While the Sovereign Wing was a sanctuary of new life, the air in the Audience Hall was charged.
The air was thick to the point one could suffocate, but beneath it was the sharp, metallic tang of Veyra's failing strength.
She lay on a pile of furs, her face pale, the jagged scars across her cheeks standing out in stark, white relief. Every breath was a rattle.
"She must choose!" the tribal midwife cried, her hands stained red. "Chieftain, the cubs are turned! If I do not cut her now to save them, they will die. But she is weak—if I cut, she will surely bleed out."
Rakan stood over his daughter, his face a mask of crumbling stone. "Veyra… my child…"
"Save me!" Veyra shrieked, a sound like tearing silk. Her hand clutched at Rakan's tunic. "I don't care about the cubs! Kill them! Just let me live! I am the daughter of the Chief! I am the beauty of the Stormhole! I cannot die here. Not while that monster is living up there."
