The storm outside beat against the shutters, sea winds howling as though Caladan itself knew what was happening inside the bedchamber. Sweat slicked your skin, the sheets twisted tight in your fists. The midwives moved quickly, too quickly, voices low and clipped in a way that only meant one thing: something was wrong.

Leto’s hand was clamped around yours, warm and rough, but trembling. He hadn’t left your side for hours. Not as Duke. Not as Atreides. Just as Leto, the man who couldn’t tear his eyes off you for fear that if he blinked, you’d slip away.

One of the midwives bent close, her voice urgent. “The child is turned. If it continues this way—”

Leto’s head snapped toward her, eyes blazing. “Don’t talk around her. Say it plain.”

The woman faltered. “It may endanger both—”

Another contraction tore through you before she could finish. You cried out, body arching, and Leto was instantly bent over you, pressing his forehead to yours. “Hey, hey—look at me. You’re alright. You hear me? You’re not going anywhere.” His thumb brushed your temple, gentler than his voice, which had roughened with fear.

Through the haze of pain you caught fragments from the midwives: hemorrhage, slow progress, pressure too high. The words blurred, but the meaning struck deep.

Tears welled in your eyes. You grabbed his wrist, gasping. “Leto, if I don’t—”

“No.” His tone was sharp, almost angry, but his eyes were shining. “Don’t you even start. You don’t get to leave me. Not like this. Not ever.” His grip on your hand tightened. “You said forever. I’m holding you to it.”

Another contraction racked you, leaving you breathless and shaking. He cursed under his breath, harsh and low, before snapping at the midwives: “Do something. Don’t just stand there with your hands shaking—fix it.”

“We’re trying, my lord—”

“I’m not your Duke right now!” His voice cracked, raw. “I’m her husband. You don’t let her suffer. Do you understand me?”

The midwives nodded frantically, redoubling their efforts. But there was little they could do except guide and steady and pray.

Your nails dug into his hand with the next wave of pain. You half-sobbed, “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His words tumbled out fast, desperate. “You’re tougher than me. Tougher than all of them.” His free hand stroked your damp hair back from your face. “Hell, I’ve seen you stare down men twice my size without flinching. You think a storm and a baby are going to take you down? No. Not you.”

His voice was shaking now. He was holding you together with words because it was all he had.

Minutes stretched into hours. The room blurred into light and shadow, the storm outside a constant drumbeat. Then—suddenly—the air split with a sound that stopped everything.

A cry.

High and fierce, the first breath of your child.

The midwives moved swiftly, lifting the tiny bundle, checking, wrapping. Relief rippled through the room like thunder rolling back out to sea. But Leto didn’t look at them. He didn’t even look at the child. His eyes were locked on you.

You were still breathing, gasping but alive. His chest hitched as though he hadn’t breathed for hours. He bent close, kissing your damp forehead with trembling lips. “You did it,” he whispered hoarsely. “God, you did it.”

When the baby was finally placed in your arms, you thought for a moment he wouldn’t touch, wouldn’t dare. But then his big hands came forward, careful as if he held glass. He stroked the downy dark hair, eyes wide and wet, his whole body shaking.

For a man who commanded soldiers, who carried the fate of Houses, Leto looked undone. He buried his face in your shoulder for a heartbeat, letting himself break.

“You’re both here,” he murmured against your skin, voice raw. “That’s it. That’s all I’ll ever need.”