The air inside White Phoenix Academy's maternity wing was still, clinical, and tense—filled with the faint scent of disinfectant, old paper files, and sterilized equipment. Soft morning light filtered through the tall, narrow windows, falling across the tiled floor in long, pale beams. From outside, the spires of the Academy cast long shadows across the hilltop that overlooked Aerieon, the capital rising gently below in quiet sprawl.
In the medical wing on the fourth floor—far removed from the lecture halls, political salons, and training courts—something far more personal was happening.
Jirni Velastra gripped the sides of the delivery bed, sweat beading on her brow, her breaths short and sharp. Her auburn hair clung to her temples in damp curls, and her jaw was tight against another contraction. She wore a plain hospital gown, the stiff sheets beneath her crumpled and pulled from her restless shifting.
Beside her, Orion sat, tense and silent. His hands clasped hers firmly—more tightly than he meant to, perhaps—and his eyes never left her face. Usually calm, composed, even unshakable in a crisis, now he was simply a partner in a moment beyond his control. He could offer no solution, no strategy—only presence. Only her.
"I've got you," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "We're almost there."
His knuckles were pale, his grip steady despite the tremor he tried to suppress. It was not fear exactly—but awe, helplessness, anticipation—all braided into something dense and wordless inside him.
Across the room, a nurse made quiet notes on a chart, while the attending physician, a senior woman in a blue scrub coat with short-cropped gray hair, leaned forward again. Her voice was steady, practiced, but kind.
"Contractions are regular," she said. "You're doing well, Jirni. We're nearly there. Just one more push."
A monitor beside the bed beeped steadily. The low hum of medical equipment filled the room, accompanied by the occasional shuffle of footsteps or quiet words between staff. There was no magic here—just trained hands, careful observation, and the determined strength of a woman bringing a new life into the world.
Jirni's hands tightened. Her breath hitched. She closed her eyes.
Then, with a gasp and a final effort that wrung every last ounce of strength from her, the room was filled with a sound as old as time—a newborn's cry, thin and piercing, sudden and bright.
The physician moved quickly, guiding the baby into waiting hands. There was a flicker of motion as the nurse swaddled the infant in a soft blanket marked with the Academy's emblem: a rising phoenix, stitched in gold thread. Then, gently, reverently, she placed the child in Jirni's arms.
The cries softened. The room, still and tense just moments before, now held something fragile and unspoken.
Jirni looked down.
Her breathing was shallow, her body still trembling, but her eyes lit up—tired, shining, disbelieving. Awe traced every line of her face. The baby was small, pink, wrapped tight, her features delicate and wrinkled with newness. A tuft of dark hair crowned her tiny head, barely visible beneath the edge of the blanket.
"Victoria," Jirni whispered, barely audible. Her lips shaped the name like a prayer, as if saying it made the moment real. "Victoria…"
Orion let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against her hand, his free hand gently brushing over the baby's tiny back. He couldn't speak. He didn't need to.
Victoria's eyelids fluttered, and her tiny fingers flexed against the air before brushing lightly against her mother's gown. The warmth of her skin, the weight of her presence—these were truths deeper than words.
For a moment, there was no Academy. No kingdom. No expectations or history or burden of legacy.
Only the three of them.
A mother. A father. A daughter.
A beginning.
Jirni exhaled softly and turned to Orion, her voice hoarse but steady. "She's here."
"She is," Orion said, finally finding his voice. It caught in his throat as he looked at the tiny life cradled between them. "And she's perfect."
Outside, the bells of the eastern spire chimed the hour. Morning sunlight continued its slow crawl across the floor, unhurried, unbothered by the quiet miracle that had unfolded in its path.
And somewhere within the countless halls of White Phoenix Academy—within its books and blades and grand ambitions—a story had begun. One that none of its proud historians or fierce tacticians could yet predict.
But it began here.
With Victoria.