The Bloody Birth

"Push, My lady! Please, you have to push!"

Fae’s voice cracked, bordering on a frantic scream. Her hands were slick with sweat and blood, trembling as she gripped the edges of the stained linen sheets. Despair burned in the back of her throat, thick and suffocating. Back in the royal palace, she was hailed as a prodigy, a midwife blessed with the golden touch. But all her skills felt utterly useless inside this bleak, windowless shack.

The delivery had spiraled into a waking nightmare. Historia’s pregnancy was already fragile, marred by trauma, stress, and the sheer terror of their relentless flight into exile. Driven from their home, hunted and shunned, they had bounced from one miserable hiding place to another until they finally sought refuge at the edge of the treacherous dark forest.

Fae gritted her teeth, a bitter curse slipping from her lips. Her brown bangs clung to her damp forehead, heavy with sweat. She threw a desperate glance at the heavy wooden door. She prayed for a miracle, for someone to burst in and offer aid. But there was no one. It was just Fae, the dying woman she worshipped, and the merciless, bone-chilling howls of nocturnal predators prowling just beyond the timber walls.

"I know..."

Historia’s voice was barely a breath, a fragile whisper that seemed to drain the last reserves of life from her pale, sweat-drenched body.

"I know I will not make it, Fae."

"Don't say that!" Fae choked out, fresh tears blurring her vision. "You are strong. You just need to—"

"But that is alright," Historia interrupted, a strange, haunting calm washing over her striking features. She lay back against the flat, unforgiving pillow. "I have lived my life to the fullest. Now... it is my daughter's time."

She paused, her chest rising and falling in shallow, jagged gasps. For the first time since Fae had known her, tears spilled from the mighty woman’s eyes. They carved clean paths down her bloodless temples. Historia had always been an unshakeable force, a woman of profound dignity and power. Seeing her weep tore Fae’s heart straight down the middle.

"You have to promise me, Fae." Historia’s gaze locked onto the young midwife, intense and commanding even in the face of death.

"Anything, My lady. Anything." Fae sobbed, giving up the charade of false hope. She wanted to lie, to say Historia would survive to cradle her baby, to raise the child as a princess. But Fae knew the bitter truth. The shadow of death was already standing in the corner of the dim, airless room.

"Promise me that you will take care of my daughter." Historia’s voice gained a fleeting, desperate strength. "She already has so many enemies. And she will have more. Please, Fae. Keep her safe from this world. And when it is time... tell her about me. Tell her the truth about her origins, tell her everything. I know she will make the right choices."

Historia swallowed hard, fighting back a heartbreaking sob that threatened to shatter her remaining resolve.

"As for Yoren..." The name hung in the damp air, heavy with tragedy and unresolved pain. "Tell him I forgave him."

Fae stiffened, her jaw clenching. The very man who had driven them to this fatal end.

"Tell him that what was meant to happen, happened," Historia continued, her eyes growing distant. "I expected too much. I asked for too much. It was unfair of me. Tell him that I hold myself equally responsible for our tragic downfall. For how things ended. My life is over, but his life is still ahead. And he must take care of her. He must take care of our Sara."

"I will, my lady," Fae whispered, the promise etched into her very soul.

Historia managed a faint, ghostly smile. She looked as though she wanted to reach out, to wipe the tears from Fae’s youthful cheeks, but her limbs refused to obey. The desire to live lingered in her fading eyes—just a few more minutes, just long enough to hold the daughter she was dying for, to kiss her cheek, to whisper her name.

But time had run out.

"Do it, Fae," Historia commanded, her voice dropping to a harsh, agonizing rasp.

A loud, jagged hiccup tore from Fae’s throat. She knew exactly what her lady meant. The natural birth had failed. The mother was passing. If the child was to survive, she had to be taken by force.

Fae’s trembling fingers wrapped around the hilt of a sterilized silver blade. She moved with mechanical dread, her vision swimming in tears. She murmured broken, endless apologies under her breath, a litany of sorrow. With a steady, calculated pressure, she pressed the sharp metal against Historia’s swollen belly. She gritted her teeth against the horror of her own actions, physically carving the infant from the dying mother's womb as the life faded from Historia’s eyes.

Hours later, the shack was submerged in a suffocating silence, broken only by the crackle of the dying hearth.

Fae sat in a rickety wooden armchair, humming a mournful, wordless tune. Her eyes, red and swollen from crying, stared blankly at the rough timber roof. On her lap, nestled in the folds of a soft blanket, a newborn baby slept soundly. It was a girl, just as Historia had known. Baby Sara was breathing, warm, and entirely oblivious to the gory, traumatic circumstances of her entry into the world.

Fae couldn't bring herself to look at the bed. Every time her gaze drifted toward the blood-soaked sheets and the brutal vertical cut across Historia’s lifeless body, a fresh wave of nausea and grief hit her. It was a cruel universe that allowed such a kind, enigmatic woman to die in a lonely, windowless box, torn open and bleeding out in the dark.

As dawn approached, a thin sliver of morning light seeped under the heavy door. The windowless design was Historia’s specific request. She had claimed the night harbored unseen evils that lost their power at sunrise. It was just one of the many puzzling things about the lady—a woman whose ethereal appearance was matched only by her commanding presence.

Forcing herself to move, Fae carefully unwrapped the fresh swaddling clothes. She cleaned the infant with practiced, gentle hands. Sara was breathtaking. Even as a newborn, she possessed her mother's striking silver hair and fair, porcelain skin. But as Fae turned the baby over to wash her back, she froze.

There, resting just above the infant's tailbone, was a distinct, brownish birthmark. It was shaped like a crescent intertwined with a thorn. Fae traced it with a trembling thumb. It was the undeniable mark of the Yoren dynasty. The ultimate proof that the child she held was the King's own flesh and blood.

Fae swaddled the child tightly, bundling her to ward off the morning chill. She stripped off her blood-crusted midwife garments and pulled on a plain, unremarkable grey dress. She threw a heavy, dark cloak over her shoulders, designed to render her invisible on the open road. She could not afford to draw attention. The baby’s life depended on her passing unnoticed.

Before stepping out into the cold dawn, Fae walked over to the ruined bed. She leaned down and pressed a long, reverent kiss against Historia’s icy forehead.

"I will protect her," Fae whispered to the corpse. "I swear it."

The ride to the capital was a grueling, agonizing blur. Fae rode fiercely, pushing her horse to its physical limits, her muscles screaming in protest. She kept the baby tucked securely against her chest, shielded beneath the thick woolen cloak.

By the time she reached the castle's towering back gates, the sun was beginning its descent. Fae expected an interrogation. She prepared herself to beg, to bribe, or to fight her way inside. Instead, the moment the heavy-set guards checked her identity, their expressions shifted. Without a single question, they opened the iron gates and motioned for her to follow.

Fae frowned, clutching the sleeping baby tighter. They were granting her immediate, unquestioned access to the royal courts. It felt wrong.

"Time to meet your father," Fae whispered bitterly into the folds of the cloak as she trailed behind the guards through the opulent, golden corridors. "I hope you won't grow to hate him as much as I do."

Exhaustion clawed at her bones, and her emotions were a frayed, raw mess. But the weight of Historia’s dying command fueled her steps. She had a promise to keep.

The guards halted before heavy oak doors and gestured for her to enter. The moment Fae stepped inside, the doors clicked shut behind her, sealing her within the King's private study.

The air in the room was thick and sour, reeking of stale alcohol and unwashed despair. The lighting was dim, filtering through heavy velvet curtains drawn over the large windows. Fae’s eyes adjusted, sweeping the room until she found him.

King Yoren sat slumped in an oversized armchair near the glass. He looked inelegant, a far cry from the majestic ruler the kingdom worshipped. A half-empty crystal glass dangled loosely from his fingers. When he finally turned his head to look at her, his eyes were bloodshot and brimming with profound, agonizing guilt. He took one look at the bundle in Fae's arms and seemed to shatter.

"She died?" he asked, his voice a hoarse, broken scrape.

"Yes," Fae answered. Her tone was ice. She offered no bow, no 'Your Majesty'. The bitterness chewing at her heart eclipsed any fear of royal authority. She held this pathetic, alcohol-soaked man responsible for pushing Historia into a corner she couldn't escape.

Yoren’s chest heaved. He set the glass down with a trembling hand, visibly gulping as he tried to swallow the suffocating weight of his guilt. "I saw her in a dream yesterday... Was it painful?"

Fae didn't blink. "Very."

The bluntness struck Yoren like a physical blow. He flinched, squeezing his eyes shut before looking back at the bundle. "What is it?"

"It is a girl," Fae said, stepping forward. "She named her Sara. She looks exactly like My Lady, but she bears your mark." Fae pulled back the edge of the blanket and shifted the baby to expose the lower back. Her voice pitched higher, laced with desperate urgency. "Your birthmark. Look at it. I beg you, look at it as proof."

Fae pushed her personal hatred aside. Sara needed the King's protection. She needed to be recognized.

Yoren didn't even glance at the mark. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of utter defeat. "I don’t need that mark to know she is mine. I never doubted Historia."

The words hung in the stale air. A silent, venomous fury ignited in Fae's mind. Her blood boiled. *You never doubted her?* Then why did you accuse her of betrayal? Why did you cast her out? Why did you abandon a pregnant woman to flee into the harsh, unforgiving wilderness and die in a dark shack? Fae had only served the silver-haired lady for a few months, but her devotion was absolute. Realizing that Historia’s suffering was seemingly for nothing—born from the whims of this selfish, flawed ruler—made Fae want to scream.

Slowly, the heavy-hearted King pushed himself up from the chair. His movements were sluggish, burdened by sorrow. He crossed the floor and stood before the young midwife. With surprising gentleness, he reached out and took the infant from Fae’s arms.

As Yoren looked down at Sara's sleeping face, the dam broke. He wept openly, the tears streaming down his rugged face as he traced the silver hair that mirrored the only woman he had ever truly loved.

Watching the King cradle his child with such raw, unprotected tenderness, the tight knot in Fae’s chest finally loosened. Her troubled mind relaxed. A fragile flutter of hope took root. Perhaps Yoren was broken, perhaps he was a terrible partner, but he was holding his daughter like she was his salvation. He would protect Sara. Historia’s final wish would be honored.

Fae let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Then, the world tore open.

Cold steel punched through her back. The blade slid between her ribs with a sickening slide, violently piercing her lung.

Before Fae could even register the shock, a heavy, calloused hand clamped clamped down hard over her mouth, violently muffling her agonizing scream. The air rushed out of her in a wet, choked gargle.

The blade was ripped out and thrust in again. And again. Brutal, rapid stabs tore through her spine and organs. Her knees buckled, but the hand held her upright, trapping her in a macabre embrace.

Fae’s eyes bulged, locking onto the scene in front of her. She couldn't turn her head to see the assassin standing behind her. But as the searing pain dragged her toward the dark, she realized she didn't need to.

King Yoren stood mere inches away, perfectly still. He was clutching his newborn daughter tightly against his chest. He made no move to stop the slaughter. He didn't shout for his guards. He simply watched her die, his eyes locked onto hers with a guilt-ridden, hollow stare.

In her final, horrifying second of clarity, Fae understood. It wasn't an intruder. The true orchestrator of her murder was the weeping king himself.