Clermont, May 1436
A single candle wavered in the draughty corridor of Clermont Castle, its light stretching long shadows across the stone. Constantine stood at the birthing chamber door, one hand on the cool stone. Behind it came Katarina's low moans, the midwives' quick murmurs, Damianos's steady baritone—each sound tightening his chest. The air smelled of hot tallow, and the faint salt of the sea carried up from Glarentza. Though May's warmth had reached the coast, the castle's halls still held their chill. He had stood like this once before, and the memory nearly broke him.
He pressed his forehead to the doorframe, the wood digging into his skin. His breath hitched. Not again… God, not again.
Katarina's ragged cry tore through the door, and the old nightmare surged up: Theodora's face drained of color, her fingers clawing at the sheets, the smell of blood soaking straw, a child born silent and already cooling in her arms. A world collapsing in one night.
His vision blurred. He bit his lip until he tasted iron and forced himself back into the present.
Footsteps sounded softly in the corridor. A hand closed on his shoulder. "Steady, cousin," Theophilus said. Constantine hadn't heard him approach. The older man's grip was firm, anchoring. Constantine gave a brief nod, eyes still fixed on the door as if he could will it to open.
From within came the low drone of psalms, a woman's voice threading an old hymn through the pain: "Lord have mercy… Kyrie eleison… Panagia, help us…" The words were faint, but Constantine caught scraps and clung to them. The sound of those ancient phrases steadied him more than he wished to admit.
Theophilus crossed himself, lips moving in silent supplication. On a small table by the wall lay an icon of the Virgin and Child; he picked it up and held it out. For a heartbeat, Constantine hesitated. Faith had always sat on him like a borrowed cloak, never quite fitting. Tonight, he was only a desperate husband. He bowed his head and pressed his lips to the cool gilded surface. Holy Mother, please… He did not speak aloud, but the thought was as fierce as any prayer he had ever made.
A stifled cry came from inside, Katarina's voice, breaking on a sob. He tensed. The labor had dragged on for hours, and her strength was ebbing. Damianos's rumbling reassurance carried through the door, but even in that practiced calm, Constantine heard strain.
They all knew how quickly a birth could turn. Katarina was young and strong. It meant nothing. A miracle could curdle into disaster within the hour.
His mind betrayed him with flashes he couldn't suppress: a sudden rush of blood; a body seizing without warning; fever rising days later when everyone thought danger past. He had prepared everything he could, clean hands, boiled water, but none of it mattered now, not in this moment.
Midnight pressed in around him. For all his reforms, for all the knowledge he carried from another age, he was as helpless now as he had been that night years ago, trapped outside a door he could not open. He could forge cannon and shape policy and bully a crumbling state toward survival, but he could not reach through the wood and pull his wife back from the brink if fate, or God, chose otherwise.
Another scream rent the stillness, followed by a clatter of metal. Constantine flinched as if struck. Instinct overrode reason; he lunged for the door, one hand already on the iron latch. In that instant, fear conquered every veneer of composure – he imagined Katarina hemorrhaging, the baby stuck or strangled by the cord, horror upon horror – and he had to see, had to do something.
"Constan— No!" Theophilus hissed, grabbing him by the forearm. The man's grip was surprisingly firm. Together they wrestled against the door's threshold, the wood unmoving. The latch rattled under Constantine's hand, but did not give.
"Let me go," Constantine growled, voice rough, near breaking. Another clatter sounded from inside, perhaps a basin knocked over, and a flurry of urgent voices that he couldn't make out. His heart hammered against his ribs, painful and erratic.
Theophilus planted himself between Constantine and the door, palms braced on Constantine's chest. "If you rush in now, you'll only hinder them," he said, breathless. His eyes were wide with empathy and fear of his own. "We must trust Damianos. Please…!"
Chest heaving, Constantine halted. The truth of it fought with the instinct screaming at him to tear down that door. Slowly, the red haze receded from his vision. He let Theophilus's words sink in: trust Damianos. He had to trust someone besides himself. He knew this, and hated it.
His fist thudded once, softly, against the door in frustration. Then he let Theophilus draw him back. Constantine realized his hands were trembling; he clenched them to hide the tremor. "I can't lose her," he whispered, voice taut with anguish he would show no one else.
Theophilus's stern expression softened. "You won't," he said quietly, though they both knew he could not promise such things. Gently, his cousin guided him a few steps away from the door. Constantine allowed himself to be moved. Together, they resumed their vigil just a pace back: close enough to hear, far enough to obey the invisible boundary that men dared not cross in this women's realm of blood and life.
A midwife slipped out, a stained cloth bundle in her arms. A metallic reek of blood hit him as she hurried past. Even in the dim hall, he saw the dark red soaking through. His stomach turned and panic surged.
He braced a hand against the wall, knuckles whitening on the stone. The midwife vanished down the corridor without meeting his eyes.
"Christ…" he muttered. Had Damianos checked the bleeding? Was she slipping away already? A cold flicker of memory brushed him, fingers going slack in his own, and he crushed it down. Not this time.
A thin wail suddenly pierced the air—high, tremulous, unmistakable. A baby's cry. Constantine froze mid-step. For an instant, he wondered if his desperate mind had conjured it. Then it came again, louder, the raw complaint of a newborn dragged into the world.
"Thank God," Theophilus gasped, breaking into a grin. Constantine's heart, which had felt stopped in his chest, jolted back into motion. Relief, joy, terror, all at once. His vision blurred; a breathless sound escaped him, half laugh, half sob.
Inside the chamber came a flurry of movement and low exclamations. An unfamiliar voice, one of the midwives, called out, delighted, "A girl!"
A girl. A daughter. Alive and crying. The words tumbled through him. He gripped Theophilus by the arm; his cousin squeezed back, eyes shining.
Even as elation washed over him, he strained for one more sound. Katarina. He held himself rigid, listening for her voice. The baby's cries went on, but from her, nothing. Was she conscious? Was she—
The bolt scraped. Constantine surged forward as the door opened. Light spilled into the corridor, the glow of many candles and the faint haze of smoke. Damianos filled the doorway, face sheened with sweat, a streak of blood on his sleeve. He looked exhausted, but he was smiling.
"You can come in now, my lord," he said quietly. "Mother and child are safe."
Constantine didn't realize his legs were moving until he was already inside. The smell of the chamber hit him—blood, sweat, and the sharp sweetness of mint. Braziers glowed around the room; the air was thick and hot. Two midwives were already clearing bloody cloths and basins, their faces flushed with effort. One paused to cross herself as he passed, murmuring a blessing he barely heard. His eyes had found Katarina.
She lay propped on pillows, a damp wrap drawn to her chest. Her hair clung to her brow, her skin pale and waxen—but her eyes were open. Clear. In the crook of her arm, a small bundle shifted and kicked. Katarina's gaze was on it until she sensed him near; then she looked up, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
His throat closed. He sank to his knees beside the bed without thinking. The frame creaked under his weight as he leaned in. Katarina lifted a trembling hand from the bundle and reached for him. He took it in both of his hands, pressing it to his cheek. Her palm was warm and very light. For a moment, they simply looked at one another, her eyes heavy with exhaustion and joy, his searching her face. No words passed between them. None were needed.
At last Constantine let his gaze fall to the tiny shape nestled against Katarina's breast. The child was swaddled in a white cloth, only her face and a tuft of dark hair visible. She mewled softly, spent from her first cry. Katarina adjusted the blanket with slow, instinctive care.
"Go on," she whispered, her voice little more than breath. "Meet your daughter."
With careful hands, Constantine slid an arm beneath the small bundle. The midwives had set the baby beside Katarina rather than in her arms; she was too weak to hold her long. Supporting the small, warm head, he lifted his daughter and drew her close. His calloused palms dwarfed her. She weighed almost nothing—warm, fragile, astonishingly alive.
The infant squirmed in his arms and gave a small hiccup. He held his breath, afraid to move. Her fist, no bigger than a fig, worked free of the cloth and curled in the air; her cheeks were flushed and fine-skinned, her lips pursed in some private effort even as she dozed.
Katarina touched his arm. She was smiling through tears. "We have a daughter."
He managed a shaky laugh and bent to kiss her brow. Her skin was hot, but she closed her eyes at the touch. "You did it," he whispered. "You both did."
Behind him, Damianos cleared his throat and began directing the midwives. Only then did Constantine notice the psalter lying open by the bed, a sprig of mint resting on its pages. The parchment was freckled with blood; the leaves were crushed, scenting the close air. A book of prayers and a common herb, both marked by what had just taken place. Body and soul in the same small space.
Katarina's eyes fluttered open again. She was drifting, but something still pressed on her mind. She wet her lips and whispered, barely audible, "Constantine… her name."
He bent closer, still holding the child against his chest.
Katarina's fingers brushed the blanket, a weak, trembling touch. "If… if you'll allow it," she breathed, "I want to name her… Zoe."
The word was faint, but it struck him with quiet force.
Zoe.
Life.
Not the expected Helena; not the dutiful nod to his lineage. This was hers—her choice, her hope, her plea carved out of the night she had survived, a name given by a woman who had nearly died to bring this child into the world.
For a moment, he could only look at her. She watched him with exhausted anxiety, afraid he might refuse even now.
He shook his head slightly—not in denial, but in wonder—and felt his throat tighten. "Zoe," he said at last, voice rough. "Yes. Zoe."
He angled the infant so Katarina could see her more clearly. The baby had gone still, as if listening. "Our Zoe," he murmured.
Katarina let out a long, trembling breath, relief softening her face. Her eyes slipped shut, peaceful at last.