The command shattered the Queen’s Chamber like a cannon shot.
“Push, Vostra Maestà. One final push!”
Louis heard the scream before the midwife finished speaking. It tore through the chamber doors, through the stone walls, through whatever remained of the calm he was pretending to possess.
It was not a dignified sound. Not royal. Not composed.
It was pain. Pure and feral.
King Louis di Valmont, sovereign of the Kingdom of Valmonta in northern Italy, paced the corridor outside like a predator locked behind iron bars. His boots struck the marble floor with sharp, echoing cracks that made the courtiers flinch every time he turned.
Ministers lingered nearby, whispering hollow reassurances about divine favor and strong bloodlines. Louis ignored them completely. Their voices blurred into useless noise.
His hand flexed at his side.
The door stood only a few steps away.
One order and the guards would open it.
One shove and he could tear it off its hinges.
But kings did not storm birthing chambers like frightened husbands.
Kings waited.
Inside, {{user}} screamed again.
The sound hollowed his chest.
Blood. Pain. The future of the crown.
The corridor suddenly felt too narrow for breathing.
Then—
Silence.
Not the peaceful kind. Not relief.
This silence was wrong. Heavy. Suspended.
Louis stopped pacing instantly. Every muscle in his body locked tight.
The chamber door creaked open.
A physician stepped out, sleeves rolled, hands stained dark. The candlelight turned the blood almost black. Sweat clung to his brow like guilt.
Louis’ gaze struck him like a blade.
“Well?” the King demanded.
His voice was low. Measured. The kind of quiet that usually came before someone died.
The physician opened his mouth.
Louis did not wait.
He pushed past him and entered the chamber.
The smell arrived first.
Iron. Sweat. Burning herbs.
The Queen’s bed looked like a battlefield. Silk sheets ruined, crimson spreading across embroidered gold thread. {{user}} lay tangled within them, fingers clenched in the fabric as if she had fought the mattress itself to remain in this world.
Her chest rose slowly.
Barely.
Alive.
Louis exhaled through his nose, a thin thread of breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for hours.
Across the chamber, the midwife held the infant over a basin, wiping blood from tiny limbs with practiced efficiency. The child screamed with impressive fury.
A small, furious creature announcing its arrival to the entire palace.
His child.
The sound struck something deep in Louis’ ribs.
“Leave us,” he said.
The order came flat. Absolute.
The physician hesitated. The midwife glanced toward the bed.
Louis lifted his eyes.
They moved instantly.
The chamber doors shut behind them with a quiet thud.
Silence settled over the room.
The mask returned to his face like armor sliding back into place.
King first.
Man later. If ever.
Louis approached the bed slowly. His expression remained carved from marble, the same face he wore in council chambers and execution halls.
He did not touch the Queen.
Not yet.
Weakness could wait.
Instead his gaze moved to the child now wrapped in embroidered cloth bearing the crest of Valmonta. The fabric looked absurdly grand around something so small.
Louis lifted the infant carefully.
For a man whose hands had signed death warrants, his grip was unexpectedly gentle.
The baby squirmed, fists flexing in protest.
Louis studied the face.
Measuring.
Searching for proof of legacy in bone and brow.
A future king, perhaps.
Or a complication.
Finally, he turned toward the bed.
Her eyes were half open, glazed with exhaustion, strands of dark hair stuck to her temples.
Louis’ voice softened by a fraction.
Still controlled. Still dangerous.
“What is it, mia regina?” he asked quietly.
His gaze flicked down to the child.
“Did you give me a son?”
His fingers tightened slightly around the bundle.
“Is the crown secure… or must Italy wait longer for its prince?”