It happened just before dawn.
The palace torches still burned. Fog hugged the garden walls, and the bells of the Flame Temple hadn't yet begun to ring.
But inside the royal chambers, firelight flickered over stone, and Queen Selene gripped the edge of the birthing bed with white-knuckled hands.
Her pain was silent—no screams, no sobbing.
Only sweat.
Only breath.
Only steel.
Three midwives, the healer, and Captain Lirael stood nearby. One held her hand. The others waited with bated breath.
"It won't be long now," whispered the healer. "Just one more…"
And then—
A sharp cry pierced the silence.
A child's cry.
A loud one.
Strong.
Alive.
The room held its breath.
Selene lay back, chest heaving.
"What is it?" she asked.
The healer looked down at the child, her eyes wide.
"A boy."
By midmorning, the entire city knew.
The gates of Elyria opened. Flowers were thrown into the streets. Bakers gave out bread. Soldiers polished their armor. Merchants raised green flags and gold ribbons.
The royal family had an heir.
A true-born prince.
And for the first time in years, no one questioned the queen's crown.
But the palace felt no joy at first.
Only stillness.
Selene lay in her bed, her newborn son swaddled at her side, her eyes closed.
She had not slept yet.
King Darian entered the room quietly, kneeling beside her. He looked at the child—dark hair, strong fists, mouth already scowling.
"He looks like you," Darian whispered.
Selene opened her eyes, only barely. "No," she said. "He looks like Elyria. Wild and stubborn."
Darian smiled faintly. "We'll call him Kael."
Selene nodded once. She had no more words to give.
Meanwhile, Princess Lyra stood just outside the chamber.
She didn't cry.
She didn't sulk.
She watched through the cracked door as her father held her brother and her mother rested.
Then she whispered to herself:
"They wanted a son.
Now they have one.
That doesn't mean they'll forget me.
It means I'll have to work twice as hard to be remembered."
And with that, she turned and walked away.
In the court, celebrations roared. Nobles swore oaths. Miranna's former allies begged forgiveness. The council drafted new decrees honoring the queen and the newborn prince.
But Queen Selene did not appear.
Not for two full days.
When she finally stepped onto the palace balcony—child in arms, Lyra beside her—the cheers shook the city walls.
And when she raised her hand for silence, the crowd obeyed at once.
"You see the heir in my arms," she said. "But never forget the one standing beside me."
She turned, placing her hand gently on Lyra's head.
"She is my sword.
He is my shield.
Together, they are the future."
The people bowed their heads.
Even the nobles.
Even the council.
And in that moment, Queen Selene was no longer just queen by marriage.
She was queen by voice. By will.
By choice.