Rain struck the dome of the Valian City Temple.

  Not a downpour, but dense and fine, like countless knuckles lightly rapping on metal.

  Tap after tap—unhurried, yet unceasing.

  That was Ossia’s whisper.

  So the people of the city said: when the tides of the Inner Sea were drawn by the moon’s phases, moisture crossed the walls, and rain fell carrying the breath of the ocean goddess. Mist clung to the ground, the outlines of the streets blurred, and even hearts grew uneasy.

  The birthing chamber lay on the lower level of the Twin Towers of the North Wind.

  It was one of the oldest structures in Valian City. The two towers stood side by side, their bodies clad in pale silver stone, tapering upward like twin spears thrust toward the firmament. Wind threaded endlessly through the gap between them, day and night, carrying prayers and oaths to higher realms.

  At this moment, the wind was shut out by thick stone walls.

  Only lamplight remained in the birthing chamber.

  Oil lamps hung along the walls, their flames burning low. The wicks burned poorly; black smoke crawled slowly along the arched stone ceiling. The air hung heavy with the bitter scent of grease, mingled with sweat and blood.

  Ilys Starcrown lay on her back upon the stone bed.

  The stone was cold, yet her spine burned. Damp strands of hair clung to her forehead, soaked with sweat. They slid from her temples, traced behind her ears, and vanished into the shadow at her neck.

  Her hands clenched the cloth straps hanging from the edge of the bed.

  She gripped and regripped them, fibers straining, her knuckles blanched white, drained of all color.

  Another contraction surged up.

  Not suddenly, but rising slowly from deep within her abdomen—like the tide pulling back, only to crash down again the next instant.

  Pain forced her breath apart.

  A hoarse sound escaped her throat—not quite a cry, more like air being crushed.

  The midwife stood at her side, voice low, almost brushing her ear.

  “Count to three.”

  “Follow your breathing.”

  The physician stood at the foot of the bed, hands already stained red, movements steady.

  He did not look up; his gaze remained exactly where it needed to be.

  “Again.”

  “Push.”

  The world contracted in that instant.

  When the first cry burst forth, Ilys did not even realize it at first.

  The sound was too bright, too sudden—like a blade of light splitting the stifling air of the chamber.

  The midwife lifted the first child.

  The infant’s skin glowed a healthy red, his chest rising and falling clearly, tiny lungs stretched full. His cry was sharp and strong, nearly drowning out the rain striking the dome outside.

  “A boy.”

  The midwife’s voice trembled with relief.

  “Very healthy.”

  Ilys’s breathing finally collapsed inward for a moment.

  She opened her mouth, wanting to exhale, to let the tautness drain from her body.

  There was no time.

  When the second child was delivered, something in the chamber suddenly vanished.

  Not complete silence.

  But a specific absence—where something should have been, and wasn’t.

  The infant did not cry.

  His skin was far paler than his brother’s, as if washed by water, lips tinged an unnatural blue. His chest lay flat, unmoving, as though he had never tried to breathe.

  The midwife froze.

  Her hands hovered in midair, fingertips trembling.

  The physician looked up and stepped closer.

  He did not speak at once. He extended two fingers and pressed them against the slender side of the infant’s neck.

  One breath.

  Two.

  Nothing.

  “…Stillborn.”

  His voice was low, as if afraid of waking something.

  The words fell, cold as ice, into the lamplight without melting.

  A corner of Ilys’s vision dimmed.

  She opened her mouth, but no sound came.

  It was as though a piece had been torn from her chest, the pain itself dulled and distant.

  And then—

  The elder brother’s cry caught.

  Not stopped.

  But as if something had gently pressed against his throat.

  The sound wavered for an instant, then burst forth again, more urgent than before.

  No one noticed the window.

  In that same moment, a single, infinitesimal point of light appeared in the air.

  Silver-blue.

  Like stardust burning without sound.

  It slipped down through a seam between dome and stone wall, stirring no wind, bending no flame.

  It simply descended.

  Quietly, it fell into the body of the infant who should not have been breathing.

  The pale chest stirred—just slightly.

  Then came the second cry.

  A beat late.

  Hoarse, but real.

  When that sound exploded through the birthing chamber, the midwife sucked in a sharp breath. Her hands jerked, nearly dropping the child back onto the bed.

  The physician stood rigid, eyes wide.

  “He…”

  “He’s alive.”

  Ilys’s eyes flew open.

  She saw the small figure crying—not loudly, yet with all the strength he had.

  Her throat trembled, releasing a broken breath.

  The midwife’s hands shook as she slowly sank to her knees.

  “The stars have blessed us…”

  Only Ilys did not speak.

  She propped herself up, lifting her gaze to the dome above.

  There was nothing there—only an empty stretch of black night sky.

  The rain was still falling.

  As if answering something.

  ?

  When the rain stopped, no one noticed right away.

  Valian City was far too accustomed to the rainy season.

  When the sound of water receded, it felt instead as though something was missing, and the air suddenly seemed hollow.

  Not until the first strand of sunlight slipped through the gap between the Twin Towers of the North Wind.

  The light was thin, pared down by stone walls, leaving only a single slanting line that entered the birthing chamber. A small patch of the gray-white stone floor glowed; the oil lamp’s flame looked dim within it, its smoke slowly dispersing.

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  Several hours had already passed.

  The birthing room had been simply cleaned. Bloodstains were diluted and washed away, the stone bed covered with fresh cloth. The air still carried a faint bitter trace of oil, but it was no longer so heavy.

  Ilys reclined against the bed.

  Her face was still pale, but her breathing steady. Sweat had dried at her temples, leaving faint, taut marks. She wasn’t asleep—only quietly watching the bedside.

  Two children lay side by side, their tiny forms cradled in the soft folds of linen, as if the stone bed itself had softened to hold them. Their swaddles were different colors to avoid confusion—one wrapped in deep indigo like the Inner Sea at dusk, the other in pale silver, echoing the stone of the Twin Towers.

  The one on the left, the firstborn, slept deeply, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that mirrored the distant waves beyond the city walls. His skin retained that healthy flush, a warm crimson undertone glowing faintly under the slanting sunlight, as if the vigor of life had been poured into him without reservation. Now and then, his brow furrowed slightly, a momentary crease like a ripple on calm water, before smoothing out just as quickly, as though even in slumber he wrestled with dreams of the world outside. His fingers, small and curled like budding leaves, twitched occasionally, grasping at the empty air—instinctive, unyielding, a sign of the strength that had announced his arrival with such piercing cries. He breathed evenly, deeply, filling the space around him with an unspoken promise of endurance, of a life that would charge forward like the North Wind through the towers.

  The child on the right, the later one, was awake, his eyes half-open in a hazy, unfocused gaze that seemed to drift not toward the room's shadows but into some distant, unseen realm. His skin was still paler, almost translucent under the light, with faint veins tracing delicate patterns like silver threads woven by the stars themselves—the mark of that momentary death, now overwritten by the quiet miracle. His chest rose and fell so lightly it was nearly imperceptible, each breath a whisper rather than a declaration, as if he conserved his strength for something greater than mere survival. No cries escaped him now; instead, he simply breathed in silence, his tiny lips parted slightly, tinged with a subtle blue that had faded but not vanished entirely. His hands lay open at his sides, palms upturned, as though awaiting a gift from the heavens, and in the sunlight's creeping edge, a faint shimmer seemed to dance across his skin—silver-blue, ephemeral, like the stardust that had slipped into him hours before. He did not stir or fuss; his presence was one of quiet observation, a fragile bridge between the mortal coil and the divine, hinting at burdens yet to unfold.

  Footsteps sounded outside the door.

  Unhurried, yet orderly.

  The elders of the family entered one by one. They wore no armor, bore no ornaments of authority—only dark robes. The eldest walked in front, leaning on a slender staff, its tip set not with a gem but with polished metal worn bright.

  They stopped before the bed.

  No one spoke at once.

  This was an old custom of Valian City.

  Before naming, one must first confirm: the children were still breathing, the mother was still conscious, and light had entered the room.

  The elder nodded.

  “The hour has come.”

  The midwife stepped aside. The physician bowed his head and withdrew. The door closed, sealing the sounds outside, leaving only the slow-moving wind between the Twin Towers.

  The clan patriarch stepped forward and looked at the child on the left.

  “The one born first.”

  His voice was not loud, but clear.

  He reached out and lightly touched the child’s forehead with two fingers. The child stirred, let out a brief nasal sound, and did not wake.

  “He will bear the family’s first name.”

  The patriarch paused for a moment, as if confirming something.

  “Ian.”

  The name fell, steady, without echo.

  Ilys’s fingers twitched slightly.

  She repeated it softly, as though testing whether the name would stay within her.

  Ian.

  The patriarch’s gaze shifted to the right.

  This time, he did not reach out at once.

  The room fell briefly silent.

  Sunlight slowly moved, its edge creeping up to the corner of the second swaddle.

  At last, the patriarch bent down.

  His hand hovered above the child, not touching, only sensing the rhythm of his breathing.

  The child’s chest rose and fell very lightly, but it did not stop.

  “The second,” the patriarch said.

  “The later one.”

  He lifted his head and looked at Ilys.

  The glance was brief—no question, no blessing.

  Only confirmation.

  “His name is—Lorne.”

  The syllables were shorter than the first.

  Yet when they fell, it was as if the room absorbed them.

  Ilys did not answer at once.

  She looked at the child—at his open eyes, then at how they slowly closed.

  After a moment, she finally said in a low voice:

  “Lorne.”

  The patriarch nodded.

  The rite ended there.

  The elders stepped back in turn, turned, and left. Their footsteps sounded again beyond the door, then gradually faded away.

  The room grew quiet once more.

  The sunlight had crossed the stone floor and climbed up the wall.

  Beyond the Twin Towers, the clouds were beginning to break apart.

  Ilys reached out and drew the two children a little closer.

  Ian on the left slept deeply.

  Lorne on the right breathed so softly it was almost inaudible.

  The rain had stopped.

  But beneath the breaking clouds, the air of Valian City remained heavy with the scent of a storm yet to come.