.

Haofeng turned his head slightly, his arms still wrapped tightly around Lumin. His gaze landed on the infant—small, fragile, wrapped in bloodstained silk. The midwife hesitated before lowering the child into his arms. The moment Haofeng saw him, his breath caught.

One eye gleamed like a burning ember, red as if kissed by fire. The other shimmered with the deep, unfathomable green of ancient jade. Eyes that did not belong to this world.

But in the depths of the forest, there was no one to care for Lumin's delivery, no skilled healer or midwife to ensure her safety. Haofeng had done everything himself—his hands, once made for war, now trembling as they ushered life into the world. And when the time came, when the cord that bound mother and child remained uncut, he had no choice.

With no proper tools, Haofeng reached for the only thing he had—a pair of cutting pliers from his satchel, meant for repairing his armor. His heart pounded as he hesitated for only a moment before clamping the metal against the umbilical cord.

The sharp snap of steel rang through the room.

A fresh surge of blood poured from Lumin's broken body, staining the sheets, the floor, Haofeng's trembling hands. The scent of iron grew suffocating, thick in the cold night air. Lumin gasped, her body shuddering violently as the last of her strength drained away with the blood that would not stop flowing.

"Lumin…" Haofeng whispered, turning back to her.

But the warmth was already fading from her fingers.

Lumin's breath was shallow, her lips slightly parted as if she had something more to say. Her lashes fluttered, and a single tear slid down her cheek. "Our son…" she barely managed to whisper.

Then, the last of her strength slipped away.

Her body went still in Haofeng's arms.

A deafening silence filled the room. The flickering lanterns seemed to dim, the cold wind slipping through the windows carrying away the last remnants of her warmth.

Haofeng did not move. He could not. His arms tightened around her lifeless body, his heart shattering into pieces too small to ever be put back together.

Outside, the midnight clouds drifted apart, and for a brief moment, the moon shone brightly upon the world, casting its pale light upon the father and son left behind.

Darkness clung to the chamber like a malevolent specter, thick with the acrid stench of blood and the lingering wisp of burning sandalwood. The once-sacred birthing room was now a chamber of sorrow, its silence more deafening than the cries of agony that had once echoed through its walls.

Haofeng knelt upon the blood-drenched floor, his arms still wrapped around the lifeless form of his beloved. The hour was unholy—past midnight, the sky inked in obsidian, the wind outside keening like a mourning widow. The flickering lanterns cast feeble pools of light, their trembling flames mere phantoms against the encroaching void.

A soundless sob wrenched from his throat. His chest caved beneath the crushing weight of loss, his breath shallow, ragged.

"Lumin…" His voice, hoarse with grief, barely rose above a whisper. His trembling fingers traced the delicate curve of her cheek, but where once warmth resided, there was now only the unyielding chill of death. "Beloved… open your eyes."

But the abyss had claimed her. She would not wake.

Desperation seized him, his lips descending upon hers in a kiss both reverent and despairing, pressing against flesh that had already begun to lose its warmth. A futile attempt to breathe life where none remained. His tears fell unbidden, tracing silent lamentations down his ashen face, mingling with the remnants of her blood upon his skin.

The past lay in ruins before him. Their whispered promises, their fragile dreams—shattered like brittle porcelain upon the merciless hands of fate.

His anguished cries rent through the stillness of the night.

But time was unyielding. Death did not wait for grief to subside.

Beneath the cold embrace of the midnight sky, Haofeng carried Lumin's lifeless body through the desolate forest, his steps unsteady yet relentless. The plum blossom tree stood solemn, its bare branches reaching toward the heavens as if mourning alongside him. With trembling hands, he dug into the frozen earth, each stroke of the spade carving out a grave that should never have been needed. The soil was cruel, resisting him, as though even the land refused to claim her. When the pit was finally deep enough, he lowered her down, his fingers lingering on the white silk that shrouded her form. His throat tightened, but no words came—only silence, raw and suffocating. One handful of earth, then another, until the last traces of her disappeared beneath the cold ground. Haofeng knelt there long after, his forehead pressed against the damp soil, as though hoping—praying—that if he stayed there long enough, she might reach back from the abyss. But the night remained silent, and he was left alone, with nothing but the wind and the weight of his grief.

And so, he laid his wife to rest beneath the plum blossom tree, the very tree that had once bore witness to their stolen moments of tenderness. The cold earth swallowed her whole, a cruel contrast to the warmth she had embodied.

He stood before her grave, unmoving, his soul hollowed. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. Lumin… what am I to do without you?

A fragile cry split the night, piercing through his torment like the edge of a blade.

His son.

The babe lay swaddled in bloodstained silk, his unnatural gaze wide open—one eye gleaming like smoldering ember, the other a deep, enigmatic green. The child of prophecy. The son who had cost his mother her life.

Haofeng's breath hitched. His vision blurred, not with grief, but with an unfamiliar ache—a tempest of love and pain so intertwined, he could scarcely tell them apart.

The child whimpered once more.

He is hungry.

Haofeng swallowed the lump in his throat, his body moving despite the heaviness in his limbs. He had never once prepared sustenance for an infant. It was meant to be Lumin. She should have been the one to hold him, to nourish him. But she was gone, and duty fell upon the shoulders of the broken.

With leaden steps, he gathered kindling, striking flint upon steel until embers took life upon the dry twigs. The fire crackled, its light casting forlorn shadows upon the chamber walls. He retrieved a small clay pot, pouring fresh goat's milk into its depths before setting it above the flames.

The minutes stretched, the simmering milk stirring ghosts of memories he could never reclaim.

You should be here, Lumin.

This should have been your moment.

Why was it you and not me?

The weight of his sorrow bore down upon him, suffocating.

The milk threatened to boil over, the faint hiss snapping him from his reverie. He lifted the pot, testing the heat upon the back of his calloused hand. Just warm enough.

Carefully, he soaked a feeding cloth in the milk, wringing it gently before settling down beside his son. The babe's tiny frame barely filled his arms, fragile as an autumn leaf upon the wind. Haofeng hesitated—his war-hardened hands so foreign against such delicate life.

Then, he pressed the cloth to the infant's lips.

For a moment, nothing.

Then, small fingers twitched, a mouth latched, and the babe drank.

Haofeng exhaled. A sigh, neither relief nor comfort, but something between resignation and quiet determination.

He watched his son, this child of fate, drinking without knowledge of the price paid for his existence.

A storm churned within Haofeng's soul.

Lumin, I do not know if I am strong enough.

But I will not fail him. Not as I failed you.

The night stretched long, the fire burned low, and within the arms of a grieving father, a child was fed.