Chapter 93: Preparation

The desert twilight cast long golden shadows as Niegal walked the inner ring of the Red Chapel camp, his tall figure a steady silhouette among the flickering lanterns and mana-stone lights.

He moved with quiet purpose, a commander once more, but more than that now.

To the people, he was El León Negro. The Black Lion. The war-healer. The guardian consort of Doña Guabancex.

Flanked by camp leaders, elders, and a few trusted captains, Niegal listened carefully as reports were given: troop movements, mana reserves, border flare sightings, the latest refugee headcount, which continued to swell by the week.

Rebels nodded as he passed, hands over hearts or brows lowered in deference. Not just to his title, but to the vow they believed he embodied: to protect the Stormbearer and her unborn heir.

His expression remained calm, though the weight behind his eyes betrayed how deeply it all sat within him.

This had been a mutual choice, one Elena had supported without hesitation. Niegal was the leader now, a symbol of steadiness and mercy, while she focused on preparing for the birth of their child.

The Behike, the revered midwife-seer, was en route and expected within the month. Some whispered it was a pilgrimage. That even the winds would carry her to the Mother of Storms.

In the meantime, Aurora had stepped back from the front lines, devoting herself instead to her sister-in-law's care. The toll of Elena's third trimester was beginning to show. Shortness of breath, aching joints, false contractions that left her doubled over in silence when no one was looking.

Still, Elena remained radiant and resolute.

She stayed active in the rhythms of camp life, managing what she could from the rear. She spent her afternoons beneath the great shade tent where the children gathered to play and learn. There, she became Doña Guabancex. Not the destroyer of cathedrals, not the breaker of steeples, but the nurturer. The fierce protector. The storm who bent low to cradle the smallest among them.

She read them stories, braided their hair, and let them sit in her lap while she knitted baby clothes from dyed wool. One child, barely more than a toddler, once placed a hand on her belly and asked, wide-eyed:

"Is your baby going to be a cloud or a lion?"

Elena smiled so wide it nearly broke her.

Behind the tent walls, elders smiled quietly. This child would be born beneath sacred stars, they said. This child would carry the blood of wrath and healing, of fire and mercy.

Elena also took shifts in the infirmary when she could, tending to minor wounds, helping sort herbs, and comforting sick or orphaned children. Some were old enough to remember the war. Others had no memory of life before it. She held their hands when fevers spiked, whispered lullabies when they cried, and wrapped them in warm blankets infused with her own healing charms.

The wounded believed her touch helped. Some claimed her breath smelled faintly of rain and rosewood. Others swore that holding her hand during pain was like touching a live wire- terrifying, but somehow cleansing.

At night, when Niegal returned, they fell into each other's arms like gravity pulling two stars together. To those who glimpsed them together, the storm and the lion, the sight stirred something sacred. Something immortal.

They shared the day's news. Niegal on battle logistics, Elena on camp life, though Niegal was careful not to speak of bloodshed in a tent where new life stirred.

They massaged sore muscles, traced old scars, whispered about dreams and worries. They slept side by side, forehead to forehead, revered by their people, but in their tent they were simply Elena and Niegal: two bodies weathered by love, holding fast before the next storm.