Kaelen’s POV

Six months.

Six months since she woke up and the wolf inside her was gone. Six months of watching her relearn how to exist in a body that bruised too easily, healed too slowly, tired too fast. Six months of pretending I wasn’t terrified every single day.

Now I stood beside her bed in the medical wing, and the terror was no longer something I could hide.

"Kaelen." Elara’s fingers clamped around mine. Her knuckles were white. Sweat darkened the silver hair at her temples. Her face—pale, so pale—twisted as another contraction rolled through her. "Kaelen, it’s—"

"I’m here." I brought her hand to my lips. Kissed her knuckles. "I’m right here, sweetheart. Breathe."

She exhaled through clenched teeth. A ragged, shuddering sound that carved straight through my ribs.

She’s in agony, Alex growled inside my skull. My inner wolf was pacing—back and forth, back and forth—an endless, frantic circuit that matched the hammering of my own pulse. Do something.

What? I snarled back silently. What exactly do you want me to do?

Alex had no answer. Just that relentless pacing.

Physician Morgan stood at the foot of the bed, her hands moving with practiced efficiency over the monitoring stones arranged along Elara’s abdomen. The soft blue glow pulsed in rhythm with something I couldn’t see—vital signs, magical readings, things I didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

"Contractions are intensifying," Morgan said, her voice calm but threaded with tension. Deep lines creased her forehead. She hadn’t looked away from those stones for an agonizing while. "Ela, you’re progressing well. I need you to keep breathing through them."

"I am breathing," Elara ground out through her teeth. Then her grip on my hand tightened so hard I felt the bones shift.

I didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch.

"That’s it." I smoothed the damp hair from her forehead with my free hand. "Squeeze as hard as you need to."

Another contraction hit. Her back arched off the pillows. A sound tore from her throat—raw, primal, something between a scream and a gasp. It was the sound of a body being pushed beyond its limits.

And her body had limits now. That was the thing I couldn’t stop thinking about. Before, her wolf would have absorbed some of this. The healing, the endurance, the supernatural resilience that every wolfblood woman carried through childbirth—Elara had none of it. She was doing this as a pure mortal. Every contraction, every wave of pain, hit her with full, unfiltered force.

"Morgan." I kept my voice low. Steady. Even though nothing inside me was steady. "How much longer?"

Morgan glanced up. Met my eyes. In that brief look, I saw what she wouldn’t say in front of Elara—the worry she kept locked behind professional composure.

"She’s progressing well. We’re moving in the right direction." She paused. Chose her next words carefully. "But I want to be transparent with both of you. A mortal body carrying a child with wolfblood heritage—the physical toll is significant. The baby is stronger than what Ela’s body is accustomed to supporting. We need to monitor closely."

I already knew this. She’d explained it earlier in the pregnancy, during one of those clinical briefings that left me unable to sleep for days afterward. The child’s wolfblood nature meant stronger bones, denser muscle, accelerated development. All of which placed extraordinary strain on a mother who no longer possessed any supernatural constitution.

Elara turned her head toward me. Those ice-blue eyes—exhausted, glazed with pain, but still sharp. Still her.

"Stop making that face," she whispered.

"What face?"

"The one where you’re calculating how to fight biology with your bare hands."

Despite everything—despite the fear gnawing through my chest like acid—something warm flickered behind my sternum. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Liar." A ghost of a smile. Then it vanished as the next contraction seized her.

This one was worse. She curled forward, a cry breaking from her lips. I caught her shoulders, supported her weight, felt the tremors running through her like earthquakes.

"Breathe, Ela. Just breathe, baby."

"I can’t—it’s too—"

"You can. Look at me." I tilted her face toward mine. Her eyes found me, wild and frightened. "You are the strongest person I have ever known. You hear me? Stronger than anyone in this empire. You can do this."

She held my gaze. Drew a shaking breath. Then another.

The contraction eased. She fell back against the pillows, gasping.

I pressed my lips to her temple. Tasted salt. "Good. That’s my girl."

She’s losing color, Alex warned.

I could see it. The pallor spreading beneath her skin like frost. The way her chest heaved with each breath, working harder than it should have been.

Minutes crawled past. Each one stretched into something unbearable. Morgan checked the monitoring stones repeatedly, adjusting their positions, murmuring readings to herself. I caught fragments—pulse elevated, blood pressure fluctuating, energy reserves dangerously low.

"Eight centimeters," Morgan announced finally. "Ela, you’re at eight. The active delivery starts now."

The delivery started. The words should have brought relief. Instead, Alex’s pacing grew more frantic.

Elara’s teeth sank into her lower lip as another contraction hit. I saw the skin split. A thin line of crimson welled up.

"Hey." I cupped her chin gently. Tilted her face up. "Don’t. Don’t hurt yourself. Squeeze my hand instead. Break every bone in it if you have to."

She made a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t soaked in pain. Then she grabbed my hand with both of hers and squeezed.

I absorbed it. Every ounce of pressure. Kept my expression neutral even as her nails carved crescents into my skin.

Then the monitoring stone on her left side shrieked.

A high, piercing tone—sharp enough to cut glass. The blue glow shifted to angry red.

Morgan’s composure cracked. Just for an instant. "The baby’s heartbeat is dropping."

The world narrowed to a single point. Everything beyond this room—the empire, the reports, the war, the throne—ceased to exist.

"What does that mean?" My voice came out dangerously quiet. The Alpha in me wanted to roar. To tear something apart. To fix this by force.

But force was useless here.

"It means we need to deliver now." Morgan moved to the end of the bed with urgent precision. "Ela, listen to me. On the next contraction, I need everything you have. One push. Your absolute maximum. Can you do that?"

Elara looked at me. In her eyes I saw exhaustion so deep it looked bottomless. And underneath it—iron.

"Yes," she said.

I shifted behind her. Braced her back against my chest. Wrapped my arms around her. She was shaking—fine, continuous tremors that vibrated through her entire frame.

"Together," I murmured against her hair. "We do this together."

The contraction built. I felt it move through her body like a wave—gathering, cresting, surging.

Elara bore down. A scream ripped from her—magnificent, raw, feral. The kind of sound that belonged to battlefields and birth rooms and nowhere else. Her entire body contracted around the effort, every muscle engaged, every remaining shred of strength channeled into this single, desperate act.

And then—

A cry.

Thin. Furious. Alive.

The red stone flickered once and settled back to blue.

Morgan caught the baby with practiced hands. For one eternal heartbeat, the room held its breath.

"A healthy, perfect girl," Morgan announced with a relieved smile. "Exactly seven pounds, two ounces."

The newborn screamed with impressive volume. Tiny fists clenched. Face scrunched in outrage at the cold, bright world.

Morgan laid the baby on Elara’s chest.

The screaming stopped.

Just like that. The infant’s cries dissolved into soft, hiccupping breaths the moment she touched her mother’s skin. As if she recognized the heartbeat she’d been listening to for months. As if she’d finally come home.

Elara’s hands rose—trembling, barely steady—and cradled the tiny body against her.

"Oh." The word was barely a breath. Tears streaked down her temples. "Oh, you’re here. You’re here."

I couldn’t speak. My throat had closed completely. I pressed my forehead against Elara’s hair and stared at the impossibly small creature in her arms. Dark lashes. A dusting of fine, pale hair. Rosebud mouth still working in tiny, indignant motions.

My daughter.

I reached out. Touched her hand with one finger.

Five perfect fingers closed around it. And gripped.

The strength of it startled me. Not a gentle, newborn flutter. A grip. Firm. Deliberate. Like she was staking a claim.

Elara let out a watery laugh. "Feel that?"

"I feel it."

"That’s her sovereign bloodline." Pride blazed through the exhaustion in her voice. Fierce and bright. "She’s yours, Kaelen."

I kissed Elara’s temple. Lingered there. Let my lips rest against her damp skin.

"You were magnificent. Your sheer willpower..." I whispered, kissing her temple again in absolute awe of her determination. "She’s ours, baby. And she’s absolutely perfect."