And then?—
A cry. Wailing, loud and alive. JingYi’s shoulders sagged as the room exhaled with her. Whoops and cheers erupted outside. She rocked the infant against her chest, breathing hard, her eyes stinging. Jaana clamped a hand to her mouth and wept. JingYi checked the cord’s pulse, now slowing, tied two boiled linen threads near the baby’s navel, and cut between them. She wrapped the child and brought her back to Annett.
“A girl,” she murmured. “A healthy, beautiful baby girl.”
She placed the child into Annett’s arms, guiding them together. The girl sobbed, clutching her daughter like she would never let go.
While mother and child nestled together, JingYi turned her attention to the rest. The afterbirth came soon after, with no sign of tearing or retained tissue.
She worked quickly, hands steady despite her fatigue. The village women came and worked alongside her—cleaning, binding, rinsing basins, stoking the fire. Together, they settled mother and child into a freshly made bed. Only when the cottage was calm did Jingyi finally pause, her sleeves stiff with dried blood, her limbs aching.
She was about to slip out, as unseen as she had always been, when Annett’s voice caught her.
“Wait, Princess.”
JingYi paused. Annett looked up from the child at her breast, cheeks streaked with tears, but her gaze was clear and unwavering.
“You saved her. You savedus.”
“I only did what was needed,” JingYi said, the old script falling readily from her lips.
“You did more than that,” Ulrik’s voice rumbled from the doorway. He had entered without a sound, his face lax, dust still smudged on his cheek. His eyes, however, were soft as theysettled on the bundle. “That’s my granddaughter. My daughter. Both breathing because of you.”
JingYi’s throat burned, and she took a half-step back. “You should rest. The child needs warmth—perhaps one of the village women could?—”
Annett shook her head and carefully extended the swaddled bundle. “Please. Will you hold her? Just for a moment.”
JingYi’s arms locked at her sides. The request was a knife, poised at the tenderest part of her—the part that had ached for acceptance since she was a young girl in the Imperial Palace, standing in the physician’s place. She remembered Consort YiLan’s labour, the weight of her newest half-brother, and the cutting words that followed.
But here, in this humble cottage a world away, another mother was offering her a miracle. Not as a shadow, but as the central figure in its story.
Her arms moved of their own will, gathering the tiny weight. The baby was all warmth and newness. Her breath came in little huffs, soft as flower petals. JingYi stared down, and something long frozen inside her began to crack and melt.
“Would you name her?” Annett asked suddenly.
JingYi looked up. “Me?”
Ulrik, for once, laughed. His voice went hoarse. “Yes,you, Princess.”
“But . . . Lord Wulfbane is outside. I’m sure he’d be?—”
“You brought her into this world,” Annett said softly. “It should be you.”
JingYi couldn’t speak. Her hands closed around the baby as she bounced her tenderly. Then, she said, “Aniva.”
Ulrik raised his brow, but his eyes softened. “An Isseric name?”
“A name from a language spoken across the Nine Kingdoms.” She watched as the baby dozed off. “Wear it with my hope that no matter where you are, you will always feel at home.”
Annett repeated it softly, and the name seemed to settle into the room, a gentle truth. The baby—Aniva—sighed in her sleep, nuzzling into JingYi’s hold. And in that moment, JingYi did not feel like a shadow trailing at the edge of life.
She felt, unmistakably and terrifyingly, like she was standing in the light.
Outside, the cold struck her like a bell, cutting through her exhaustion. Her breath clouded in the air. The moon hung low, silvering the garden.
By the fence, Alexander paced in tight strides, the night leaching the gold from his hair. Nearby, Duskwane shifted restlessly.
He spotted her at once and closed the distance.
