The world of Bloodstone held its breath. It was not the still, silent hush of a winter dawn, but a taut, vibrating quiet, like a bowstring at full draw. All activity in the sprawling fortress of pale granite had gentled. Servants moved on hushed feet, guards stood a little straighter at their posts, and even the hawks in the mews seemed to mute their cries. The focus of the entire kingdom, it seemed, had narrowed to a single, sturdy timber and stone hut built against the inner curtain wall, smoke whispering from its chimney.
This was no royal birthing chamber draped in silk. Lucian, called Blackbone by his men for the unbreakable will that lay beneath his scholar's demeanor, had insisted. "My heir," he had said, his calm voice leaving no room for argument, "will enter this world rooted in the strength of the land, not swaddled in pointless pomp." So, the royal midwives and the castle's best healer worked within the familiar, herb-scented confines of the home of Lara, the head midwife, a woman whose hands were as capable as any surgeon's.
From within the hut, a scream tore the waiting air. It was not a sound of fear, but of pure, monumental effort, raw and powerful.
Outside, Lucian Blackbone, King of Valdahal, paced. The man who could stare down rebellious lords and decipher ancient tactical scrolls without blinking was reduced to a state of utter, trembling helplessness. He wore a simple linen tunic, his robes in a discarded state. With each scream from within, he flinched as if struck.
"You're wearing a trench in Lara's leeks," a voice rumbled beside him.
Kragen leaned against the sun-warmed stone of the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. As Captain of the Royal Vanguard and Blackbone's brother-by-oath, he was the only soul in the kingdom who would dare speak so casually to the king in this moment. His own worry was a steady, banked fire in his grey eyes, but he wore a mask of easy calm for his friend's sake.
"She is in agony," stated, his voice tight. He ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of rare discomposure.
"She is birthing," Kragen corrected, pushing off the wall. "There's a difference. Xena is the strongest person I know, brother. You included. She's wrestling the future into the world. It's supposed to be a battle."
Another scream, longer, more guttural. Blackbone stopped pacing, his body rigid. "What if something is wrong? What if the child—?"
"Stop," Kragen said, his voice losing its teasing edge, becoming an anchor. He stepped in front of Blackbone, placing both hands on his shoulders. "Listen to me. Your son or daughter is coming. Today. The heir to all this," he gestured not just Valdahal, but at the sun-dappled courtyards, the distant green fields, the very idea of the peaceful, just kingdom they had built, "is about to take their first breath. Worry is a dishonor to them. Be still. Be ready."
Blackbone met his gaze, the storm in his own eyes slowly settling into a tense, focused calm. He gave a sharp, grateful nod. The two men stood there, a silent bulwark against the fear, listening to the sounds of life struggling to begin.
Inside the hut, the air was thick with the scent of steam, lavender, and blood. Xena, her dark hair plastered to her scalp with sweat, was a portrait of ferocious beauty. She braced against Lara, the older woman's arms like iron bands around her, while the head healer, Vitrin, guided with soft, insistent words.
"The head is crowned, my queen. One more. The biggest one. For your child."
Xena's body was a bow bent to its limit. Every muscle, every fiber of her being was focused on this single, impossible task. She thought of Blackbone's steady love, of Kragen's protective grin, of the future they were all trying to safeguard. She gathered the last dregs of her strength, a final reservoir drawn from a place deeper than pain.
She did not scream this time. She roared.
It was a sound of raw, sovereign power that shook the very timbers of the hut. And as it faded, it was replaced by another sound—thin, indignant, and vibrantly alive. A newborn's cry.
The sudden shift in sound from within was instantaneous. The urgent, rhythmic cries of effort were gone, replaced by a flurry of muffled, purposeful movement and then… that new, wavering wail.
Blackbone's head snapped up. The color drained from his face, then flooded back. He looked at Kragen, who was already grinning, a brilliant, relieved slash of white in his beard.
"Hear that?" Kragen whispered, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "That's the sound of your tomorrow."
Before Kragen could say another word, Blackbone was moving. He crossed the small garden in two strides and pushed the oak door open, disappearing inside.
Kragen didn't follow. He let out a long, shuddering breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and sank onto a rough-hewn hay, a laugh of pure, dizzying relief bubbling out of him. He looked up at the clear blue sky, blinking rapidly. "Thank you," he muttered to no god in particular, to all of them. "Thank you."
Inside, the world had transformed. The tension had melted, replaced by a warm, weary quiet buzzing with joy. Xena, now propped on clean linens, her face pale but radiant, held a tiny, swaddled bundle. She was exhausted, every limb trembling, but her smile was the most triumphant thing Blackbone had ever seen.
He crossed to her in a daze, falling to his knees beside the low bed. His eyes were only for her. "Xena," he breathed, his voice cracking. He reached out, his warrior's hand impossibly gentle as he brushed a sweat-damp strand of hair from her forehead, then leaned in to press his lips there. He could feel the heat of her effort, the salt of her sweat, the overwhelming love. "My heart. My brave, brave heart."
Then, and only then, did he look down.
The baby's crying had subsided into tiny, hiccuping sighs. The face was red and squashed, a furious little knot of humanity. It had a shock of dark, wet hair. As Blackbone watched, bleary eyes the color of a twilight sky opened, staring unfocused at the world.
A feeling vast and terrifying and more magnificent than any crown or conquest slammed into Blackbone's chest. It was recognition. It was duty. It was a love so profound it felt like dying and being reborn in the same instant.
"A son," Xena whispered, her voice hoarse but rich with pride. "Your son."
Blackbone reached out a trembling finger. The baby's miniature hand, fingers no bigger than twigs, unfolded and wrapped around it with a surprising, instinctive strength.
The king of Valdahal, the strategist, the unbreakable Blackbone, felt a hot tear trace a path down his cheek. He didn't try to stop it. He looked from the tiny hand grasping his finger to his wife's exhausted, glorious face.
"I have a son," he said, the words a revelation.
Then, the emotion too great to contain, he threw his head back and shouted it to the beams of the hut, to the keep beyond, to the very heavens. "I HAVE A SON!"
The roar of joy shook the door on its hinges.
Outside, Kragen jumped to his feet, his chuckle blossoming into a full-bodied laugh that echoed Blackbone's shout. He heard the sudden burst of cheers from the guards on the walls who had been straining to hear, the happy calls spreading through the walls like ripples on a pond.
Soon after, the hut door opened again. Lara beckoned him in with a smile.
The scene inside was one of perfect, contained peace. Xena was cleaner now, nestled comfortably. Blackbone sat on a stool beside her, the baby cradled in the crook of his arm as if he'd been born to hold him. The king's face was transformed, all the stern lines softened into an expression of awestruck wonder.
Kragen entered, his bulk making the room seem smaller. His eyes went to his sister first. He saw the weariness, but also a deep, unshakable power in her gaze. He gave her a nod, a silent communication between siblings that held a universe of pride and love. You did it. You were magnificent.
Then he looked at the child. He moved quietly, the great warrior moving with a predator's care, and knelt by Blackbone's side. He didn't speak. He just looked at the tiny face, at the shadow of his sister's brow, at the set of the jaw that was already so like his father's.
He reached out, not to take the child, but to gently, with the back of one scarred knuckle, stroke the baby's forehead in a gesture of blessing and profound welcome. "Hello, little prince," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble.
Blackbone watched his friend, his brother, meet his son. The shared joy in the room was a tangible thing. Then, Blackbone looked down at the child in his arms, at the life he and Xena had made, the future of their blood and their kingdom.
He looked up at Kragen, his eyes clear and certain. "Now," King Blackbone said, his voice firm with love and kingly decree. "I want you to name him."