Page 3 of The Princess and the Demon

Granuail clasps her hands in front of her, pursing her lips. She doesn’t respond to me right away.

“G?” I ask, a small tug of fear blossoming in my belly.

She sighs, glancing over at me quickly before looking away.

“The labor has been strenuous.” She pauses before continuing. “Ziterra is tired.”

I look at the ground, the dread blooming outwards.

The rest of the walk is made in silence.

Cries echo through the corridor as Granuail and I approach the door to the birthing chamber. Olam paces outside, his hands in his hair, his grey eyes wide with fear.

I quicken my pace when he finally notices me, and he sighs gratefully as he takes my hands in his. He leans in, kissing me on my cheek. I smile, taking my brother’s disheveled state in.

All the Delyrian people were born with different shades of silver or white hair. The result of being what they called “moon touched.”

Reaching up, Olam runs a hand through his locks before his eyes meet mine. I search his, but only see fear where I normally see strength.

“She’s been in labor far too long, Elora.” He whispers. I nod, squeezing his hand in mine.

“What have the physician’s said?” I ask calmly.

“Not much.”

Olam releases my hands, walking to sit at a stone bench near the wall. I take a deep breath before moving to sit next to him.

“It will be ok.” I say softly, placing a comforting hand on his back.

Olam nods, but I can tell he isn’t convinced.

The door to the birthing chamber opens, and a young maid comes rushing out, dipping hurriedly. “My Lord, her grace is asking for you.”

Olam jumps up, rushing to the door and disappearing inside.

I sigh, placing my hands in my lap as the door closes with a soft thud, leaving me alone in the corridor.

I hated seeing my brother so distraught, and tried as hard as I could to remember everything I had read on traditional birthing rituals. In the time before them, mothers would be hooked up to machines and pumped full of incredible amounts of synthetic medicine to help speed the natural process.

Many times, this resulted in a traumatic experience for both the mother and the child.

Other times mothers would be laid on surgical tables, and the babes cut from their bodies.

I shiver at the thought.

If that were to be attempted now, the mother would die in lieu of the child.

I filter through books and books of texts in my mind, trying to remember anything that could help.

Another cry permeates the silence. A moment later, the chamber door opens again, and two physicians exit.

I know them well.

Lord Dawnell and Lord Finley.

I stand to intercept them, and they bow to greet me.

“My lords.” I say in greeting, dipping slightly in return.

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