Chapter Three: The Birth of a Storm
The hospital had been emptied hours earlier.
Entire floors were sealed, patients transferred under quiet authority that left no paper trail. Armed men stood at every entrance, their presence unmarked but unquestionable. Outside, London breathed through rain and fog, unaware that St. Bartholomew's had become sovereign ground.
Inside the delivery room, the air was thick with antiseptic and tension.
Diane Kane lay gripping the bed rails, her breathing uneven, her body trembling as another contraction tore through her. Sweat soaked her hair and gown. Her face was tight with pain, jaw clenched, eyes burning with effort. This was not elegance or ceremony.
This was survival.
A nurse stayed close, voice steady. "Breathe. You're almost there."
Diane did not answer. She screamed instead.
Richard Kane stood at her side, silent, unmoving, his hand locked around hers as if anchoring both of them to the moment. His coat was gone. His sleeves were rolled up. The man who bent minds and ruled bloodlines was stripped down to presence alone.
For the first time in years, he was powerless.
He felt every tremor in Diane's grip. Every sharp inhale. Every cry that cut into him deeper than any blade ever had. He did not look away. He refused to.
"Push," the doctor commanded.
Diane obeyed with everything she had left.
The room moved fast then. Orders. Motion. Controlled urgency. Richard's heartbeat thundered in his ears as time collapsed into seconds.
Then it happened.
A cry pierced the air.
Sharp. Furious. Alive.
The sound filled the room, echoing off sterile walls like a declaration. The child was lifted, small chest rising and falling as lungs pulled in their first breath. Life, raw and undeniable.
Richard froze.
For a moment, the world stopped.
The baby was brought forward, placed against Diane's chest. She broke, sobbing openly now, tears streaking down her face as her shaking hands curled around the tiny body. Her voice failed her. Words were unnecessary.
Richard stepped closer.
He looked down at his son.
At the clenched fists. The red flushed skin. The cry that refused to weaken.
No power surged. No sign revealed itself.
And yet the room felt heavier.
This child carried the Kane blood. The name. The weight of generations. The future Richard was shaping with ruthless precision now rested in this fragile, screaming form.
Mason Kane.
Richard rested a hand lightly on the child's back. The touch was careful, deliberate, almost reverent.
"The line continues," he said quietly.
Outside the room, phones rang. Messages were sent. Orders moved through the city like veins carrying news.
London would wake to whispers.
But in that sealed hospital room, beneath harsh lights and guarded doors, the storm had already been born.
Not with thunder.
But with breath.