Lila woke to the sound of breathing that was not her own.
It was faint. Uneven. Determined.
For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was or why her body felt like it had been pulled apart and stitched back together with fire. Then memory returned in fragments—blood, pain, Caleb’s voice breaking, the thin cry that had split the dark open.
Her son.
She turned her head slowly, every movement deliberate, and saw him.
He lay in a small cradle beside her bed, wrapped in soft cloths, his chest rising and falling in shallow, stubborn breaths. A healer sat nearby, eyes never leaving him, hands ready but still.
Lila’s throat tightened.
“He’s still here,” she whispered.
The healer looked up, relief flickering across her face. “Yes, Luna. He is.”
Lila’s vision blurred with tears she didn’t
