I woke suddenly to the sound of hurried footsteps and muffled voices echoing down the corridor. My heart raced as I realized what was happening. Throwing on a robe, I hurried toward Jane’s chambers. The cries became clearer as I approached, her pain unmistakable in the air. Inside, the room was alive with activity. The midwives worked swiftly, their hands deft yet their faces tight with focus. The ladies-in-waiting surrounded Jane, offering comfort and support.

Jane lay pale and trembling on the bed, her usually serene face contorted with pain. Her breaths came in short gasps, and her hand clutched the bedsheets as another contraction surged through her. “Athanasia,” she called weakly when she saw me. I rushed to her side, taking her hand in mine. It was cold and clammy, but her grip was fierce, grounding me in the gravity of the moment.

“You’re strong, Jane,” I whispered, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. “You’ve got this.” She nodded, though her eyes betrayed the fear she tried so hard to conceal.

-A Few Hours Later-

The hours stretched endlessly, each one marked by the rhythm of Jane’s labored breathing and the occasional whispered instruction from the midwives. Her cries pierced the air, raw and primal, a sound that echoed in my chest and made my heart ache for her. Despite the pain, there was a fierce determination in her eyes, a resolve that spoke of her duty as both a mother and a queen.

As the night deepened, the room seemed to close in, the air thick with tension. The midwives exchanged hushed words, their movements quick yet careful. Jane’s strength began to wane, her cries softer now, her energy spent. Then, at the break of dawn, it happened. A final cry, a moment of silence, and then the sharp, clear wail of a newborn filled the room. Relief and joy washed over us all. Jane collapsed back against the pillows, tears streaming down her face as the midwife placed the child—a boy—into her arms