Chapter 278 Chapter 278
Now, the cheers were louder. Dorian calmed down, just a bit.
He still had their favor. They still followed him.
Dorian’s gaze softened for only a moment as he turned to the soldier who had delivered the news. “Go. Have your wounds treated. You’re safe now.” His tone carried authority, but the tremor in his chest betrayed the shock he felt.
The soldier was helped out by nearby guards, still trembling, still screaming in pain. Dorian straightened, preparing to resume his seat, when a maid rushed toward him, face as pale as fresh snow, hands shaking violently.
“Your Majesty…” she gasped, breathless, eyes wide with panic. “Queen Ysolde… she’s in labor!”
Dorian froze, every nerve screaming. Heat and adrenaline surged through him, cold dread pooling in his stomach.
“What…?”
.
.
.
The shrill cry of a woman in labor cut through the hall, drawing winces from everyone who was present.
In the Queen's chambers, where Ysolde lay, groaning in pain over the child she was set to bring forth into the world, chaos ensued.
Midwives crowded close, their skirts brushing the floor as they moved with urgent precision. One spread Ysolde’s legs, urging her to push, while others hovered at her sides, dabbing sweat from her brow, pulling damp strands of hair away from her face. The air was thick—heavy with heat, blood, and the sharp tang of herbs meant to dull pain but failing miserably.
Ysolde shook her head wildly, eyes glassy, face contorted beyond recognition. She barely looked human now—just pain given flesh.
“Push, Your Majesty! Push!” a midwife cried, pressing her hands firmly against Ysolde’s stomach, trying to guide the child forward.
Ysolde screamed, the sound tearing from her throat as tears streamed down her temples. “I c-can’t!” she choked, her voice breaking. “It hurts—gods, it hurts so much! Somebody—please—help me!”
“You must, Your Majesty!” the midwife pleaded. “The baby won’t come if you don’t push!” Another maid hurried to wipe the sweat pooling at Ysolde’s brow. “Please, Your Majesty.”
With a sob that sounded more like despair than resolve, Ysolde bit down on her lip until she tasted blood and gathered every last shred of strength left in her body.
She pushed.
Pain exploded through her, white-hot and unforgiving. It felt as though a thousand knives were tearing their way through her belly, clawing downward, ripping her apart from the inside. Her vision blurred.
Was childbirth always this cruel? Or was this punishment?
“I can see the crown!” the midwife cried. “You’re doing wonderfully, Your Majesty. Keep pushing!”
Ysolde sucked in shaky breaths and tried again, her body shaking violently beneath the effort.
“Just a little more, Your Majesty! Your baby is almost here!” the midwife encouraged.
Oh, how desperately Ysolde wanted to see her child—to know this suffering had meaning.
Tears streamed freely now, her chest tight with equal parts fear and fragile hope. She stared at the ceiling, whispering silent prayers between gasps, then pushed with everything she had—every breath, every heartbeat, every ounce of her being.
A shrill cry pierced the room.
For a heartbeat, there was silence—then joyous shouts erupted.
“You did it, Your Majesty!” one of the women exclaimed. “You’ve given birth!”
Relief flooded the midwife’s voice as she lifted the newborn free.
Ysolde collapsed back onto the bed, sobs wracking her chest. Her entire body shook as the reality sank in. After so long—after all the fear and pressure—she had finally borne a child. The birth had come early, but none of that mattered now.
The child was here.
“What… what is it?” Ysolde asked weakly as the baby was wrapped in clean linen and brought closer.
An uneasy silence followed.
“Um…” a maid began, hesitating. “The baby is a girl, Your Majesty.”
The words seemed to suck all the air from the room.
Ysolde froze.
Her faint smile vanished instantly. “A… girl?” she repeated, her voice hollow, as though she hadn’t truly heard.
The midwife nodded, still trying to sound cheerful. “Yes, Your Majesty. A healthy little princess.”
“No… no, no…” Ysolde whispered, her hands flying to her hair as dread crashed over her like ice water. Her stomach twisted violently.
Dorian’s words echoed in her mind—his threats, his commands. A son. You will give me a son. A child to legitimize his rule.
She couldn’t have a daughter.
“I can’t,” Ysolde cried, panic overtaking her. “I can’t have a girl! It has to be a boy, it has to be!” Her voice rose, sharp and hysterical.
The room stiffened. Eyes widened. The women exchanged uneasy glances. What was the queen talking about?!
Then, footsteps.
Heavy. Approaching fast.
The door burst open before anyone could react, slamming against the wall as Dorian stormed inside, fury blazing in his eyes.
“Where is it?!” he roared. “Where’s the child?!”
All the blood drained from Ysolde’s face.
Her body began to tremble uncontrollably as she desperately searched for the midwife’s eyes—the woman holding her child—silent, terrified, and clutching the newborn close.
His gaze zeroed in on the bundle a midwife was holding. “Is that it?” Without waiting for an answer, he marched up to the lady, inspecting the baby tucked away like cattle.
“What’s the gender?” he growled, his voice tinged with irritation.
The midwife stuttered, conflicted at the expressions Ysolde was making. “Say—it’s a boy! Please, say it’s a boy!” she whisper-yelled, her eyes frantic.
“I asked a question!” Dorian yelled, then yanked the baby from the midwife’s hands. The wrapper unfurled, falling to the ground as he gazed at the child.
A roar of indignation spilled from his lips, his face marred with disgust. “A girl?!” he thundered, whipping his head to look at Ysolde.
An anguished sound tore from Ysolde’s lips. “Dorian, please! It’s a baby!”
“What did I tell you? You give me a son, or you and I are done!”
“I just gave birth. Have mercy on me, please! We can always try again!” she pleaded, unable to move due to the pain her body was under.
He scoffed, his tone derisive. There was a new madness—a new desperation—in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before, one that made her blood curdle, her heart rising up to her throat.
“Guards!” Dorian cried out. Two soldiers rushed into the chambers.
“Your Majesty,” they chorused.
“Get rid of this thing,” he said, throwing the child into the air like a ragdoll. He immediately turned to leave.
Time fractured. Ysolde watched everything unfold in slow motion.
Everyone screamed. Some raced to catch the baby.
One soldier caught the child while the other drew his sword from its sheath. Ysolde couldn’t believe the sight in front of her.
“What… what are you doing?! Stop it! Stop it right now!” she screamed, but no one listened. The blade cut through the air, descending low with a sharp, piercing whistle, slicing through the outstretched child.
Blood splattered onto the pristine floor. Everyone turned to stone. A deafening silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating.
Ysolde couldn’t breathe. Her vision tunneled, edges blurring as the world narrowed to the red staining the floor, the metallic stench burning her nostrils.
That didn’t just happen.
No.