The candlelight flickered wildly as thunder rolled overhead, rattling the broken windows of the old church. Rain lashed the stone like a warning, but Constantine didn’t flinch. He was too busy drawing the last of the sigils in blood, hands shaking, coat soaked through, breath coming fast.

His wife lay at the center of the circle, sweat on her brow, her fingers clenched around a scrap of his shirt like a lifeline. This wasn’t just a birth—it was a ritual, a reckoning. The child growing inside her wasn’t meant for hospitals or midwives. The old magic had seen to that.

“Breathe, love,” John muttered, voice hoarse but steady. “You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

The ground beneath them hummed, the symbols glowing brighter with each contraction. The veil between realms had thinned—spirits whispered, watching, waiting. This child wasn’t ordinary. She carried power in her bloodline, in her soul. Something ancient. Something dangerous.

And still, when that first cry finally pierced the storm, John felt something he hadn’t in a long time.

Hope.

Bloody hell. That was terrifying.