As Banesa wandered toward the outskirts of the city, she stumbled upon a patch of farmland—tamed chaos where the city met the wild. Here, earthworms danced in rich, coffee-colored soil, and sunflowers tilted toward the sky like devoted sentinels. The farmer, a sturdy woman named Maudra with calloused hands, paused her planting. "Lost your way, child?"
"No," Banesa murmured, resting a hand on the swell beneath her thin tunic. Beneath her palm, a small foot kicked—a jolt so sudden it made her gasp. Four moons had passed since she fled Alaric's Manor; her belly now curved like a moon-globe, taut and undeniable.
Maudra's eyes softened as she wiped soil-streaked hands on her apron. She gestured toward a low-roofed dwelling where smoke drifted from a chimney. "Then come." Inside, the air smelled of hay and animal warmth—oxen shifting lazily in their stalls, sheep blinking curious eyes. Beneath the eaves, Maudra cleared a heap of straw beside the manger, cushioned it with a worn blanket. "Lie here," she urged. "Skies above, child—you're trembling."
As twilight deepened, Banesa clutched her belly, breaths ragged. Outside, Verdant Sentinels hummed low hymns; inside, Maudra's oxen pressed close, their slow breaths warming her skin. "They know pain," Maudra whispered, stroking an old donkey's ear. "Lean on 'em." Between contractions, Banesa rested her head against the flank of a ewe. Its heartbeat drummed steady beneath her cheek—a rhythm older than kingdoms. Wood creaked. Fireflies drifted through the stable door like scattered stars.
The manger stood heaped with fresh straw, fragrant as dawn. "Now, child," Maudra urged softly. "Not alone." Banesa pushed—once, twice—jaw clenched. A luminous glow spilled from her, drenching oxen hides in silver. Then, a cry split the quiet. A boy slid into Maudra's calloused hands, skin shimmering like dew-lit silk, eyes already open—clear violet pools reflecting candlelight. Tears carved tracks through Maudra's dirt-smudged face. "Sweet skies," she breathed. "He's... alight."
"Light?" Banesa rasped, reaching. The infant gurgled, warm as a sunbaked stone. His tiny fist brushed her thumb. Not fever warmth, but pulsing radiance. Maudra wrapped him in coarse wool. "Like moonlight made flesh." In the corner, the ewe bleated softly. The donkey laid its muzzle on the manger's edge. Acceptance. A home among beasts who understood birth's raw, bloody grace better than kings ever could.
Outside, the hum of the Verdant Sentinels deepened. Shadows thickened into Lurien—a creature whose torso was knotted willow branches, eyes luminous ponds reflecting stars. He shuffled closer on root-feet, petals peeling from his shoulders like ash. "Illumination," Lurien murmured. His voice rustled like dry reeds. "This child... he is kin to us." Banesa clutched her son tighter. "Kin?" Lurien extended a branch-hand. Where his fingers brushed the infant's brow, tiny vines sprouted, curling like green smoke. The baby cooed.
Inside the stable, Maudra froze. Her knuckles whitened on the donkey's bridle. "That ain't natural," she hissed. "Plants don't grow from babes." Banesa traced the vines—cool, soft, living. "Nor do kings flee their thrones," she countered softly. The vines withered to dust as Lurien withdrew. "Your boy carries ancient earth-song," he said. "The Sentinels felt his cry. They will shield him." A shudder passed through the floorboards. Distant, a drake's roar tore the sky. "Fire answers root."
Banesa closed her eyes in relief, letting the oxen's warmth seep into her bones. Her son's glow dimmed to a soft pulse—a heartbeat syncing with the rustle of leaves outside. For a breath, the world stilled. Then Maudra thrust a clay cup brimming with bitterroot tea into her hands. "Drink," she ordered. "His shine won't fill your belly." The ewe nudged Banesa's shoulder, its breath damp against her neck.
Lurien shuffled closer, moss-scented. "Name him," he demanded, petals spiraling from his limbs. "Names anchor souls." From the straw beside her, a sunflower seed rattled—dropped by a passing sprite. Banesa caught it, pressing it into her palm until heat bloomed. "Keris," she breathed. "Like the dawn wind." The seed cracked. A sprout slithered up her wrist, unfurling a single gold petal. Keris gurgled, grasping for the light.
Maudra snorted, dumping grain into a trough. "Fancy names won't feed him. Or you." She shoved a hunk of rye bread at Banesa, crusts hard as cobblestones. "Eat. Or fade to vapor like those pixies." Outside, Duskfire Drakes circled, scales bleeding molten orange onto the clouds. "Fire answers root." Lurien stiffened. "They smell new magic," he rasped. "Fledgling roots draw flame."
Keris fussed, vines coiling tighter around Banesa's wrist. His violet eyes tracked a Verdant Sentinel shifting beyond the stable walls—a mountain of thorns and twilight blossoms. "Will they attack?" Banesa whispered, bread forgotten. Lurien's bark-fingers brushed the infant's temple. Fresh moss bloomed there, soft and damp. "Not while we guard. Sentinels sing shields from soil." He gestured to Maudra's donkey, now nibbling sprouted oats near Keris's feet. "Beasts know. They stand sentinel too."
Maudra spat into the straw. "Sentinel my aching back." She hauled a sack of seed-grain onto her shoulder, cords straining in her neck. "World's full of hungry things—drakes, kings, winter. Only shield here is sweat." She thrust a wooden rake into Banesa's free hand. "Can't birth-glow pay the tithes. You shovel dung, girl. Warmth ain't charity—it's earned."
Banesa pressed Keris tighter to her chest. His temple brushed her chin. The rake handle felt alien, rough as betrayal. Maudra jabbed a thumb toward the sheep pen. "Oxen chew cud soft, but sheep? Fickle as sprites. Clean their mess before noon-stomp, or they'll trample his shine right out." She tossed a pair of patched work-gloves at Banesa's feet. "Gloves first. Thorns bite deeper when you're tender."
Banesa slid off the hay mound, wincing as her knees cracked. She looked at Maudra—mud-streaked apron, eyes like storm-scoured stones—and bowed her head. "Thank you," she whispered. Salt stung her throat. "For straw and warmth and... dung-duty." She touched the faded blue wool swaddling Keris. "I'll remember your kindness." Keris whimpered, his glow pulsing soft indigo against the gloom. "Till the roots forget rain." Her voice thickened. "Forever."
Maudra's stare didn't soften. She jammed a cracked leather flask into Banesa's hands. "Goat milk," she growled. "And nettle salve." She jerked her chin toward Lurien, who rustled impatiently near the stable door. "Trees talk too much. Rivers listen." Keris hiccupped, grasping at the sunbeam slicing through the barn gap. Maudra touched the infant's moss-patched temple—one rough finger, fleeting—her gaze lingering. "Tell him," she grunted, turning away. "Tell him Mud-Mouth Maudra knows beast-hearts beat louder than kings'. Now scram!" She vanished into the dark stall, her boots kicking dust-devils.
Lurien drifted toward a furrowed potato patch. Knotted fingers dug into the loam, coaxing tubers fat as fists into woven baskets. Banesa hesitated. Keris whimpered, clutching her earlobe. Lurien paused, petals falling like snowflakes from his shoulders. "She gifted you doubt," he murmured. "Doubt roots deeper than gratitude." He handed her a potato, speckled-purple and smelling of damp earth. "Carry it. Remember warmth demands callouses." He leaned closer—a breath like creaking forests. "And the drakes..." His voice dropped. "...nearer than dawn."
Inside, dust motes danced in midmorning rays. Maudra straddled a milking stool, forehead pressed against a heifer's flank. Cream hissed into a tin pail—sharp percussion against the stable's drone. Keris squirmed. Banesa laid him on a straw-stuffed feed sack. His glow pulsed softly—noonlight filtered through oak leaves.