The night of the new moon cloaked the palace in near-total darkness, its walls swallowed by shadow. Inside, chaos reigned. Servants rushed through the narrow corridors, their hurried footsteps scattering echoes like pebbles striking still water. Torches sputtered against the drafts, their unsteady flames casting broken shapes as muffled cries and frantic shouts filled the air.
"Quick! Call the physician!" a deep voice roared, heavy with both authority and fear.
The man stood tall at the heart of the storm, cloaked in a black robe embroidered with faint golden threads, a garment that spoke of status and command. He resembled a king, yet in that moment, he looked nothing like one. His face was grave, drawn tight with worry, and though his posture was proud, his trembling hands betrayed the storm within.
He sat at the bedside of the woman lying before him, her breaths shallow, her body drenched in sweat. He clasped her delicate hand with both of his, gripping it as though by sheer force of will.
"My love, do not panic," he whispered, his voice soft despite the turmoil raging around them. "Nothing will happen to you. I've sent for the doctor. Just hold on a little longer."
The woman's breath came heavy, uneven. Her face, pale in the dim glow of the torches, glistened with tears and pain. She turned her head, her gaze finding his, her eyes shimmering with both love and fear.
"I… I do not know if I can survive this," she whispered, her voice fragile, like a candle flame flickering against the wind. "But promise me… promise me you will not force this child to inherit the family's burden. I do not want our son to carry the same chains his siblings carried. I only wish for him… a happy life."
Her words cut him deeply, like a blade piercing his heart. His jaw tightened, his breath uneven. "What nonsense are you speaking? Nothing will happen to you! You are strong. Stronger than anyone I know. Trust me, nothing will happen."
But her grip tightened around his hand, desperate and trembling, her nails digging into his skin as though to make her words unforgettable. "Promise me…"
The silence that followed weighed heavier than iron. He looked into her eyes, and in that moment, he saw both her fragility and her resolve. His heart cracked, but he could not refuse her. His voice broke as he whispered, "I promise."
Her expression softened instantly. A faint smile touched her lips, fragile yet serene, and for the first time that night, her trembling eased.
The door burst open, the physician arriving at last, escorted by a servant who panted from the long sprint. "Everyone out!" the doctor ordered with authority, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
The man's heart clenched. He looked down once more at his wife. Leaning close, he pressed his lips to her damp forehead, lingering there for a breath that felt like eternity. "I'll be right outside," he whispered, his voice raw. "Hold on for me. I'm waiting for you."
Reluctantly, he pulled his hand from hers, his fingers trembling as they slipped away. Then, with a final glance at her pale face, he turned and stepped outside. The doors shut behind him, the sound like the tolling of a funeral bell.
Time seemed to crawl, every passing second stretching into an eternity. The palace, usually alive with music, laughter, and courtly routines, was now drenched in suffocating stillness. Servants gathered in the corridors, their heads bowed, hands clasped together in silent prayers. Some wept quietly, others whispered to each other, fearing the worst.
Then it came.
A cry pierced the silence. A newborn's wail—fragile, yet carrying an unexpected strength. It rose and fell through the night, echoing against the ancient stone walls like the herald of a great destiny. The sound should have brought relief, perhaps even joy. Yet instead, it filled the palace with unease. It was as though the heavens themselves announced both birth and sorrow in the same breath.
The doors creaked open. The physician stepped out, his robes damp with sweat, his face pale beneath the torchlight. His hands trembled as he removed his gloves, his eyes refusing to meet the man's gaze.
At last, his voice cracked."The child… is healthy."
For a heartbeat, hope flickered in the man's eyes, lighting his face like dawn after endless night. But it died just as quickly when the physician's next words fell, heavy as a coffin's lid.
"But… the Lady… is no longer with us."
The world fell silent once more. The wail of the child continued inside the chamber, yet to the man's ears it sounded less like life and more like mourning. His knees threatened to buckle, but he forced himself to remain standing. He was not just a husband now. He was a father. And he had made a promise.
With heavy steps, he pushed the doors open.
The room was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and herbs. His beloved lay still upon the bed, her features softened in death, a faint smile lingering on her lips—as if she had left this world only after securing his promise.
Beside her rested the swaddled child, small and fragile, his tiny fists clenched as though grasping fate itself. His cries softened as his father drew near.
The man's hands shook as he lifted the child. The warmth of the infant's body seeped into him, fragile yet undeniable. His eyes blurred with tears, but his voice steadied as he gazed down at the lifeless form of his wife.
"I gave you my word," he whispered hoarsely. He stepped closer, lowering himself beside her. Gently, he reached out with his free hand, brushing aside the strands of hair that had fallen across her face. He curled the locks behind her ear, as he had done countless times when she lived. For a moment, she seemed merely asleep.
"I will keep my promise," he murmured, his lips trembling. "Our child will not suffer as the others did. He will not carry the weight of chains. I swear it… on your soul."
The newborn stirred in his arms, his wail fading to a soft whimper, as though he too had heard the vow.
A sudden gust swept through the chamber, though no window stood open. The torches flared and sputtered, their flames throwing frantic shadows across the walls. Outside, servants gasped and murmured. Some whispered of omens—of heaven's will, marking the child's birth beneath a lightless sky.
The man paid them no heed. His world had narrowed to two: the child in his arms, and the silent woman upon the bed.
The night pressed on, heavy and endless. The new moon veiled the heavens, casting no light, only shadow. Yet within that darkness, a destiny had been born.
He cradled his son closer, his tears falling without sound. The chamber glowed faintly in the trembling light of the torches, but to him it seemed less like warmth—and more like the first dawn of a shadowed fate.