Finally, with a final, desperate cry, the child emerged. It did not wail. It did not cry. It simply lay in the midwife's rough hands, silent and still.
The midwife, fearing a stillbirth, shook the infant, and the child's eyes fluttered open.
The midwife gasped. They were a stunning, startling shade of emerald green, but they held none of the innocence of a newborn. They were too knowing, too old, too aware.
She held the baby to the candlelight, and a fresh wave of thunder shook the chamber. The child's skin was porcelain-pale, his lips a shocking crimson, and his body was not broad and sturdy like his royal half-brothers, but slender and unnaturally graceful.
Someone
He's... a beautiful boy,
The midwife muttered, a note of unease in her voice.
Someone
But he is not a Prince of the Umbraea.
The concubine, mustering the last of her strength, reached for her son. Her hand trembled as she cradled him, her fingers tracing the perfect lines of his jaw, the delicate arch of his brow. He was a piece of art, a beautiful sculpture carved from pain and prophecy.
She held him close, her lips pressed against his temple. The midwife watched, a mix of scorn and pity on her face, as the concubine whispered to the child, her voice a fierce, defiant incantation against the storm.
Concubine Isolde
You will not be loved, but you will be remembered,
She whispered, a tear of defiance rolling down her cheek.
Concubine Isolde
You will not be saved, but you will reign.
She was not a queen, but she was a mother, and in that moment, she had given her son both a name and a destiny.
His name was Corvin Umbraea, and he was already broken.
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