Rain battered Ravenwood as though the sky itself sought to claw its way into the houses. Each drop struck the rooftops like the drumming of fists against wooden doors, rattling the shutters. Inside the Mira household, the rainstorm's rage dulled to a muffled sound, but it never vanished.
Rowena Mira crouched low before the hearth, his long frame folded into the flicker of orange firelight. His hands were raw and reddened from coaxing damp logs into reluctant flame. Each log hissed and spat, steam rising in ghostly lines before the sparks caught and clung. For hours he had fought the storm's chill.
His hair was a bright red even in the shadows. It hung damp and tangled across his forehead. He shook it clear of his eyes, silver eyes that gleamed pale in the dim light, restless and wary. The fire finally steadied, flames clawing their way higher, and only then did he push himself to his feet. He wiped his hands down his black uniform trousers, streaking ash and resin across fabric already worn thin at the knees. Each movement felt careful, as though his very footsteps might wake the ghosts.
The polished floor carried him down the hall, and at its end, the bedroom lay like a golden sanctuary. His wife, Rainnova Mira slept there, her body curled into the nest of blankets. Half her face disappeared beneath them, but the swell of her belly rose through the blankets with each breath. Any day now, their child would arrive. Seeing her there safe and untouched by the horrors of the outside world slowed something inside him. A small smile grew across his lips.
Her voice broke the hush. Soft, amused, a whisper that tugged him back into the room:
"Hey, you."
Rowena startled faintly. "Didn't think you'd wake up with all this rain," he said, surprise slipping into his tone.
Nova didn't bother to open her eyes. A smirk curved her lips. "Hard to sleep when the love of my life walks into the room."
"Now, now. Flatter me more and I'll never leave." His laugh was low, warm, almost embarrassed. He moved closer while shaking his head.
She shifted against the pillows, shoulders straining as though to rise. He was at her side in a breath, hand already extended. "Hey! Don't do that. Just rest. I'll get you anything you need, alright?"
"Then go get Selma." The way she said it left no space for argument already. She had propped herself against the headboard, violet eyes still heavy with sleep but sharp with intention.
"Nova…" Rowena's smile faltered.
"We're both due soon. She should be here. It's strange without her."
"She's with her parents," he answered carefully, watching the firelight flicker against the wood-paneled wall instead of her face. "They're taking care of her."
Nova's brows arched, disbelief clear even in the dimness. "They're a hundred years old, Ro. You know they can't help her. We've got nurses. She doesn't. She needs to be with us."
He bit down on his lip, silver gaze sliding away from hers. She wasn't wrong. The truth of it burned in him, though he had hoped to push the thought off until morning.
"I'll go in the morning, then."
"Now."
He blinked at her. "Now!? Nova, it's pouring out there. She'll be fine one more night."
Her voice softened but it carried more weight. "That house of hers floods, Ro. You know it. And she's the only one who doesn't treat us like we're less, just because we're elves."
The words cut deep and he knew she was right. Her tone wasn't pleading anymore. She never needed to plead with him. If she commanded the sun to drown then the sun would never burn again.
"Fine," he breathed, the sigh breaking into reluctant affection. "Anything for you, my love." He tried to smile again, though his chest felt heavy. "Our child's going to inherit that fire of yours."
"Of course," she said, smirking faintly. "It'll come from me."
He leaned down, capturing her lips in a slow kiss. Her hand curled around his waist, pulling him closer, holding him in place until their breaths mingled. Their eyes met; hers violet, his silver as they stared at one another with admiration.
At last, Rowena straightened. His voice was light. "Guess I better go, huh? Can't get any drier outside." His sarcasm hung like a shield.
Nova laughed under her breath and nudged his leg with her foot. "Shut up and go."
Rowena's laugh broke the hush of the hall, rough but full of purpose. He raised a hand and beckoned one of the nurses who lingered nearby. "Get a room ready. Selma's coming."
The women stirred into motion at once, their white aprons fluttering like startled wings. Heads bent close together, they whispered in urgent tones, already weaving a plan around his command. Rowena bent to his boots, pulling the laces tight until the knots bit hard against the leather. His sword followed, buckled down to his waist with the precision of a man who could do it in his sleep. His hair, long and red as burning coals, he bound back with a practiced tie, every motion steady and deliberate almost like a ritual.
When he stepped forward, one of the nurses shifted into his path. He placed a hand lightly on her arm to pass, the barest graze of his fingers. Yet her whole body jolted as though struck by lightning. A shrill gasp escaped her, her cheeks burning red before she turned quickly away. Rowena barely noticed but he never carried the weight of shame. Regardless, his thoughts were already down the hall.
He pushed into their chamber again. Rainnova had drifted back into sleep, her face soft against the pillow, her breathing deep. For a moment, the sight stilled him. He crossed to her side and leaned down, lips brushing her cheek with tenderness. Then he straightened, shoulders squaring, and turned toward the door.
Once outside, the storm swallowed him whole. The stone sidewalk path had become a river of mud from the dirt being drowned by the heavy rain. The same water pulling at his boots, flooding into every step. Lanterns swung wildly in the rain with their light distorted.
It was a five-minute walk to Selma's house, though the rain made it feel longer, like crossing a battlefield. The air smelled of sodden earth and wet stone. Each step splashed heavy.
The elven quarter of the slums stretched around him. They were built like a taunt against the humans. Lanterns lit every path, glowing amber through glass globes. Stone-paved sidewalks gleamed slick beneath the storm. Mansions of carved marble and timber rose from the ground, grand in design though haunted by emptiness. It was comfortable, yes, but it had been constructed as a mockery.
Rowena's jaw tightened as his path drew near the border. Where the wealth of the elven slum ended, the human side began. The divide was stark and also cruel. Beyond the line, the roads were already washing away, rivers carving channels into mud. No lanterns lit the streets, only a black void punctuated by the faint outlines of sagging roofs. Houses leaned against one another.
Once, there had been no line at all.
Elves and humans had lived side by side. There had been elven lords with banners flying, elven generals who rode at the head of armies, elven voices that spoke in the high council. The memory was a bitter sweetness, for all of it had ended under King Torres the First. The war had not been war at all, but slaughter. A genocide.
Rowena still asked himself why. The truth gnawed him but the genocide was born not of strategy, but of fear. Fear of what elves carried in their blood. Magic. Each elf touched the world differently: fire bent to some, water to others. Lightning answered certain hands; others commanded the very bones of the earth. If something could be manipulated, an elf somewhere on the continent could do it. But the most rare were the Emerald Children.
No one knew how they came to be. No one knew why. Only when the sky split with a green flare, all the world was warned: another had been born.
Centuries past, one such child had nearly conquered the continent with sheer, unmatched power. However betrayal had been his death, killed by his best friend from childhood. Since then, every Emerald Child has been hunted. Every one slain before its first week of life. They are easy to find with their emerald colored eyes.
Decades ago, one child had slipped through the nets of the soldiers. For weeks, fear spread through the human kingdom and lordships like wildfire. But to the elves, the babe was hope. A blessing. A soul to be cherished, not destroyed. They had hidden it and guarded it. Yet the child was found, and its death was not enough for King Torres. His paranoia festered and his solution was to end the elves altogether. No elves meant no Emerald Children. No one with unmatched power.
The memories dragged at Rowena's stride. He could still see the city squares, bodies hanging by the neck for all to witness. Throats slit open their blood soaking the stones. Elven women raped and killed and then thrown into the gutters. Children screamed.
Not everyone agreed, however. Wendell Everknight was the youngest lord in the Kingdom had resisted. His bond with Prince Mone, heir to the throne, convinced him from tearing the kingdom down. Rowena himself had been tied to them both in friendship. So when Torres fell, killed by his own son and heir, Prince Mone, and he inherited the crown, peace had been forged.
Peace, but not equality.
With this peace agreement, the killings of the new Emerald Child still take place, no elf can hold political power, and no elf shall be near the "proper" humans. They also made the elves the primary infantry men of all future wars. Forced to live in the slums but made it rich and fancy to further divide the hate between human and elf.
Many people ask why the elves didn't fight back, but they did. Elves never learned to use their magic to fight and kill but rather to make life easier for everyone. Turn water into wine, wash clothes in five minutes, or make food taste even better. When the slaughter began there was no way to combat it other than with swords, which is what made Lord Everknight and General Rowena Mira vital to the resistance during the war and to this current day.
As Rowena sludged his way through, Selma's house appeared through the sheets of rain, a sagging shadow barely clinging to the road. Then, Rowena heard her screams, ragged and breaking.
He broke into a sprint. Mud clawed at his boots, water slapped against his legs.. He crashed through the half-hanging door, wood splintering beneath his shoulder. The stench of mildew and rot hit him, the air thick with dampness.
Inside, her parents stirred, sluggish and smiling faintly as though this night were no more than an inconvenience. The old man squinted at him, the old woman rocking lazily into her chair.
"Where is she?" Rowena demanded, his voice sharp.
The woman chuckled, her frail frame lowering into a seat beside her husband. "Oh, she's fine. We know how to birth a baby."
"By sitting there? You could hear screams through the storm!" Rowena's silver eyes flared.
"The baby will come out when it's supposed to," she said, her tone light, dismissive. The pair chuckled together, ancient and detached, as though blood and rain and agony were none of their concern.
Rowena's hands curled into fists, his chest heaving. His voice trembled on the brink of fury but before he could respond, Selma's voice cut through the air.
"Rowena!? In here!" Her voice cracked in raw pain.
He barged through one of two doors in the whole house and he saw her. The sight rooted him for half a heartbeat. Her blood soaked the thin blankets. The same blood staining the floor that mingled with the rain dripping through holes in the roof. Her face dried with tears, her hair plastered to her cheeks. The floor beneath the bed pooled with water, her body trembling with no active fire inside her home.
He moved without thought. In one swift motion he gathered her into his arms, the weight of her body alarmingly light against him. He ignored the stunned laughter of her parents. He barreled back through the door and into the downpour, her warm blood already seeping into him.
The storm swallowed them whole. Each stride through the sucking mud jolted her body. Selma groaned, gasped, her voice breaking into moans of pain that scraped against his ears. Hot blood spilled freely, soaking his trousers, slick against his skin. Her arms trembled as they clung around his neck, her breath rattling against the hollow of his throat.
"We're almost there," he rasped, the words spilling between ragged breaths. "We have nurses. We have medicine. Just fight with me. Stay with me."
Rowena slammed through the mansion doors, his boots slick with mud, Selma's blood staining the black of his uniform. His chest heaving like thunder.
"She's…dying!" he barked, voice raw, the words tearing from his throat.
However, no nurses came. The hall lay empty, silent save for the pounding of rain against the walls. For a moment the silence was unbearable.
Then, Rowena heard it. It was another scream but it wasn't Selma's as she slowly became more limp in his arms. It was his wife's, Rainnova.
The sound carved into him like a blade, high and ragged, filled with the agony of birth. He froze, his mind splitting in two, the weight of both women crushing down upon him. Selma's arms clung weakly around his neck, her voice gone to a hoarse whimper. His wife's cries echoed from the other room which was raw and desperate.
For the first time in his life, Rowena Mira did not know where to turn. The general, the soldier, the man who had led armies to victory was powerless and uncertain.
His legs moved on instinct. He carried Selma down the corridor, into the chamber that had been prepared for her. He thanked the heavens, it was ready. Towels stacked, basins of clean water, medicines and tools laid out in neat rows. A mattress by the hearth still held the warmth of the fire.
He laid her down as gently as he could. Her skin was cold, slick with sweat, her breaths shallow and rattling. Consciousness flickered behind her eyes.
One thing hit Rowena's mind. Thassline. A foul, blue liquid medicine that's rancid in taste, dangerous if mishandled. It numbed pain and loosened muscles. Perhaps this will help the baby come out too.
He didn't hesitate. He poured a cup full, pressed it to her lips. Selma coughed, gagging, trying to spit it out, but his hand covered her mouth, firm, forcing it down. Her eyes widened, tears streaking her face, before he tilted a second cup of water after it, washing the medicine down her throat.
Rowena finally rose to go see his wife, blood dripping on their marble floors. But the floors began to shake heavily and the sky erupted.
The heavens above him outside busted open in a green fire. An emerald blaze that seared across the skies. In an instant, the storm was gone. No thunder. No rain. No clouds. Only a vast sky lit by unnatural emerald light, spilling across the entire continent.
Rowena's breath stopped and his stomach turned cold. He knew what it meant. His child was an Emerald Child.
A new baby's cry broke through his home, piercing and alive. His knees nearly buckled. The air seemed thinner and it was too sharp to breathe. His newborn child. His blood. King Mone would come looking to kill it.
Slowly, he walked toward the sound. His hand trembled on the doorframe. Inside, Rainnova cradled a small bundle to her chest, tears of joy streaming down her face. Her violet eyes glowed with love, fierce and unshakable, as she rocked their firstborn. Rowena stood there in the emerald glow, torn between awe and terror.
"Babe…" Rainnova's voice trembled, her throat raw from labor. She pulled the bundle closer to her cheek, her violet eyes swimming with tears. "She's beautiful."
The baby's pointed ears bent as she pressed the child's tiny head against her face. A fuzz of damp red hair glistened against the lamplight, the color unmistakably Rowena's. When the newborn's eyes fluttered open, the room seemed to change.
Emerald. Not soft or muted, but it was blazing.
Rowena's hands shook. His entire body trembled, as if the ground itself had been pulled out from beneath him. Rainnova noticed, her joy fractured into confusion, and then fear. She turned her head toward the window.
The world outside burned green. The slums, the rooftops, the cobbled streets: all bathed in a blinding emerald glow that turned night into a soft dawn. The storm was erased. Outside was not just the gentle light of green. It pulsed, it roared, a cosmic flare stretching to the heavens.
"Ro…" Rainnova's voice broke into a scream, raw fear cutting through the wonder. The sound startled the newborn, and the baby's tiny mouth opened wide, a piercing cry rising in answer to her mother's terror.
"I know." Rowena's voice cracked, wild and panicked. His eyes were fixed on the glow that drenched their walls and their skin. His chest heaved as though the light itself pressed on his lungs. "I know. I don't know what to do."
In an instant, the sky tore open again.
Another flare erupted. It was vaster and brighter. For a moment it seemed as though the continent had been given a second sun. The night sky vanished entirely, swallowed by emerald fire that stretched horizon to horizon. The world drowned in the impossible light, every shadow burned away.
Rowena's mouth fell open, his voice barely a whisper, lost against the cosmic roar. "...What the…"
Then, came the sound.
A cry. Not from the bundle in Rainnova's arms, but from where Rowena left Selma. Her child had just been born. Another cry joined the first, two newborn voices twining together, rising into the vast emerald blaze that had swallowed the continent.
Rowena erupted into motion. He wasn't careful but had measured strides of a general. The hall blurred around him: portraits, the echo of his own boots, the distant keening of newborns and the wet slap of rain still dripping from his cloak. He crashed through the bedroom door and the world narrowed immediately onto the scene.
Towels lay on the floor beneath Selma, a crude bedspread of cloths stacked to catch what kept spilling from her. The fabric was an obscene mosaic where blood had soaked and spread, petals of crimson bleeding into the weave. Selma's chest rose in thin, jagged breaths. Her face waxed with sweat. She was alive, thankfully. Another newborn baby laid in between her thighs, crying loudly.
Rowena's throat closed. He barked without thinking, an order that was also a plea. "Nurses!" The sound of his voice seemed to drive the walls in, and they answered. The nurses poured inside, slipping through the door. Three of them packed into the cramped room, elbows barely clearing each other as they moved with expertise.
The nurses lifted the other infant with hands both reverent and clinical. This child's crown was a dark, nearly black cloud of hair, damp and clinging, a tiny head against a sea of towels. When its eyelids fluttered open, the room gasped seeing the light green eyes again. The second pair of tonight. Rowena felt the floor shift beneath him as he could not tell whether history was being written tonight. His stomach turned at the thought of it.
The nurses swarmed Selma, working in a choreography of necessity. Cloths were pressed, compressing hips and thighs until the blood slowed. Salves, emollients, astringents from shallow wooden bowls. The small tools found from around the house were applied with hands that trembled but did not cease. The three nurses rolled Selma over, propping her up on the side so the next breath might come easier, tucking pillows and towels like fortifications of a castle.
One nurse murmured to the other two, "She's bled much. That's priority. Then we need a wet nurse for the babe." Another tied fresh cloths, her knuckles whitening. The third held the newborn.
Rowena stood there, sleeves slick with both rain and blood, the two newborns' cries like sacramental bells in his ears. He had the hollowed calm of a man who had seen people die and had been expected to make them live; that calm withered and reformed into steely resolve. For the first time in years, he felt helpless.
"Will they both be okay?" He asked them. "My wife, Selma, both babes?" He said in ragged breaths.
"Yes. Rainnova is perfect. Her child is healthy. Selma needs a lot more attention but will be okay under our supervision. Her baby also seems to be healthy and okay." The lead nurse spoke, as she continued to apply medicine underneath her.
Rowena refused to speak further. He turned, his shoulders rigid as he moved back toward his wife. The other room held their daughter. Rainnova's face bathed in happiness. Rowena's motions were methodical now: he now buckled on his chainmail that bit at his ribs, the cold iron a small comfort; he tugged the leather straps across his chest until the armor sat like a second skin. The black mail drank the light and made him look narrower, more forbidding. He bound his hair into a war knot. The red braid pulled tight and practical.
Rainnova watched her husband dress for battle. Her hand never left their child, fingers feathering over the infant's back. She let out a breath, a small fracturing sound. "You can't," she breathed, the words raw. "They'll kill all of us. They saw the sky…" fear poured from her voice.
She said it with the pragmatic horror of a person pressed against a blade. Her heart hammered like a trapped bird. Every syllable that followed was swallowed by a dawning and cold acceptance. Mentally, she began to count: the exits, the number of doors, the places to hide. Her eyes flicked to the window, to the unworldly green that still lanced the horizon.
Rowena did not answer at first. Still in uniform from getting Selma, he made sure his boots were laced tight and the leather snug. He then ensured his obsidian longsword was settled in place at his hip. He then looked and gave Rainnova both an apology and an oath. "What's her name?" He asked her with a warm smile.
Relief suddenly poured over her face… "Belli Mira." She whispered without hesitation. She had finally stopped crying, as her eyes scanned the room before locking onto Rowenas. He stood, slightly touching his daughter on her face. "This is who we are," he said finally, voice low and empty of pretense. "I will not let them slaughter us willingly any longer. Tonight we fight, and we fight to win."
Her lips opened in a soundless protest that became a whisper again. He could see in her eyes the mapping of doom and love braided together. Outside, the muffled thud of hooves rose. First a pattern like distant trumpant, then closer, horses straining against wet reigns. The inevitability of it hit like a physical weight. "Right on cue," he said, his confidence overwhelming.
Rowena walked through the house and stepped out onto the court yard. He quickly looked up at the night sky, slightly overwhelmed. It seemed like twilight outside but instead of a yellow sun, it was green. Everywhere had become a theater in emerald light.
Three soldiers stood at the gate, the imperial trappings muted by the storm. They were not in full ceremonial dress; they looked as if the summons had woken them mid-sleep and sent them straight to the mission. These men were familiar. Faces he had ordered, trained, and even trusted.
They halted at the threshold of his property, boots sinking into mud. A single man stepped forward. His uniform was ordinary and unclean, but the voice that came from him carried the dull, coded professionalism of the army. "General Mira," he said, and for a glittering second the word felt both an honor and a noose. Hesitancy pulled at his tone.
Rowena made no greeting. He let his posture speak instead: hand resting near the hilt of his sword, the other arm flicking an idle tension that any soldier would read as readiness.
"Per the King's Law," the young officer continued, "we have orders to search your home for the potential Emerald child."
Rowena knew this formal phrase that undressed them all, potential Emerald child. It was a legal blade wrapped in civil words. The soldier's eyes moved, involuntary, toward the rooms that sheltered the women, two infants, and the blood that still stained the floor.
Rowena's hand tightened on his sword. Heat rose under his skin, the familiar thrumming of his fire magic answering his soft calls. It was not yet unleashed; rather, it coiled like a living thing, ready to snap. Everyone felt the gravity of the situation, uncertain what was next.
He did not lower himself to argue the law. Instead, he stepped forward into the wet light and the waiting ranks of mud and steel. "Then search," he said, voice steady as iron. "But you will do it in my sight. You will find nothing and report nothing. You will report that tonight was an anomaly."
The soldier swallowed. The tension in the air wound tighter. Behind Rowena, the house held fragile lives of women and children. Ahead, three imperial men had orders that would not be denied without consequence. The emerald sky hummed, an omnipotent witness. Rowena straightened his shoulders as he felt the pulse of fire at the edges of his awareness, and waited for the first move.
Rowena stood rigid under the glow of the sky. The image of a soldier carved from exhaustion and fury. His black uniform clung to his body, soaked through, the fabric heavy with blood from Selma. The gold stripes on his sleeves, five on each arm, marking him as a General of Ravenwood. His armor bore scratches and dents from countless wars, but tonight it looked older, sadder. The proud sigil of Ravenwood, the burning arrow over his heart was smeared with blood, half invisible.
Across from him stood Captain Legg between the two younger officers, sweat dripping from his short blonde hair, his once-white uniform now streaked with mud. His hand tightened around his sword hilt, his face twisting into the cruel smirk of a man who believed this confrontation would immortalize him. Killing the great General Mira as well as taking the new emerald child to the King? History would know him forever.
"It appears your alliance is skewed, elf," Legg said, his tone half contempt, half warning. "If this is the side you are picking, you are not fit to be a general. You are against the King and the very Kingdom that spared your fragile kind." He stepped forward, boots squelching in the mud. His sword came free with a hiss. "I will spill your blood upon your very grass. Then everyone in that mansion of yours will be killed for treason , for sheltering an enemy."
Rowena's silver eyes lifted to meet him. "A baby," he said, voice stripped bare.
Their swords reflected the glow in opposite tones: Legg's polished silver, Rowena's dulled iron streaked with ash. The dirt beneath them glistened with rain, thickening into black mud.
"Boys," Legg barked, glancing over his shoulder at his two men, "you follow me in this battle, and you'll each no longer be the ones scrapping shit from higher officers."
He charged.
The sound of his boots slamming into mud broke the stillness, followed by the shriek of steel. His blade sliced straight toward Rowena's throat, but he shifted to his right, fluid and unhurried. Letting the strike pass so close it stirred the air against his cheek.
Legg stumbled past him, his own momentum betraying him. His boots slipped, sending him crashing to the ground. Mud splattered across his face, streaking his uniform. He cursed and scrambled upright, fury in his eyes.
Rowena didn't move. His voice came low, steady, almost pitying. "Captain, I am a general because I have actually fought in wars. Countless battles. Countless men I've killed with this very sword. I have protected my race from yours longer than you've been alive."
His eyes flicked toward the two young infantrymen as Legg recomposed himself. They froze under the weight of his gaze, their hands shaking on their sword hilts.
"I'll forgive your ignorance, Captain," Rowena said. "Leave and report to Lord Everknight you found nothing. I'll let this go."
Legg's lips pulled into a sneer. "You'll let this go?" He spat mud, dragging a hand through his hair. "You're covered in blood, elf. Whose is it, hmm? The mothers of the abomination in there?"
"A baby, Captain." Rowena repeated, his eyes darting back to him.
Legg lunged again but this time Rowena met him head on. Their blades clashed in a metallic scream that echoed through the rain. Sparks flashed from the impact bright orange against the night air. Rowena's strength overpowered Legg's, driving the younger man backward. Mud splashed up around them as they traded blows, both breathless, both relentless.
Legg's sword carved through the air, aiming for Rowena's ribs, but Rowena twisted, deflecting with a sharp parry that sent vibrations up his arm. His counterstrike came fast. A low, sweeping slash that cut across Legg's thigh.
The captain roared as blood spewed violently from his thigh. Rowena stepped inside the attack, his hand flashing upward. Fire erupted from his palm, not a burst, but a sudden, concentrated blaze that wrapped around his black obsidian sword like a ribbon of molten light.
The heat surged between them as Legg faltered, shielding his face from the sudden blast of light. Rowena's fire magic in full strength.
Rowena struck. Their swords met again, and this time the fire caught. Legg's blade glowed red at the edges, heat warping the steel. The captain's scream tore through the air as his sword began to melt. Before he realized it, Legg had to tear his hand free, the smell of burning flesh thick and nauseating. Legg dropped his sword, knowing his defeat was imminent.
Rowena's face didn't change. He pressed forward. One heavy step, then another. Rowena's face slowly starts getting covered by his hair. strands of hair breaking free from the braid with each movement. Legg's outline of him blurred, like the air itself bent away from his heat.
The captain swung clumsily with his other hand, but Rowena deflected it effortlessly, driving the pommel of his sword into the captain's chest. Legg hit the ground hard, splashing the puddled up rainwater. Coughing up blood.
"You…you disgusting magic user." He said.
Rowena stood over him, silent, sweat streaming down his face from his own heat. The gold stripes on his arms caught a dull glint as he raised his blade.
The captain looked up at him, eyes wide, defiant even through the fear. "You're… a damned traitor," he choked. "I'll see you in hell, elf."
Rowena didn't speak. His sword came down in one clean, merciless arc. The blade cut through his entire body, fire trailing the strike. Rowena couldn't help but think he at least didn't die a coward.
The light burned for a moment. Bright and silent but then vanished. When the flame faded, all that remained was smoke rising from the blackened mud and the body of Captain Legg, lifeless, his uniform still smoldering where the fire had kissed it.
The two soldiers stood frozen. One dropped his sword into the dirt; the other could only stare.
Rowena turned to them slowly, his voice steady but hollow. "Go. Report to Lord Everknight, who will report to King Mone that Captain Legg was missing and you were unable to conduct your search. There are multiple search parties who will find nothing, trouble shall not find you. I'll make sure of it."
The courtyard was slick with mud mixed with blood making it appear black. Lanterns swung on bent posts, their flames guttering against the otherworldly glow from above. The mansion's façade, carved stone and ivy-streaked, rose behind Rowena like a battered forest. The windows aglow, wet banners limp. The slums beyond the hedgerow lay folded in shadows, low roofs bowed with water, alleys full of the smells of wet straw and braised refuse. Everything tasted of iron.
Rowena stood over the fallen captain, chest heaving, sword dripping steam. Mud clung to his boots and the hems of his mail; the gold stripes on his sleeves flashed faintly, dulled by blood and grit. The two young officers who had fled crouched a short distance off their faces ghastly as they all heard the sound of hoofbeats. A single horse burst toward them down the lane, a lantern bobbing at its bridle, the light carving a small circle of yellow into the green world. The animal's flanks heaved; rain spattered its hide; its breath steamed in the cold air. Rowena kept his sword half out, muscles taut, prepared for another clash.
As the rider drew near Rowena squinted against the lantern glow. The immediate instinct to prepare for battle collapsed into something colder and stranger. The man in the saddle was Lord Wendell Everknight of Ravenwood.
Everknight sat like a king of old in simple riding leathers, not the gaudy finery of court but a dark coat of oiled leather that drank the light. His bald head reflected the night sky. He looked old but was still fairly young. He carried himself with the slow assurance of a man who had knocked against the edges of power and not been broken by them. Five badges gleamed at his collar. The lantern hung from the horse's bridle cast strange shadows across his face, making his cheekbones look carved and the lines at his eyes deepened by thought.
Rowena sheathed his blade as the horse halted. He dropped to one knee without thinking; the two officers mirrored him, their bodies obeying a habit older than their fear. It was curious that Lord Everknight had come alone. Then, the slicing of steel through soft tissue.
Rowena's head snapped up. Before him, Lord Everknight's sword moved in a single, artful arc. The two officers went still. Heads severed clean by a practiced hand, the sound a hollow, wet sickle-click that seemed to belong to some ancient, merciless ritual. Mud splattered with the warm, metallic taste of blood; their bodies slumped as they collapsed onto the dirt.
The courtyard seemed to hold its breath. For a breath, Rowena thought only of the liquid red that had marked his uniform all night. Rage pulled at him so hard he lunged: "What are you doing?" he shouted, the question ripping from his throat.
Lord Everknight's face was unreadable. "Can you shut up, Ro?" he replied, voice a calm blade. "Stop walking upon me like that." There was a tiredness in his tone as his hand never left his sword's hilt. The command was brusque as if he were chastising a wayward brother more than passing sentence.
Rowena's anger did not ease. Three lifeless bodies on his ground. He moved toward the lord, grief and fury braided so tightly it hurt. "They didn't attack me!"
Everknight shrugged the motion. He slipped from his mount with practised grace and came close, the smell of leather and the faint iron tang of battle about him. Up close his features softened in a way no herald could shape in words: a man who had worn the weight of leadership until the weight had become a part of him.
"I assume your child is the emerald child?" he asked, barely a question.
"Yes," Rowena stammered, the word small against the wide sky
"Name?"
"Belli. Belli Mira."
Everknight's mouth lifted into a half-smile that did not reach his eyes at first, then warmed in a surprising, fraternal way. "It means beauty and an omen to war," he said. "Since when did you get poetic?"
Rowena, suddenly aware of the absurdity of the moment, managed a short, brittle laugh. "It was Rainnova's idea. Not me." The admission loosened something in his shoulders; the tension slackened.
"That doesn't shock me," Everknight said, and the two men let out a breath that landed between them like a small truce. He stepped forward and wrapped Rowena in a tight embrace. "Congratulations, my brother. You know why I had to kill them, right?"
"I do. Nobody else can know."
"Nobody." Lord Everknight's voice was sharp. "We are committing the highest form of treason right now. King Mone would flay us alive." Silence fell across the garden. Nothing else needed to be said about what just occurred as their eyes connected and were locked in agreement.
"Any new tips on being a fresh parent, Wendell? How old is Lacey now?"
"Just turned two," Wendell answered dryly. "And no, it sucks." The two of them laughed again, a sound that was joyful. The pair of men were on edge between grief and relief. Around them the mansion's windows glowed with the emerald sky reflected, young lives crying inside. Potential history occurring.
Rowena's voice lowered. "What do we do now?"
Everknight's face grew serious. He was a man who spoke in precise choices. "I can find a replacement child to give to King Mone. For these three, we will call them deserters; they were executed attempting to flee. I can also arrange for another magic user…someone from a far coast to alter your daughter's eye color. However…consequences come from that. First bein-"
Rowena cut him off, the gratitude raw in his tone. "I don't care. Will she live a normal life?"
"She will." Was the only answer needed.
"Thank you, my old friend."
Everknight inclined his head, the two sharing the compact of men who had trusted each other through campaigns of a very different kind. "Get rid of these bodies," Everknight commanded, the voice slipping back to steely efficiency, "I'll take care of everything else." He mounted his horse again, the motion as smooth as a closed hand.
"Give Rainnova my love," he added in passing, and for a heartbeat the softness in him surprised Rowena. It almost felt paternal.
Then he was gone, horse hooves sending a fan of mud into the air, the lantern bobbing like a lonely star as he rode into the night. Rowena watched him disappear into the emerald mist. The courtyard felt suddenly very large and very empty.
When the last hoofbeat faded, the sound of reality crashed back in. Rowena's knees buckled from the stress of the night. He folded forward and the world narrowed to the raw, simple pressure of the ground beneath him and salt along his cheeks.
He thought of the two infants and the single red-headed daughter in Rainnova's arms, of Selma propped on towels, breathing but thin as paper. The things he'd do for his family and the ones he loves.
…
The summer sun poured over the Siburg River like melted gold, turning the ripples into coins of light. Dragonflies hovered and darted through the reeds, their wings flashing green and blue, and the air hummed with the soft thrum of life.
The river was shallow here. It was slow, warm, and bright. Where smooth stones dappled the riverbed and minnows flickered in the shallows. The laughter of three children broke across the water, their joy bright and wild and unafraid.
Belli Mira ran first, her hair a tangled blaze of red that caught every shimmer of light. Behind her came Lamberra, quick-footed and mischievous, her dark hair streaming behind like a ribbon of night. Willow Mira, only six, trailed them both, clutching a reed-spear he'd fashioned from a branch and a bit of stubborn imagination.
"Willow, don't you dare throw that at me!" Belli shrieked, turning mid-splash, eyes glinting bright purple in the sun.
"I'm protecting you!" he shouted back, aiming anyway. The reed flew, arced, and struck Lamberra squarely in the arm.
"Ow! That hurt!" she cried, but she was laughing too, the sound echoing off the banks like a bell. "You're supposed to protect me, idiot!" Lamberra shrieked, throwing a rock towards him causing him to fall.
"That's not fair!" Willow protested, as he crashed into the water with a glorious splash that soaked them all.
From a smooth rock near the river's edge, Rowena watched them, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a rare, quiet smile. The breeze tugged at his red hair, now shorter, peppered faintly with silver.
Selma sat beside him, her body still strong but she bored the pale scars of old wounds. The sunlight caught the fine lines around her eyes, lines carved by both laughter and loss. A soft linen shawl draped across her shoulders fluttered in the wind.
"Bet I can jump farther than you!" Belli shouted, crouching.
"Belli Mira, don't you-!" Rowena's voice thundered too late as she leapt.
Selma was already laughing so hard she had to cover her mouth. "She's yours, no doubt about it," she told him. "I can't believe she's 8 now."
"Same as Lamberra, hm?" They both chuckled.
"She looks just like her." Selma remarked, talking about Rainnova. "Do you ever still dream of her?" Her tone softens as they watch their kids play.
"Every night," Rowena said quietly. "And every morning when I see Belli's face. She has her mother's eyes. That same look when she's sassy."
Selma smiled faintly. "And Willow?"
A shadow crossed his features. Grief, tempered by pride. "He's got her stubbornness. You'd think he was born with a sword in his hand instead of a quill. Six years old, and I still can't-" He stopped himself, watching the kids, Lamberra tripped in the shallows and burst into laughter instead of tears.
Selma's hand brushed his arm. "She'd be proud, you know. Of you. Of them."
He nodded once, throat tight, unable to answer. Across the water, they had begun collecting river stones, arguing over which were prettiest, their voices overlapping in a sweet, chaotic rhythm. Lamberra's dark brown eyes reflected the sun's glint with perfection.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The river moved on, patient and ancient, wearing down stone the way time wore down sorrow. It was slow, gentle, and without mercy.
Finally, Selma broke the silence. "Do you ever wonder what they'll grow up to be?"
"The future of a better world."