Chapter 21
Alina
The Barrow
So… Jules almost dies.
That’s the part I know I’ll never, ever forget.
Not the screaming—though there’s plenty of that.
Not the sweat or the blood or the way Alaric’s face goes gray when her contractions stall and then start again too fast.
It’s the moment when the air in the chamber goes thin and cold and wrong, like even Nightfall is holding its breath.
“Her pulse is thready,” Delia murmurs, fingers on Jules’ wrist, eyes tight with worry. “She’s losing too much blood.”
“I am not losing her,” Alaric growls from behind the head of the bed, voice shredded. “Do something.”
“I am doing something, you overgrown lizard,” Jules hisses, teeth bared as another contraction hits. “Stop looming or I swear I will—ah—Alina, what was that cuss word you taught me—”
“Later,” I say, my own hands shaking as I press a cool cloth to her forehead. “Right now we breathe, okay? In. Out. Stay with us, Jules.”
The birthing chamber we commandeered earlier is a riot of motion and magic.
The walls of The Barrow have smoothed themselves into gentle curves, stone shelves jutting out to hold bowls of hot water, bandages, vials of glowing elixirs.
Vines creep down from the ceiling, heavy with pale blossoms that release a calming scent every time someone brushes past.
Clarisse, acting midwife and unflappable goddess, crouches between Jules’ knees.
“The baby is turned now,” she announces with brisk authority. “But he is stubborn.”
“Gee, wonder where he gets that from,” Phoebe mutters, hovering nearby with a basin of water like she desperately wants to punch something.
Jules bears down, jaw clenched, knuckles white.
“I can’t—” she gasps.
“Yes, you can,” Delia says. “You’ve got this, mama. One more big push for me, okay? Just one more.”
The floor vibrates under my boots, faint but there.
Some of it is the usual hum of The Barrow, the living rock reacting to pain and power and birth.
Some of it is me.
The bond tugging. The land listening through me.
“Come on, kid,” I whisper under my breath. “Your mom’s a badass. Help her out here.”
Jules screams.
The sound rips through stone and bone and air—and then there’s another sound layered under it.
A thin, wet wail.
For a second, nobody moves.
Then Clarisse laughs—a sharp, delighted cackle.
“He’s here!” she exclaims. “A strong boy. A very loud boy.”
The tension breaks all at once.
Jules collapses back against the pillows, sobbing and laughing at the same time.
Alaric makes a sound I’ve never heard from a grown man before—something between a sob and a roar—and nearly falls over himself trying to get to his mate while stealing a look at their sweet baby.
“Is he—?” Jules chokes.
“Perfect,” Delia says, tears gleaming in her eyes. “He’s perfect.”
Clarisse works quickly, cleaning and wrapping the baby in soft, moss-colored cloth.
The little thing’s skin shines with a faint sheen, like the shimmer of heat over pavement.
A down of pale silver hair dusts his head, and when he blinks open his eyes, they gleam storm-light gray.
“Here we are, little Lordling,” Clarisse croons, then looks up at Jules. “Are you ready to meet your son, my lady?”
Jules nods, lip trembling. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
Alaric practically dives forward, but to his credit, he stops just long enough to let Clarisse settle the bundle into Jules’ waiting arms.
She looks down.
Everything in the room goes quiet.
The stone. The air.
Even the bond humming between me and Dagan settles into a low, reverent thrumming.
“Hey, baby,” Jules whispers, brushing a shaky fingertip over one tiny, perfect cheek. “Gods, you’re… you’re real.”
“Of course he is real, Myrrin,” Alaric murmurs, his hand shaking as he folds it over theirs. “What shall we call him?”
We all go still as she thinks.
“Marcel,” she says finally, voice soft but sure.
Alaric’s eyes widen. “After my father?”
“Yes, and his father before him. See, I was reading, and well, do you like it?” Jules asks.
“Like it?”
“Well, I read they were both stubborn old bastards who loved fiercely and never gave up. Seems fitting.”
Alaric closes his eyes like he’s been stabbed in the chest.
“I am honored, my viyella,” he says hoarsely. “He is Marcel, then. Our Marcel.”
Tears burn at the back of my throat.
It’s a lot.
Watching a new life slip into a world this dangerous.
Watching two people who’ve seen more war than I can imagine cradle something so small and fragile and hopeful.
The door to the chamber bursts open without warning.
For half a second, my heart stops.
Then I see them.
Thorne, Kael, and—most importantly—Dagan.
They look wrecked.
Armor scorched, clothing torn, magic still crackling faintly around them like a storm they haven’t quite shaken off.
Soot streaks Thorne’s cheek; Kael’s hair is damp with seawater; Dagan’s left wing sports a fresh tear, edges singed.
But they’re here.
Alive.
My knees nearly give out.
“Careful,” Dagan rumbles, striding toward me.
His hands bracket my elbows, steady and strong. “Oona?”
“I’m fine,” I say, even though my heart is trying to crawl up my throat. “You’re back.”
“Of course,” he says simply.
The bond sparks between us, relief and exhaustion and something tender enough to crack stone flooding me. “I told you I would be.”
“I told you, you’d better be,” I snap back, but it comes out watery.
His mouth curves. “You did, at that.”
“Hey!” Jules calls, voice still rough but brighter. “Look what we did while you idiots were off playing war games.”
Alaric steps aside just enough for the others to see.
Thorne swears quietly.
Kael’s mouth falls open.
Dagan’s grip on me tightens, then eases as he exhales slow.
“He is…” Kael starts.
“Small,” Thorne finishes gruffly.
“Perfect,” Dagan says.
“Exactly,” Jules declares, smug and wrecked and gorgeous, cradling Marcel like he’s the only thing that exists. “Everyone, meet Marcel Aurelion Stormwing. You can bow later. I’m busy.”
Alaric gives a broken laugh and bends to kiss her forehead.
“I am so proud of you,” he whispers. “Both of you.”
Clarisse starts bustling around again, shooing people back to give the new family room.
She pours steaming cups of tea laced with herbal remedies, insists Jules drink something sweet and restorative, orders Alaric to sit down before he keels over.
I ask her quietly to make sure they have fresh linens, extra blankets, whatever they need.
“Of course, Lady Alina,” Clarisse says with a wink. “You’ve a knack for giving orders. You fit in here, you know. Like a true Lady of the house.”
Maybe I do, I think.
The thought settles in my chest like a stone in exactly the right place.
Dagan pulls me close as the room shifts into a softer kind of chaos—Phoebe cooing over the baby, Delia double-checking Jules’ vitals, Thorne pretending not to be misty-eyed, Kael standing guard by the door like a human (Demon Lord?) security system.
“You did this,” Dagan murmurs against my hair.
I snort. “Pretty sure Jules and Alaric had something to do with it.”
“You insisted they take this chamber,” he says. “With the root-ward lines wrapped close, with the moonlight shaft properly aligned. You called for Clarisse. You calmed the stone when it quaked at her pain.”
He’s not wrong.
The Barrow did feel jittery.
The walls tightened every time Jules cried out, foundations hummed with worry.
I didn’t even realize I was sending soothing pulses through the floors until Delia shot me a look and nodded, like, yeah, keep doing that.
“Okay, maybe I helped a little,” I mutter.
Dagan’s thumb strokes over my hip, grounding me more than the castle itself.
“You belong here,” he says quietly. “The Marches know it. The Barrow knows it.”
“And you?” I ask because I’m a disaster and can’t help myself.
His answer is immediate.
“I have known it since the first moment you cursed at a fault line,” he says dryly.
I huff out a laugh.
Across the room, Marcel lets out a small, hiccupy cry. Jules shifts to settle him, but her face pinches when she moves too fast.
Delia is immediately there, adjusting pillows, checking for bleeding.
Phoebe hovers at the edge of the bed, chatter filling the air about baby names and whether or not he’ll have wings.
For about five precious minutes, the world is small.
Just this room.
Just this new little family.
Just me and my friends and our impossible, beautiful lives.