The chamber smelled of sweat, blood, and smoke. Incense coiled from a bronze brazier at the bedside, mixing with the harsher odor of labor. Tall candles stood on every surface, their flames guttering as the storm outside rattled shutters and seeped cold air into the room.
The four midwives worked in a frenzy. Their sleeves were rolled, their hands red, their hair tied back with strips of linen that already clung with sweat. They moved like soldiers on a battlefield, trading water bowls, fresh cloths, and whispered instructions too quick to follow. At the center of it all lay Baroness Céleste de Foncé, pale as moonlight against the pillows, her auburn hair plastered to her face with sweat.
Her cries tore through the room in ragged bursts, breaking into whimpers, then silence, then fresh screams.
Henri stood just inside the doorway, shoulders rigid, jaw tight. He had faced battlefields, he had buried men, but this—watching his wife struggle between life and death—gnawed at his bones like no blade ever had.
One of the midwives noticed him lingering. "My lord, you must not be here—"
"I will not leave her," Henri snapped.
The woman bowed her head and said no more, turning back to the task with frantic speed.
Céleste's fingers clutched the sheets, her nails tearing at the fabric. She turned her head, finding Henri with glassy eyes. "Henri…" she whispered between gasps, her voice so faint he almost thought he imagined it.
He was at her side in an instant, grasping her damp hand in both of his. "I am here, Céleste. I am with you. Endure. For me, for our child."
A fresh contraction wracked her body. She screamed, her hand tightening around his so fiercely that his knuckles cracked. He did not flinch, only held on tighter.
The storm roared outside as if in sympathy. Rain lashed against the shutters until one burst open, slamming against the wall with a crash. A torrent of wind and water swept across the chamber, snuffing out half the candles in an instant. Shadows leapt across the walls like living things.
One of the younger midwives shrieked and made the sign of the Sun God, her hands trembling.
Henri barked, "Close it!"
A guard rushed forward and wrestled the shutter back into place, bolting it with effort. The candle flames slowly steadied, but the atmosphere in the room did not.
Henri felt the weight of every eye on him. Servants and midwives alike looked to him for steadiness, for strength. He forced his breathing calm, though his heart thundered as violently as the storm.
"Continue," he said, his voice low but steady. "The Sun God watches over her."
The women exchanged glances. One muttered a prayer, another whispered a superstition. Henri ignored them all, focusing only on his wife.
Céleste's face twisted with pain again, another scream tearing from her throat. The midwives pressed upon her belly, urged her to push, murmured encouragements that were half-command, half-prayer.
Time blurred. Henri could not have said if minutes or hours passed. The storm grew no weaker; lightning flashed so often it seemed the world pulsed with light and shadow. His wife's cries grew hoarse, her breaths ragged.
Then, at last, came the cry of a child.
The sound was thin at first, then rose sharp and strong, cutting through the room like a blade through silk.
Henri staggered back a step, his chest seizing with something between awe and terror. His wife slumped against the pillows, half-conscious, tears mingling with sweat upon her cheeks.
A midwife held up the child, its tiny body slick with blood and fluid. And there, beneath the candlelight, was the unmistakable color of flame.
Red.
The babe's hair, damp though it was, glowed with a hue no newborn ought to bear. Not the faint copper of some northern kin, but a fierce crimson, like blood in sunlight.
Gasps broke through the chamber. The midwives exchanged wide-eyed stares. One whispered, "The omen…"
Henri's jaw tightened. He stepped forward, his boots striking the floor with authority. "Silence. He is my son."
The child's cries pierced again, louder this time, echoing through the chamber as if to demand attention. The midwife, hands trembling, laid him gently upon his mother's chest.
Céleste stirred, eyes fluttering open. Her gaze fell upon the infant, and a weak smile curved her lips. "So bright… like fire…" she whispered.
Henri bent low, brushing damp hair from her forehead. "He is strong. And so are you."
The babe shifted, tiny fists clenching, and for a heartbeat the room fell utterly still. His eyes opened.
Newborns did not open their eyes so soon. Not fully. Not like this.
But this child did.
Twin eyes, deep and glistening, stared out from the small, wrinkled face—not clouded, not blind with birth, but sharp. A strange, unearthly awareness glimmered within them. For an instant, Henri felt as though the child looked through him, not at him.
A murmur rippled through the chamber. One of the midwives crossed herself in fear.
Henri's heart pounded, but he refused to show it. He reached down, touching the child's damp head, feeling the warmth of that fiery hair.
"My son," he said softly, yet firmly enough for all to hear. His voice carried finality, cutting through superstition and fear. "You will be called Rogue."
The name hung heavy in the chamber, as though the storm itself paused to listen.
Rogue de Foncé.
The child let out another cry, shrill and fierce, his tiny fists trembling against his mother's breast.
Outside, the thunder rolled again, but softer now, as if the storm had loosed its worst fury and retreated. The rain still poured, but the violence of it ebbed.
Servants released breaths they had not known they were holding. One whispered thanks to the Sun God. Another muttered that the omen had passed.
Henri did not speak. He looked down at his son, at those uncanny eyes and that impossible hair, and though pride swelled in him, so too did unease.
For in his heart he knew: this birth was no ordinary blessing.
The world had taken note of Rogue de Foncé. And it would not forget.