In one of the sacred chambers of the Crimson Temple—where scented incense forever kissed the air and candle light pushed away the darkness—Sapphira sat within the embrace of a warm, mineral-rich pool.
The water shimmered with faint ripples as her back reclined against the golden edge of the square bath, its filigree engraved with ancient sigils of fertility and grace.
Soft pink petals floated lazily across the azure surface, releasing an intoxicating fragrance that hung like a silken fog above the water. The haze wasn’t thick enough to veil her entirely—rather, it lent the moment a dreamlike aura.
Her skin, pale as moon-kissed porcelain, glowed against the water’s blue hue, and her hair—darker than obsidian, darker than any in the realm—drifted around her like ink spilling into crystal.
Her slender fingers traced tender circles over the soft swell of her abdomen, a noticeable curve that marred her once sleek silhouette. Yet the way she touched it spoke of reverence, not regret. Her lips curved into a gentle, secretive smile, and the violet of her eyes—usually sharp with command and ancient wisdom—now softened into something almost childlike. Wonder. Awe. Love.
Then, the rhythm of the sacred stillness broke.
The sharp, deliberate echo of heels striking polished stone grew louder, approaching the chamber with purpose. Sapphira’s head lifted slightly, her gaze sharpening. In an instant, the Grand Priestess of Crimson Temple returned to her visage, her softness folding away like a silk veil.
“It’s already six months,” said a familiar, quiet voice behind her.
Sapphira tilted her head, catching the reflection of the tall woman behind her in the water’s shimmering surface. “Have you met Lady Katarina?” she asked, her tone measured.
Mia stepped closer, her presence looming like a protective shadow. She sighed, the sound weighty with frustration. “Nothing,” she muttered. “She hasn’t seen anything—not a glimmer, not a prophecy. Either she lies, or speaks the truth.”
Her shrug was casual, but her narrowed eyes betrayed concern. It was time she could have spent here, watching over the precious life blooming in Sapphira’s womb.
For a moment, a flicker of unease passed through Sapphira’s eyes—a fleeting gleam that vanished before it settled. And then it happened.
She gasped softly. A sudden, gentle pressure pressed outward from within her womb. A limb. Then another. Her long lashes fluttered as she blinked in surprise. She had expected movement… but nothing until now.
“What is it?” Mia asked, already crouching beside the pool.
Sapphira gestured to her belly, and Mia leaned in. The candlelight flickered as shadows danced across her face. Her eyes widened—then froze—as the skin over Sapphira’s womb shifted again. A series of small bulges pressed outward, then receded, then returned—playful, chaotic.
Mia’s breath hitched in her throat. “One… two… three… four… five… s—!”
She clapped her hands over her mouth, her pupils dilated with horror and awe. Her hands trembled, unsure whether to offer comfort or raise alarm.
“Call the apothecaries! Now!” she shouted toward the chamber doors.
Acolytes scattered like startled birds.
Sapphira remained frozen, her gaze fixed on the living swell beneath her skin. The sensation… the playfulness… the pattern… it wasn’t monstrous. No, it was quite coordinated. Like two shadows chasing each other in a dance of sibling rivalry.
Twins.
Her heart beat painfully in her chest.
If they were both male… had the battle for succession already begun, waged not with blades but kicks and shoves within the cradle of her womb?
—
Hours passed. The temple had fallen into nocturnal stillness. Deep into the star-strewn night, Sapphira lay upon a colossal bed shrouded in layers of diaphanous curtains. The open windows let in the warm breath of the southern wind, rustling the silks like whispers. The scent of sacred flowers lingered on her skin.
Beside her, under the glow of a soft lamp, stood the chief apothecary, James. A seasoned man with calloused hands and knowing eyes, he examined her with the care of one handling a divine relic.
Finally, he stepped back, exhaling with relief. The creases in his forehead smoothed as he looked into her worried eyes.
“There are two fetuses, My Lady,” he said with a soft smile. “Both strong. Both healthy.”
Sapphira closed her eyes, her shoulders sinking into the mattress. “Thank you,” she whispered.
James bowed deeply. He did not linger. Even in her vulnerability, or perhaps especially in it, Sapphira emanated a beauty and regality few could withstand. Her talent made her someone not to gawk at, and loyalty here meant discretion.
He glanced once more, hesitating. “Should I inform His Lordship?”
Sapphira’s eyes opened slowly. They were distant now, full of layered thought.
“Do not,” she said quietly. “I shall tell him myself.”
James nodded without question. “As you wish, Lady Sapphira.”
Then he turned and left, the sound of his retreating steps quickly swallowed by the silence of the temple.
Sapphira placed a hand once more on her womb. Two lives, two destinies… growing inside her. Her heart was heavy with the unknown possibilities of this discovery.
“You shouldn’t fear, My Lady,” Mia said, her voice soft and laced with honey. “Most twins are a male and a female. That is the common tale. But… why not inform His Lordship? He marches to war at first light and may not return for moons.”
She approached the bed slowly, her steps almost noiseless on the polished stone. Her words, gentle and warm, slipped past the ramparts of Sapphira’s guarded heart like syrup poured over stone.
Sapphira’s violet eyes lifted toward her attendant, thoughtful and clouded. “He will be preparing for the journey,” she murmured. “Why burden him with matters I can handle alone? Besides,” she lowered her gaze to her hands folded atop her womb, “such news will only fill his thoughts with worry. He needs clarity, not distraction.”
Mia’s lips parted to speak—but a voice, deep and resonant as rolling thunder, shattered the stillness.
“Is that so?”
Both women spun toward the chamber’s arched doorway. Their eyes widened, breath caught in their throats.
Asher stood there, clad in a black woolen tunic and pants. His boots were dusted with the scent of the road, and a long sword hung from his belt. His golden eyes burned like twin suns beneath a stormy brow, catching the candlelight and holding it in their depths.
The warrior lord stepped forward, each stride a weighty echo across the chamber floor. “So… the I Am has blessed us with twins,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a crooked smile. “I pray they’re both boys. I’d like to return to sword-wielding little runts running wild through the halls.”
He chuckled, a low sound that rumbled from deep within, and came to a halt beside the bed. He knelt, his weight settling like an anchor, and raised his gaze to meet Sapphira’s.
Her lips parted, a protest forming. “What if it’s a gi—”
Before the words could take flight, Asher leaned forward and silenced her with a kiss—firm, reverent, and commanding. Her breath caught, and though her hands rose instinctively to push him away, the resistance melted as swiftly as snow beneath flame. Her moan was soft, unwillingly tender.
When he pulled back, he kissed her brow with the gentle assurance of a man not afraid of tenderness.
Then he stood and eased himself onto the bed beside her, his large frame barely shifting the silken sheets as he leaned against the headboard.
Sapphira stared at him, speechless. Her eyes swam with unspoken questions, her throat tight with emotion.
Asher smiled again, softer this time. “I came to see you before I leave.”
Then, gently, he asked, “So… can I sleep here tonight?”