The Fallen Princess: Unbound

Chapter Two

Hours blurred until time stopped behaving like time at all: heat and pressure, breath and breaking, the sharp taste of copper, the damp drag of hair at Zaria’s temples.

Through it all, Callen’s palm stayed wrapped around hers, his voice threaded into her ear like something she could hold when everything else slipped.

At some point the room quietly shed anything unnecessary, as if even the castle understood what mattered now. Servants retreated in careful stages until only the essentials remained.

Warm towels folded with reverent neatness, bowls of steaming water carried in and replaced when they cooled too fast, clean linens stacked high at the foot of the bed.

The chamber’s light was steady and soft, while the candles that lined the mantel did what they were meant to do: perfume the air with something warm and expensive, not fight the storm for dominance.

Fay slipped in without fanfare and hovered near the door like a blessing given shape. She didn’t fuss or chatter. She didn’t try to pour comfort into places it wouldn’t land.

She simply stayed ready, adjusting a lantern wick when it guttered, placing a cup in Zaria’s reach, pressing water to her lips when her mouth went pale and dry with effort.

Zakai moved in and out like a shadow with a purpose—there, gone, back again—delivering orders, turning away anyone who lingered too long, returning with more wood, more water, more of whatever was needed, without ever asking why.

And when Saoirse finally arrived, the room shifted around her. The old witch swept in as if the storm had opened the door for her. Cloak dripping. Hair braided in thick silver ropes that clung damply to her shoulders. Flint eyes. Mouth drawn into a thin, unimpressed line.

She smelled like rain-soaked earth and crushed herbs, like something the world grew in secret and never learned to tame. Callen’s voice tightened as if her name tasted like trouble. “Saoirse.” Her gaze cut to him—quick, measuring—then settled on Zaria.

Something in her expression changed, small and unsettling. Not sympathy. Recognition. “The baby’s late,” Saoirse muttered, already at the bedside. Her wrinkled hands were unnervingly precise: two fingers to Zaria’s wrist, then a firm press to the swell of her belly, as if truth could be read through skin. “And strong.”

A pause, the kind that made the air feel thinner. “That’s a blessing,” Saoirse added flatly. “It can also make this harder.” Zaria dragged a breath through clenched teeth. “Lovely.” Saoirse huffed. “Still has teeth. Good.”

The next wave rose and pulled the last of Zaria’s composure apart. She cried out, no court left to impress, no dignity worth clinging to, her body arching as her hands clenched the sheets like she could anchor herself to something solid.

Callen caught her shoulders and steadied her, eyes bright with restraint. “Easy,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. “Easy, my little elf. I’ve got you.”

Zaria sobbed, shaking, furious with him because he was here and she couldn’t make the pain smaller. “You did this,” she accused, raw and unfair and true in the way pain made honesty cruel. Callen didn’t flinch. “I know.”

Saoirse glanced at him like he was a particularly stubborn animal. “Hold her hand,” she snapped. “Let her crush your fingers if she needs to. If you let go, I’ll make you regret it.” Callen’s mouth tipped. Not quite amusement, more resignation edged with devotion. “Noted.”

Saoirse set to work. Dried leaves burned over a small candle until the smoke turned pale and sweet, curling through the air like a thin ribbon of warning. She traced symbols through it with two fingers, drawing slow circles as if she were opening something unseen.

She pressed something bitter and black to Zaria’s tongue and held her jaw until she swallowed, then whispered to the hearth, to the air, to the old stones groaning around them, words that weren’t in any language Zaria knew, but that settled into her bones like a second heartbeat.

Outside, thunder answered as if the storm understood the cadence. Pain came in waves so heavy Zaria swore she would disappear inside it. She cursed. She cried out. She begged once, just once, for it to stop, for her body to rest, for mercy.

Callen stayed. Every time she trembled, he steadied her. Every time she broke, he wiped her face with fingers that shook despite his control, then pressed his forehead to hers as if he could lend her strength through sheer proximity.

His murmurs were frayed promises and fierce devotion threaded between breaths, the kind of love that didn’t know how to be gentle when it was terrified. At one point his voice cracked. “Again,” he said, steadying her. “Just one more. Then another. I’ll count if you need me to... don’t you stop.”

She blinked through sweat and tears and saw him, stripped raw by fear. She hated that but she loved him for it. “I’m here,” she managed, forcing the truth to sound steady even when she couldn’t. “I’m trying.”

Saoirse’s voice cut through the room, clean and unsparing. “Again. Push.” Zaria shook her head, sobbing. “I can’t.” Saoirse’s eyes hardened. “You can. Your body is already doing it. You only have to stop fighting it.”

Zaria let out a laugh that sounded wrong on her own tongue, hysterical and wet. “That’s easy for you to say.” Saoirse leaned closer, voice dropping low enough that even Callen had to strain. “Your babe has a shadow.” The haze split. The words landed clean and clear.

Zaria’s breath stuttered. “What.” Saoirse pressed firm just under Zaria’s ribs. “The magic is… tangled. Not evil. Not bad.” Her mouth tightened. “Wrong. Twisted around itself like a vine that grew the wrong way.”

Callen went still. “Explain.” Saoirse didn’t even look at him. “Later.” Then Zaria’s body stopped negotiating. A contraction tore through her worse than any before, as if it had decided it was finished waiting, finished offering time to brace.

Saoirse’s voice sharpened. “Now. Push.” Zaria cried out and bore down with everything she had left, feeling something shift and descend and stretch. Her body opening like a door that did not want to open and could not stay closed.

Her world narrowed to heat and the roar of blood in her ears, to rain hammering the windows in a steady, relentless rhythm. Callen’s hand tightened around hers. “You’re doing it,” he breathed, voice ragged with awe and fear. “You’re... Zaria, you’re doing it.”

She sobbed, then pushed again, desperate and shaking and unstoppable. Saoirse’s hands moved with sure speed. Her eyes narrowed. Her mouth set. “One more,” she ordered. “One more and you’ll have your child.”

Panic skittered up Zaria’s spine. “I can’t…” Callen leaned in, forehead to her temple, and his voice dropped into something that slid under her skin like a vow. “You can. For me. For the baby. For you.”

Zaria’s breath hitched. Her fingers locked around his as if she could drag herself through it by sheer grip alone. She pushed. The room seemed to split on a single, terrible moment... And then a cry pierced the air.

Not hers. A newborn’s. Fragile and furious. The sound cracked the tension wide open, and Zaria collapsed back into the pillows with a sob that tore out of her—raw, heaving—not from pain, but from relief so sudden it felt like grief.

Callen didn’t move. He stood frozen at the bedside, chest heaving as if he’d been the one fighting for breath. Saoirse lifted the baby with practiced care and moved quickly, cleaning and wrapping and warming tiny limbs with motions that didn’t waste a heartbeat.

“It’s a girl,” Saoirse announced. The words carried the weight of a formal thing, like naming a new truth into the room. Zaria’s laugh collapsed into a sob. “A girl.” Callen’s eyes dropped to the bundle as if the word finally made it real. A girl. Their girl.

The baby squirmed, voice rising again in a hoarse protest at cold air and storm-born light. Zaria reached with shaking hands. “Give her to me…” Saoirse didn’t. Instead, the old witch turned toward Callen, her gaze locking on him as if she needed to see whether he could hold what came next.

“Arms,” she commanded. Callen moved like a man obeying instinct rather than thought. He held his hands out, and Saoirse placed the swaddled bundle into them. Callen’s breath caught so hard it sounded painful.

The baby’s face was tiny, scrunched. Damp dark auburn hair clung in soft wisps against her brow. Her fists flexed as if she meant to argue with the world on principle.

Callen stared down at her like he couldn’t comprehend the fact that she existed, and Zaria watched his expression break, shock melting into something unbearably tender and wrecked. His throat bobbed. His eyes shone.

He looked up at Zaria, helpless. “I...” His voice fell apart. Zaria cried harder, laughing through it as she reached toward them both. “Bring her here.” Callen stepped closer, slow and reverent, as if the bundle might shatter if he breathed wrong.

Saoirse wiped Zaria’s brow with a cloth and pressed a firm hand to her shoulder. “You did it, girl.” Zaria barely heard her. Her eyes stayed on the tiny life in Callen’s arms, on the way his hands trembled as he adjusted his hold, careful like prayer, terrified like love.

Then Saoirse’s gaze flicked to the baby, and her mouth tightened. For one heartbeat, the babe quieted, blinking wide eyes. And the room went strange.

The perfumed candles along the mantel shivered, their flames fluttering as if a cold breath had passed through them, while the hearth snapped and surged higher, heat pressing outward in a sudden wave that made Fay inhale sharply near the doorway.

Outside, the wind slammed into the windows hard enough to rattle the panes. Callen stiffened, instinct flaring. His hold tightened around the bundle without meaning to. The baby’s eyes opened again.

And for the briefest breath, the irises looked… wrong. Not gold like Callen’s. Not blue like Zaria’s. Something darker threaded through them, like honey deepened by wine. A faint red glint. There... then gone.

Zaria’s breath caught and wouldn’t release. Saoirse froze mid-motion. The old witch leaned in, eyes narrowing to slits. The baby made a soft, broken sound—half hiccup, half cry—then went unsettlingly still. Not asleep. Just… still.

Callen’s voice dropped, careful and edged. “Why did she stop.” Saoirse didn’t answer at once. Her fingers hovered over the baby’s chest without touching, as if she feared what she might feel.

Zaria pushed herself up, body protesting, panic surging hot. “Saoirse.” The witch’s gaze snapped to her, sharp and grim. “Your daughter,” she began, and her voice went careful, “is not… settling.” Callen’s eyes lifted, gold burning. “Explain.”

Saoirse swallowed once, tight. “There’s a cold in her.” Zaria’s mouth went dry. “What do you mean, a cold?” Saoirse finally reached and pressed two fingers to the baby’s sternum. She flinched, not from pain, from surprise. Her eyes widened a fraction before she forced them back into control.

Callen saw it anyway. His posture coiled, protective fear rising fast. “Saoirse.” His voice turned quiet and dangerous. “Tell me.” The old witch drew her hand back slowly, as if the air itself had weight. “There’s magic in her,” she murmured. “Old magic. Restless magic.”

Zaria’s heart slammed. “Mine?” Saoirse shook her head once. Small. Brutal. “No.” Silence opened between them. Callen’s gaze dropped to the baby again. The bundle looked too small to carry any of this. Too new. Too innocent.

Zaria’s throat tightened until it hurt, and the name slipped out of her like something she didn’t want to admit. “Koen.” Callen’s eyes flashed, jaw locking hard. Saoirse’s mouth pressed into a thin line as she followed Zaria’s gaze.

“His magic,” Zaria managed, “it’s dark, like shadow.” Saoirse’s eyes shifted to her. “Then yes,” Saoirse said, grimly. Rain hammered the windows. The hearth hissed as sap popped and flared. And in Callen’s arms, their daughter drew a shallow breath that sounded almost… reluctant.

Saoirse stepped closer, her tone turning careful in the way someone spoke when the ground felt thin. “She needs replenishing,” she said, and the word felt wrong in Zaria’s ears, too clinical for a baby that still smelled like birth and warmth. “If we don’t anchor her now, she’ll slip. Not into sleep.”

Zaria’s vision narrowed. “Slip…” Her voice shook. “You don’t mean...” For the first time that night, fear showed clear in the old witch’s eyes. “Yes,” Saoirse said quietly. “She will die.” Callen’s arms tightened around the baby, shielding her from something he couldn’t see and couldn’t touch.

Zaria’s hands shook as she reached, fingers brushing the swaddling cloth. The baby’s skin felt warm, too warm, then cold, then warm again, as if her body couldn’t decide what it was meant to be. Zaria swallowed a sob. “Fix her.”

Saoirse’s gaze cut to the door. “Salt. Iron. Rowan ash. Now.” Zakai moved instantly, already halfway out. Fay followed, silent and pale, carrying a lantern whose light wavered as if it could feel the room’s fear.

Zaria didn’t look away from the bundle. Her voice came out soft. “What about Koen. Can he… fix her?” Saoirse’s expression tightened like she’d bitten down on something bitter. “If his magic is in her, we may need him.”

Callen’s eyes flared gold, bright as the hearth. “Over my dead body.” Saoirse held his gaze without flinching. “Then pray you’re not the one she takes after.” The words hung—sharp, clean, unforgiving.

Zaria’s breath hitched, panic clawing up her throat as she watched her daughter’s tiny chest rise too shallowly. Callen adjusted his hold with shaking care, bringing the bundle closer to Zaria’s reach, closer to the heat of her body, as if love alone could anchor what magic threatened to pull loose.

Zaria pressed her lips to the baby’s damp forehead. “Stay,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Stay with me. Stay with us.” Outside, thunder rolled again. Inside, the perfumed flames guttered and steadied, and in the middle of storm and fear and magic, Zaria heard her own voice, small and certain, as if naming could be an anchor too.

“Zephira,” she whispered. Callen repeated it like he needed the syllables in his mouth to believe she was real. “Zephira.” Zaria nodded, tears spilling without shame. “Her name.” Callen’s eyes gleamed with an affection that looked almost painful.

He bent his head closer to the swaddled bundle, as if the sound might reach her even through whatever shadow tried to claim her. And somewhere beneath the cloth, a magic unseen stirred, quiet and patient, like it had been waiting for its name.