The Line Between Life and Death

Blood.

It soaked the linens beneath the Duchess, a deep crimson that spread like a dark omen. The air in the chamber had turned heavy—too thick to breathe properly. Sweat poured down Celeste's face as she leaned over the woman who gave birth to this body. Her hands, though small and trembling, moved with the focus of someone who had done this a hundred times—because she had.

But never like this.

"Pressure's too high. She's going into shock," Celeste whispered hoarsely, pressing a hand to her mother's belly, feeling the hardened shape—too rigid, too wrong.

"Hold her still!" she shouted to the maids, who stood frozen, eyes wide with fear.

"But... my lady..." one stammered. "You are only a—"

"Do as I say or she dies!" Celeste snapped.

That got them moving.

The physician beside her kept glancing at her as though he were looking at something unnatural, something terrifying. And maybe she was. A ten-year-old noble girl covered in blood, giving orders like a battlefield surgeon. But she didn't care. She couldn't.

The Duchess let out a strangled cry, and Celeste's heart seized.

Too late... she thought. No. Not yet. Not if I can stop this.

She remembered a case from her past life—placenta previa combined with a malformed uterus. The labor had started too soon, too strong, and the baby was wedged incorrectly. The mother had almost bled out before they could act.

And she had access to a surgical team then.

Now she had only rudimentary blades and boiling water.

"Get me the iron blade. And that silver basin."

"You—you're not going to—" the physician began.

"I don't have time to convince you," Celeste snapped. "Her uterus is contracting in an unnatural rhythm. The baby's stuck. We have to go in—now."

There was no morphine. No anesthesia. Only clean cloth and boiled wine to dull pain, if that.

I'm sorry, she thought to the unconscious Duchess. But if I wait, I lose you both.

She sterilized the blade as best she could. "Hold her steady. You, press down on her thighs. Don't let her move."

The Duchess's eyes fluttered open in brief agony, a breathless, rasping moan escaping her. Celeste reached out with one clean hand and pressed it to her mother's clammy cheek.

"Just hang on," she whispered. "Just a little longer."

Then she pressed the blade into skin.

It was not clean. It was not surgical. But it was necessary.

Blood welled, dark and hot, but Celeste worked fast, keeping her breathing even. She visualized the layers—skin, fascia, muscle, uterus. Don't cut the baby. Don't cut the baby. Just enough to open the window.

There was no machine to suction fluid, no nurses to sponge blood. Just her hands, slick and shaking, and her memory.

"Blankets. Fresh. Keep pressure around the sides. And keep the baby warm once I pull it out!"

Her hand reached in, fumbling into the darkness of the womb until she felt something—a tiny foot.

Breech.

Her pulse throbbed in her ears. She had to turn it. She had done this before—but never with hands so small, and never alone.

"Come on, little one," she gritted out. "Work with me…"

She twisted gently, repositioning. The baby shifted, limp.

No, no, don't be still…

She pulled.

A moment of silence. Then—

A slippery weight slid into her arms.

Still no sound.

"Give me cloth!" she screamed.

She wrapped the child, patting its back, tipping its head gently. She had seen this. She had done this.

"Breathe, breathe, come on—" She rubbed the back. "Cry, damn it, cry!"

The physician took the baby and followed her frantic motions, trying to help.

One second.

Two seconds.

Then—

A weak, fragile wail cracked through the silence.

Celeste sobbed once, relief shuddering through her body.

But it wasn't over.

She turned back to her mother—ashen, bleeding, still unconscious.

"We're losing her," the physician said.

"No," Celeste growled. "We are not."

She applied pressure. Packed clean cloth over the incision. Used the iron blade to cauterize a torn vessel. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

Her hands shook. Her muscles screamed.

"Just a little more. You've survived this far," she whispered.

There was no time to collapse. No time to think about the horror she'd just performed.

And finally…

The bleeding slowed.

The pulse steadied.

The Duchess was alive.

Hours later, Celeste sat by the bedside. Her small frame slumped, hands still bloodied, her face pale.

The baby—a boy—lay swaddled in fresh cloth, sleeping peacefully in the arms of a servant.

The physician hadn't spoken a word since. He knelt beside the Duchess's bed as though in prayer.

Celeste blinked up at the ceiling, her heart thudding like distant war drums. She had saved them both. For now.

But she knew what was coming.

This world didn't forgive anomalies. It didn't trust the unknown. And a child performing surgery was something they wouldn't understand.

She had exposed herself. The secret she wanted to keep buried—that she didn't belong in this world—was beginning to unravel.

The relief had barely settled. Celeste sat back in a chair by her mother's bedside, staring at the swaddled bundle that now contained her newborn brother. She watched his chest rise and fall in tiny, shallow movements.

Too shallow.

Her brows drew together.

The room had fallen quiet, the servants hushed in reverence or shock after witnessing the impossible. Her mother was still unconscious, pale but alive. That should have been the end of it. A victory.

But the baby let out a cough.

A weak, wet, rattling cough.

Celeste stood instantly, her muscles screaming in protest. "Bring him to me," she demanded, voice sharp.

The wet nurse approached hesitantly, arms trembling. "He's just... adjusting to air, my lady—"

"No. That's not it."

She took the infant into her arms, heart pounding. She peeled back the cloth slowly. The baby's skin was warm—too warm. His breathing was fast. His tiny face twisted not in sleep, but discomfort.

Fever.

Infection.

No, no, no. This can't be happening—

She turned to the physician, who had remained unnervingly quiet. "We need clean towels, warm but not hot water, honey if you have it, and vinegar or spirits—now!"

"But Lady Elira—"

"NOW!"

The room sprang into chaos again. Celeste's brain raced. In modern times, this would be a neonatal infection. Likely bacterial. Something that could have entered during the emergency surgery. Sepsis.

And she had no incubator. No IV antibiotics. No neonatal unit.

Her mind filtered through medieval remedies. Most were worthless—some outright deadly. But she could try supportive care. Fever management. Clean fluids. Honey water to fight infection. Cool cloths for the head. Keep the baby hydrated. Pray the immune system would fight.

She whispered softly to the infant, brushing his damp forehead with a trembling finger.

"I didn't bring you into this world to lose you the same night," she whispered. "You hear me, little brother?"

The servants brought her what they could. Celeste mixed boiled water with cooled wine, added a dab of strained honey, and used a cloth to moisten the baby's lips. His tongue flickered. Swallowed.

"Good. Keep going."

She swaddled him again, this time looser, allowing for airflow. She turned him slightly, supporting his head, tilting his body downward just in case fluid gathered in his lungs. She placed cool cloths on his chest and head, checking his breathing constantly.

Time blurred.

The fire in the hearth died down. Candles guttered.

Still she didn't sleep.

She held him for hours.

A cough rattled from his chest again, weaker.

"No, no—stay with me—"

His body jerked slightly in her arms. A fevered cry rose, hoarse and thin.

And then, for a terrifying moment—he stopped moving.

"No!" she gasped, pressing her ear to his chest. A heartbeat. Faint. Fluttering.

She worked faster, massaging his tiny limbs, whispering every lullaby she remembered from her past life. Tears burned her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.

"Not you too," she said, voice breaking. "I already lost myself. I won't lose you."

A small sound—barely audible.

A breath.

Then another.

His body slumped again—but this time, not limp, just asleep.

His breathing evened out. Slow. Weak... but steady.

Celeste held her breath. Waited. Watched.

The fever had broken.

Hours Later

The sun had begun to rise outside the frost-laced windows. A new day dawned, but Celeste didn't move from her place by the bed. The baby lay nestled in her arms, skin cooler, breathing soft.

The physician approached her silently. "Lady Elira… what you've done is… unnatural."

She looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot and hollow. "No. What I did was necessary."

He hesitated, then knelt before her. Not in fear—but in awe.

"You saved the Duchess. And this child. I don't understand how, but… I won't forget it."

Celeste didn't respond. Her body shook as the adrenaline drained from her system, leaving behind only raw, aching exhaustion. Her hands, still stained with dried blood, trembled around the infant's small body.

I saved him, she thought. For now.

But deep inside, she knew it wasn't over. This world was not safe. Not for her mother. Not for this baby.

And not for her.

End of Chapter 7.