Olivia’s POV
The fire had burned low by the time dawn slipped across the horizon, painting the windows in pale gold. I hadn’t moved from my place by the hearth. The midwife’s ledger sat open on my lap, its fragile pages curled with age, the ink faded but stubborn. I traced the names again and again, as if by sheer will my mother’s handwriting might appear on the page.
It didn’t.
Every line carried the weight of someone else’s story—a child born, a family rejoicing, bloodlines marked down like anchors in history. And yet my own history was scattered ash, nameless and untethered.
Lucas stirred in the chair across from me. His cloak had slipped to the floor sometime during the night, his hair mussed from leaning against the armrest. Even weary, even with the shadows beneath his eyes, he l
