It was the coldest day of the year, the air outside biting and relentless. Siya felt a disquiet settle over her from the moment she woke. The wind howled, sharp as knives, rattling the old windows of the grand manor, while frost adorned the glass with delicate lace-like patterns.

Inside, the flickering fire cast a warm glow that contrasted with the chill of the day. Restlessness gripped her as she paced in her dimly lit room, hand pressed against her side. A deep ache had taken residence low in her belly—dull at first, then sharpening into a persistent throb that demanded her attention.

One breath too long.

A quiet gasp.

And then—

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the dresser as another wave rippled through her. Not indigestion. Not fatigue.

This was it.

She looked at herself in the mirror—eyes wide with fear and awe both.

She was going into labour. The worst nightmare of all.

A group of British councilmen and soldiers approached the house, their presence looming like a storm. When Siya heard the knock—a sharp, jarring sound that echoed through the hallway—she froze, her heart racing. Heavy footsteps followed, resonating with urgency, each stride a testament to their authority. Then came the low, gravelly murmur of a voice that punctuated the tense silence, sending a shiver down her spine.

Minutes passed.

Time crawled.

The ache in her abdomen clenched. Tight. Hot. She bit her lip—one hand bracing against the dresser, trying desperately not to cry out.

Keep quiet, damn it...

She was still trying to breathe through the pain. She can hear the loud noise of talking Theodore, calm and complete, giving answers to their questions. The hall buzzed with cold voices—sharp as the wind outside. Boots on marble. The clink of belts and weapons.

They'd come with suspicion.

Rebel movements near the estate.

Supplies are missing.

An English lord... married to a land lord's daughter.

"You understand, Lord Norman—we must ask."

He stood tall—back straight, hands clasped behind him—face a mask of calm authority.

"Of course," he said smoothly, "but my wife is unwell. The baby will come soon. I'd appreciate brevity."

A soldier coughed—not unkindly—but one glance up the stairs made his expression darken.

"You wouldn't mind if we searched then?"

Theodore didn't flinch.

"Search all you like." His voice was ice. "But touch anything in her room... and you answer to me—with or without orders."

Silence fell heavy between them.

Upstairs—

Another wave surged through Siya. She pressed her back into the wall, lips parted in silent agony—the cry caught in her throat.

Not now... not now...

Down below—

One officer stepped forward—"We'll be quick."

And as their boots began climbing the stairs,

Theodore turned slowly—

Eyes dark with fire hidden beneath steel—and followed them up...

Each step heavier than fear itself.

They found nothing in the manor. The officers emerged from the room—empty-handed, faces tight with frustration.

"Nothing," one muttered. "No signs of rebellion. No seditious materials.

Theodore stood by the door—cold as stone, expression unreadable.

"Perhaps," he said, "you should spend less time troubling a pregnant woman and more chasing actual threats."

A soldier opened his mouth—but the eldest officer raised a hand.

They had nothing.

No proof.

No leverage.

"Just... see that no strangers enter your grounds," the man said stiffly. "For your own safety."

Theodore gave a small nod—civil, detached.

"As if I'd let anyone harm what's mine."

And with that, boots turned on marble—voices fading into the winter wind beyond the gates.

But he didn't move.

Didn't breathe fully—

Until he heard her gasp from down the hall. Soft. Desperate.

Another contraction.

Now...

There were no soldiers to fear.

Only war—and life—knocking at their door. She cried in pain. His heart was a thunderclap.

In three strides, he was at her side—catching her around the waist as pain seized her legs. She collapsed into him, shuddering—breath ragged.

"You're alright," he said quietly, one hand sliding up to cup the nape of her neck—fingers tangling in the thick spill of her hair. "Breathe. Slowly. In... and out..."

His other arm wrapped around her back.

"I've got you.

"I'm right here."

"Call the maids, it's time."

He lifted the bell on her dresser—a sharp, clear chime—waiting till the footsteps hurried down the hall.

"Maids are coming," he muttered. Then he scooped her up, carrying her to the bed—gently lowering her to the sheets.

Her skin glistened in the dim light—sweat and tears alike beading on her face.

His voice dropped. "Breathe," he said, "I'll find the midwife."

She clung to his hand as he tried to leave. She was shaking—hands shaking, hair clinging to her face, every breath a desperate gasp. He wanted to hold her. Tell her he loved her. That she wasn't alone. That their baby was coming. He wanted—needed to be there. But something older and wilder was happening inside her—like nature itself was clawing its way through her flesh.

"Don't," she whispered brokenly. "Stay. For the love of God... stay."

The maid arrived—a sturdy, capable woman named Mary—followed closely behind by the midwife.

Siya groaned as they settled her into the sheets - legs spread, eyes wide with fear and pain.

One maid began folding the bedclothes around her in sheets. The midwife moved forward on her stooping knees, hands rubbing the inside of Siya's thigh with oil.

"Good," she said,

They told him to leave. He didn't move. Not at first.

Stood there—knees locked, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

They told him to leave.

But how could he?

She was his—every breath she took, every cry that tore from her throat belonged to him, too. And now they were asking him to walk away while she bled and screamed for life?

"Lord Norman," the midwife said gently, "this is no place for a man."

His eyes flicked over her face—then to Siya's.

She was breathing fast now. Sweat slicks her brow. Her gaze found his—not afraid of pain—but afraid of losing him in the moment.

And then—

"Let him stay."

Her voice cracked through the room like thunder.

"I want... I need..."

Tears spilled.

"Him."

Then Mary sighed and lit another candle—for privacy more than light—and stepped aside without protest.

Theodore crossed the room in three steps—knelt beside the bed—the same way one might kneel before a queen or a god—and took her hand in both of his.

"I'm here," he whispered, "I'm not leaving."

And when she cried out again—a deep guttural sound—he kissed her palm and held on like it was all that kept them both alive.

After 6 hours of pain, she gave birth to a healthy boy with green eyes. The room fell still—except for the soft, furious cry of a newborn.

White silk. Blood-stained sheets. The flicker of candlelight on sweat-slick skin.

She was broken.

But alive.

And in the midwife's arms—a child wrapped in muslin, squalling against the cold world he'd just entered.

Then—

"He has your eyes."

Her whisper was weak—trembling—but her fingers reached out instinctively, seeking his.

He didn't answer at first. Couldn't.

Because when he looked down into that tiny face—those bright green eyes wide with fury and life—.

It was her.

His rebel queen.

His fire.

His heart torn clean from his chest and born into this world as something new.

So instead of speaking, he did what came before words:

He kissed her forehead—soft, reverent—and placed their son gently into her arms.

"Welcome to the storm," he murmured,

"Little traitor."

And smiled—for perhaps the first time without masks. The room was quiet except for their breaths—and the quiet wail of the infant in her arms, red in the cheeks and wrinkled like a tiny wrinkled old man.

"Conrad." The name echoed—soft but sure.

"Conrad... Theodore. Norman."

His fingers traced circles around her wrist.

"Our boy."

"In his arms lay the only thing stronger than his pride: their son."

From enemies to lovers... to parents. Who else is crying?

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