The storm arrived before nightfall.
Snow fell hard and fast, carried by a wind that howled like a living thing. The village pulled inward, doors shut, fires lit early. The paths vanished beneath white, and the world narrowed to whatever shelter one could hold.
Lyra felt the pain begin just as the light faded.
At first, it was distant tightening, slow, almost ignorable. She continued her work, steadying her breath, telling herself it was too early to panic. But when the second wave came, sharper and deeper, she gripped the edge of the table and knew.
Aric was not home.
The house groaned as the wind struck it. Snow forced itself through the cracks in the walls, melting against the heat of Lyra's skin as she lowered herself onto the bed. Her breath came slow, controlled not calm, but practiced.
She had healed others through pain like this.
Now, she endured her own.
Outside, time passed unevenly. The storm did not care about birth or blood or fear. It only pressed on, relentless.
When the pain peaked, Lyra cried out not in panic, but in release. Her hands clenched the worn blanket, knuckles white, body trembling with effort.
And then
A cry cut through the storm.
Loud. Sharp. Alive.
Lyra collapsed back against the bed, chest heaving, tears blurring her vision. The sound filled the room, pushing back the cold, the silence, the fear.
A son.
She pulled him close, wrapping him in the thin cloth she had prepared weeks ago. He was small, red-faced, fists clenched tightly as if grasping at the world itself. His cries did not weaken. They rose, strong and insistent.
"You're loud," she whispered hoarsely. "That's good."
The child quieted slowly, eyes fluttering open for the briefest moment. They did not focus not truly but they moved, drawn instinctively toward the faint glow of the hearth.
Lyra noticed.
Most newborns cried and slept.
This one watched.
The door burst open not long after, snow trailing in with Aric as he stumbled inside. His pack hit the floor as soon as he saw her.
"Lyra"
"I'm here," she said weakly. "He's here."
Aric crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside the bed. His hands trembled as he reached out, then stopped, afraid to touch.
Lyra lifted the child slightly. "He waited for you."
Aric let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He took the child gently, cradling him as though the world itself might crack if he held too tightly.
"He's strong," Aric said quietly.
The baby responded with a small, indignant sound, fists tightening again.
Lyra smiled faintly. "March fourteenth," she murmured. "1370."
Aric nodded. "Then he'll remember winter as the day he arrived."
They sat there together, the storm raging beyond the walls, the house barely standing, the future uncertain.
And yet
In that moment, there was warmth.
The sword remained on the wall, silent and unchanged. The house still leaked. The village still looked away.
But a child had been born.
His name was Kairo.
And though he had entered the world with nothing
He opened his eyes as if ready to take note of it all.