But just as she finishes talking, Rheus continues his journey in the sky, slowly moving away from Rhea. The eclipse is ending, yet the Lady’s fears only become more intense. “He was born at the apex,” she murmurs frantically, moving around in her bed.
She’s covered in blood, but she does not care. She flings the sheet off her body, swinging her legs over the bed. She tries to get off the bed, but her legs wobble, and she falls to the floor.
The umbilical cord is still attached to the mother-son pair, the only link between the two.
The maid looks at her in horror. But as she tries to reach for her mistress and help her, but the babe’s cries become louder.
“Kill him,” the Lady screeches.
The maid shakes her head.
“He’s just a babe…” she whispers.
“He is notjusta babe. He is Urteos himself come to ruin us once more. He will bring only death.”
“But My Lady. Those are just superstitions. You cannot possibly believe that…”
“Everyonebelieves that. Before Urteos was Lakwon, and before him there was Grigon. All born during the eclipse. All bringing about death to Tartareia. I will not be known the mother of such a creature. I will not,” the mistress cries out.
She drags herself forward, her bloody fingers grasping the dress of her maid. She pulls on the material, helping herself up.
“My Lady,” the maid whimpers.
The Lady can barely stand, the blood loss in itself having wreaked havoc on her body. But her determination is stronger. She manages to get to her feet, her fingers digging in her maid’s arms as she stares at her with a crazed expression.
She grabs the umbilical cord and tears it with her bear arms, severing their connection. The fleshy cord drops to the floor, still attached to the crying infant.
“He must die,” she repeats as her gaze dips to the son she’d just disavowed.
Before the maid can react, the Lady wrenches the babe from her arms. Using what little strength she has left, she grabs the cord and twirls it around the infant’s neck. She pulls on it tightly until all screaming stops.
“My Lady, please stop!” The maid exclaims as she tries to grab the babe back. “You are not thinking clearly. This is your son, not some cursed creature.”
“No,” the Lady shakes her head. “He must die.”
As if she was possessed by some fanatic ideal, the Lady cannot see or listen to reason. She believes the babe must die, and she will ensure he is dead.
The babe’s face becomes purple as she continues to apply pressure around his neck. His lips are half-open as he struggles to breathe, but the dearth of oxygen makes it impossible for him to do so. He is too young to fight back, or have the instinct of self-preservation. The only thing he knows is that he is warm now. He is against his mother’s chest and he is warm. He does not realize the animosity behind this deadly embrace.
A few whines and some barely audible whimpers and the babe becomes silent.
The Lady finally sighs.
“It is done,” she closes her eyes.
She can feel his warm, unmoving body against her own. And for a single second, regret blooms in her chest. It is fleeting,however, as she focuses on the future. She knows she’s done the right thing.
She should be crowned a heroine.
After all, she has spared Tartareia from a dire fate.
Heavy footsteps resound down the hallway.
The door to the chamber is suddenly flung open, and her husband strides in. He’s a male in his prime—a duke in his own right. And he has a heir, so he would not mind this much, would he? That is what the Lady thinks when his gaze lands on her blood nightgown and the even bloodier unmoving babe in her arms.
Behind him is an army of servants, including the midwife, who are waiting for his order to come inside the room.
“Inaria, what happened?” He asks in a harsh voice.
