The woman was pushing, even though it wasn't time yet. The contractions had come too early.
She could barely register anything beyond the blinding pain tearing through her body. Distantly, she sensed his presence—standing at the edge of the room. Not helping. Not comforting. Just watching.
"What are you doing? Now is not the time for it!" he shouted.
His voice snapped her out of it—cold and harsh. She couldn't speak. Couldn't think. She grabbed the bedsheets. Her back arched involuntarily.
"You've got to hold the child until the sun rises!" he barked again.
As if she had a choice. As if her body would obey. Her throat hurt from screaming, but she couldn't hear her own voice. Tears blurred her vision. She didn't know if they were from the pain or his anger.
Then, suddenly, it was over.
A sharp cry pierced the room. Her child had been born.
The midwives gasped, but she couldn't lift her head to see why. She only caught a glimpse—eyes gleaming blue, unnaturally bright. Then she saw his face.
Disgust. Fear.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She didn't understand.
She didn't care.
It was her daughter.
But he stepped forward.
"Tsk... Why did this have to happen to me?" he muttered. "If this gets out, everything is lost."
She watched, powerless, as he took the baby from one of the midwives.
No. No, no, no.
With what little strength she had, she forced herself up and grabbed his arm.
"Where are you taking her!? She's our daughter!"
Her voice broke. Her body resisted but she already knew the truth.
"Where do you think?" he snapped. "The birth of this creature could destroy my life... ruin my name before the king. I can't let it be known."
Her grip tightened, trembling.
He shoved her aside.
She hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. Her body curled in on itself. The world spun. She could barely see.
And then, the baby was dropped into her arms.
"Stay with her for a few minutes. I'll go find someone to take care of this."
Her blood ran cold.
She held her child tightly. Tears ran down her face, wetting the baby's skin. The baby's small hand touched her cheek—light and warm.
It shattered her.
With trembling fingers, she wrapped the baby in whatever cloth she could find.
"Madam! What are you doing? You must rest! You've just given birth!" one of the midwives shouted.
"I can't stay here. I won't let him take her."
"You don't mean... to escape?" the other whispered.
She said nothing. There was nothing more to say.
She looked at them one last time, eyes heavy but resolute.
"If he returns... tell him I made the choice. That you couldn't stop me."
And then, with her child in her arms and her body on the brink of collapse, she disappeared into the night.
A few minutes later, the man came into the room, still clearly angry. He wasn't alone. A tall figure followed him, dressed all in black. The man's presence made the room feel heavier. The executioner's face was hidden under a hood, but his cold eyes stood out. At his side, he carried a sword and knives, ready to use.
"Where are they?!" the man shouted, his voice breaking the silence like a whip, the walls trembling with his anger.
One of the midwives, still trembling, glanced at the floor, trying to hide the fear that gripped her.
"The lady..." she sniffed, her voice barely a whisper. "She escaped with the baby, sir. We couldn't stop her."
His eyes narrowed, and his anger flared. He clenched his fists but didn't let it all show. He shut his eyes for a second, took a slow breath, and tried to stay calm. When he looked up again, his gaze was colder, more focused.
"Fine," he said, his voice a smooth, dangerous calm. "Let them stay disappeared. I had nothing to do with this."
The midwives, still on edge, exchanged nervous glances, the terror in their eyes growing.
"But... sir," one of them stammered. "If we don't find her..."
He cut her off with a look so dark, it sent a shiver down her spine.
"I can't leave any witnesses," he said, the words heavy with unspoken threat.
The executioner stepped forward, silent and ready. His hand rested on his sword, waiting for the order. The man's eyes were fixed, cold with anger. He walked toward the midwives, who backed away without a word.
"I don't want anyone to know what happened here," he murmured, his voice soft but filled with a terrifying finality. "No one else must leave this place alive." His lips curled into a dark smile. "Do you understand?"
The midwives looked at each other, terrified. Before they could react, the executioner stepped in, eyes fixed on them. He drew his sword in one quick move. They stepped back, but he was faster.
The sound of the blade slicing through the air was barely audible. Then everything went quiet. The executioner stepped back to his master, expressionless. He stood still, waiting for the next command.
"Take their bodies," the man ordered, his tone icy and devoid of any emotion. "Make sure there's no trace of them left."
The executioner nodded without a change in his face. He walked over to the midwives' bodies and started dragging them to the door with cold efficiency, leaving behind only fear.
***
The wind was cold against her skin as she walked through the trees. Each step hurt. Breathing felt hard in her chest. She held the baby close, trying to keep her warm.
The forest was dark and uncomfortable. Roots could trip her, and branches scratched her. Still, she kept going. For her daughter.
She didn't know where she was going. Only that she had to keep going.
Behind her, the silence was louder than any scream. She imagined his face twisted in rage, silently hoping he wouldn't lose control or harm innocent people.
She wouldn't let them take her child.
Time dragged on, and her legs could barely carry her anymore.
Her vision blurred, exhaustion clouding her senses.
She had been running for so long.
Then, a spark of hope lit her eyes—
nestled among the trees stood a large, sturdy cabin.
It looked like a place where they could finally rest.
The cabin gave off a quiet warmth, or at least that's how it felt to her.
Its wooden walls, aged and darkened by time, seemed to invite her in with silent familiarity.
It wasn't luxurious—nothing like the places she used to know—but it looked steady, safe.
A place that felt, somehow, like it had been waiting for them.
Without another thought, she let herself collapse onto the couch in the center of the cabin, her daughter still in her arms. It was worn but welcoming, the kind of softness that didn't ask questions.
She didn't have the strength to move. The weight of the day clung to her like a second skin. Her daughter had already drifted off, curled into her chest.
Her own eyes stung, dry from crying, and slowly began to close. In a matter of seconds, she was asleep too.