Hartwell Mansion, Ashbourne, Kingdom of Morve.
Rain fell like a curse in the dark night sky, pouring mercilessly upon the earth.
Thunder roared again—louder this time—swallowing Isabella's cry of agony.
"Push, Lady Isabella!" the midwife whispered urgently. "You must push!"
Sweat clung to her pale skin. Her golden-brown hair stuck to her damp forehead. Tears streamed down her temples into the silk pillow beneath her head.
She tightened her grip around the tarnished silver necklace.
TR — Sir Thomas Reed.
Her knight.
Her first sin.
Her only love.
"I'm sorry..." she breathed, not sure whether she was speaking to the child in her womb or the man far away on a battlefield. "Forgive me..."
Outside her chamber door, footsteps paced restlessly.
Her mother.
Her father.
The wealthiest merchant in Morve—Edmund Hartwell—was not a man who tolerated scandal.
A daughter pregnant out of wedlock by a low knight?
Unforgivable.
Another scream tore from Isabella's throat as pain split her body in two.
And then—
A cry.
Small.
Fragile.
Alive.
The midwife froze for a split second before wrapping the newborn in linen cloth.
"It's a girl," she whispered.
Isabella's breath trembled. "Let me... see her..."
The midwife hesitated.
The door opened.
Her mother entered first, face pale but eyes sharp as steel. Her father followed behind, his expression cold and calculating.
Silence fell heavier than the storm outside.
Edmund Hartwell looked at the tiny bundle in the midwife's arms as though it were not flesh and blood—but a stain.
"How unfortunate," he muttered.
Isabella struggled to sit up. "Father, please—"
"You will marry Duke Alistair of Ravencrest within the month," he said flatly. "This mistake will not ruin decades of negotiation."
"She is not a mistake!" Isabella cried, clutching the sheets. "She is my daughter!"
Her mother's lips tightened. "You chose love over duty. This is the consequence."
The baby cried again—louder this time.
And in that sound, Isabella felt her heart break and heal at once.
Edmund extended his hand.
"Give it to me."
The midwife trembled. "My lord—"
"Now."
Isabella tried to rise from the bed, but her body was too weak.
"No!" she screamed. "Please! I will leave Morve. I will disappear. Just let me keep her!"
Thunder struck.
The door shut.
And the baby's cry faded down the corridor.
Isabella collapsed back onto the bed, the silver necklace cutting into her palm as she squeezed it.
TR.
Somewhere beyond the borders of Morve, Sir Thomas Reed fought in a war he believed would earn him honor.
He did not know that the greatest battle of his life had already been lost.
Back in the corridor, Edmund Hartwell did not look at the child again.
"Make sure," he told the midwife coldly, "that this never becomes our problem."
The midwife lowered her gaze.
But as she held the newborn close, she whispered softly—
"Live, little one... live."
And somewhere beneath the storm, fate began to shift.
The storm had not calmed.
The midwife walked through the back courtyard of Hartwell Mansion, the infant hidden beneath her cloak. Rain soaked through the linen, but she shielded the baby with her own body.
The gates to the lower road stood half-open.
She stopped.
Her hands trembled.
She had been told to leave the child at the river bend beyond Ashbourne.
To let the water decide her fate.
A cruel mercy.
Just as she stepped into the mud—
"Stop."
The voice cut through the rain.
The midwife froze.
Lady Eleanor Hartwell stood beneath the archway, her dark cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders. No servants. No guards. Only her.
"My lady..." the midwife whispered, fear tightening her throat.
Eleanor stepped closer.
"Let me see her."
Reluctantly, the midwife pulled the cloth aside.
The baby's tiny face peeked out, rain mist brushing her soft skin. Her eyes fluttered open.
And then—
She smiled.
Not a reflex.
Not a cry.
A soft, fragile smile that did not belong to a child condemned to die.
Eleanor inhaled sharply.
For a moment, she did not see scandal.
She did not see dishonor.
She saw blood.
Her blood.
"My granddaughter..." she murmured.
Thunder rumbled again, but softer now.
"She looks like lady Isabella," the midwife said quietly.
Eleanor's fingers trembled as she touched the baby's cheek.
"What is her name?"
"She has none, my lady."
Eleanor swallowed hard.
"Elera," she whispered. "Her name will be Elera."
The baby cooed softly, as if accepting it.
Eleanor closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, the steel had returned—but not the cruelty.
"You will not take her to the river."
The midwife stared. "My lady?"
"You will leave Ashbourne tonight. Go beyond Morve's trade borders if you must. Find somewhere no one knows the name Hartwell."
She reached into her cloak and pulled out a small velvet pouch heavy with gold coins.
"I will send money every month. Through merchants. Quietly."
"My lord must never know."
The midwife's voice shook. "If he finds out—"
"He won't."
For the first time that night, Eleanor's composure cracked.
"If my husband learns of this, he will kill the child without hesitation. You understand me?"
The midwife nodded.
"Raise her well," Eleanor continued softly. "Let her live far from courts and dukes and ambition. Let her be... free."
The word felt foreign in her mouth.
She leaned down one last time and pressed her lips to Elera's forehead.
"Forgive us," she whispered.
Rain ran down her face—whether tears or stormwater, even she did not know.
The midwife wrapped the baby tighter and stepped backward into the darkness.
"Go," Eleanor ordered.
And so she did.
***
Back inside Hartwell Mansion, Isabella lay weak and hollow, staring at the carved ceiling above her bed.
Her arms felt unbearably light.
Too light.
She turned her face to the side, pressing her cheek into the pillow that still carried the faint scent of her newborn.
She did not know her child lived.
She did not know her mother had chosen mercy over obedience.
She did not know that somewhere beyond Ashbourne, beneath a merciless sky, her daughter was being carried toward a different fate.
The silver necklace still rested in her palm.
TR.
Her only rebellion.
By morning, it would be taken from her.
By morning, the storm would stop.
By morning, the wealthiest merchant in Morve would announce that his daughter had recovered from a sudden illness—and that her wedding to Duke Alistair of Ravencrest would proceed as planned.
Within a month, Isabella Hartwell would walk down the grand aisle of Ravenhall, dressed in white silk and diamonds.
A bride.
A duchess.
A bargaining piece sealed with gold and ambition.
And the child born of love would become nothing more than a secret buried beneath the foundations of power.
In the Kingdom of Morve, love was a luxury.
Power was survival.
And Isabella had just lost both.
To be continue...