Inside, by the dim light of a flickering lantern, Layka was wiping the sweat from Atalia’s brow with a rag dampened from the water basin beside her.
"I think she’s going into labor," Layka whispered, her voice tight with worry.
The cramped space felt smaller than ever. Mothers huddled with their children, whispering prayers, casting anxious glances toward Atalia’s curled form. Lara’s gaze darted to the entrance—Amnon stood just outside, tall and tense, his frame blocking the moonlight.
"Atalia..." he said softly, peering inside. "Are you alright?"
Lara’s voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the haze. "General. We need to move her—now. My tent is better lit and has space. Layka, help clear it."
Without hesitation, Amnon ducked into the tent, gently scooped his wife into his arms, and carried her out with a strength born of desperation. Atalia whimpered, her hands clinging to his cloak. Her belly was tight, rising with every contraction.
"Mother!" cried the six-year-old Kenan, his wide eyes brimming with tears as he ran to follow. Lara turned and knelt.
"Shhh, little warrior," she said, brushing his curls back. "Your mother is strong. She’s bringing your baby brother or sister into the world. You must be strong for her now."
Layka took his hand and nodded. "Come. She needs quiet, and we need your help boiling water."
Laida had already started stoking the fire near the cooking stones, while Zeeta—the eldest among the women, and a mother of six—slipped into Lara’s tent without a word. Her hands trembled, but there was experience in her eyes.
Lara stripped her cloak and washed her hands in the boiling water Laida brought in, her mind racing. She had never helped deliver a child—not a human one. She had aided births in the wild, seen wolves pant and deer struggle, but this was different. So much more fragile. So much more human.
Atalia cried out, her body tensing as another wave of pain hit her.
"You’re doing well," Lara whispered, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead. "You’re stronger than the pain. Just a little longer."
Zeeta took position near Atalia’s knees, steadying her breath. "The baby’s coming fast."
Outside, Jethru stood beneath the night sky, his arms crossed and eyes distant, listening. Amnon paced a narrow line outside, muttering under his breath. His commanders stood nearby, silent, offering quiet solidarity.
"She’s only seven months along," he murmured. "She wasn’t supposed to deliver until May..."
But with what she has gone through, what could he expect? He just hope that his baby would be alright.
Odin placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "She’s a fighter, Amnon. And she’s not alone."
A few paces away, Asael stared into the fire, haunted. He thought of Arabella—his wife, still only six months pregnant. And when he thought that he entered Mount Roca to flee from the soldiers of Northem, his face turned pale. He hadn’t realized what his wife had gone through in Mount Roca. Was her pregnancy not compromised?"
Inside the tent, another scream rang out. This time it was sharper and longer. Atalia’s body arched. Lara gritted her teeth, her hands gripping Atalia’s.
"Push now!" Zeeta said.
The next moment stretched like eternity.
Then, a cry broke the night—a thin, wailing cry, small yet impossibly powerful.
And then came the exhale. The laughter. The flood of tears. Men clapped hands on shoulders, and the two women wept in relief. Even the children, unsure why the grown-ups were smiling, clapped along.
Inside the tent, Lara collapsed back on her heels, soaked in sweat but grinning. Zeeta held up the wriggling, red-faced newborn.
"A girl," she announced, voice cracking with emotion.
Amnon burst into the tent and dropped to his knees beside Atalia. She was barely conscious, her skin pale and glistening, but her eyes fluttered open as she felt his hand on hers. He leaned close, whispering something that only she could hear.
Outside, Jethru looked back to the stars.
"We’ve bought them time," he murmured. "I only hope mother and daughter will be alright."
The fire crackled, the night rolled on, and for a moment—just a moment—the world was still. Amid the deaths and sorrow, new life had cried its way into the world. And that, in its own way, was a victory.
A new life at the Valley of Death.
The dawn came softly, painting the canopy in pale gold. Birds sang cautious songs, as if sensing the fragile peace that blanketed the camp.
Lara stepped out of the tent she shared with the others. She had given hers to Atalia, her husband, and to the new child. Kenan also squeezed in beside his father.
Her braid loose over her shoulder, the scent of blood and herbs still clinging to her skin. She paused, her eyes scanning the clearing. Smoke from the cooking fires curled lazily into the morning sky. Children were still asleep in small clusters. A few men stirred near the perimeter, whispering as they sharpened blades.
She spotted Amnon kneeling at the edge of the spring, his face wet—not from the water, but from the tears he no longer tried to hide. He had not left Atalia’s side all night. Only now, with the baby asleep in her mother’s arms, had he allowed himself a moment to unravel.
Lara approached quietly, her boots making only the faintest sound on the mossy ground.
"She’s strong," she said, crouching beside him. "Both of them."
He nodded slowly. "I’ve fought in several wars. Commanded armies. Watched friends die. But last night..." His voice caught. "I’ve never been so helpless."
"You weren’t," she replied. "You were there. That’s what mattered." Lara comforted him.
"Thank you so much, General Lara," Amnon said sincerely.
"What did you call me?" Lara asked, wanting to clarify.
"General. You looked and acted like one. So you deserve the title." Amnon said, gazing at Lara as if he was her fanboy.
A shadow passed behind them—Alaric. He nodded at Lara, then at Amnon. "You should rest while you can," he said. "We leave in a while."
Amnon rose, stiffly, and glanced toward his tent. "I’ll stay close to her. Just tell me when we’re ready to move."
Lara remained kneeling at the water’s edge. Alaric lingered beside her.
"You look tired," he said.
"I am," she admitted. "But it’s a good kind of tired."
Alaric studied her. "You never cease to surprise me. A warrior, a tracker, and now a midwife?"
She gave a small, wry smile. "Helping a woman give birth is not so different from helping a mare deliver her foal. Except the stakes feel... heavier."
They both looked to the tent where Atalia lay. Life and death had brushed close last night. Yet for once, life had won.