Taste of ecstasy

Chapter 53

When a kingdom waits for a birth, even the walls learn how to hold their breath.

By the time Magnus stepped into his ninth month, the palace of Idris had transformed into something half-fortress, half-sanctuary, and wholly alert. The air itself felt tuned to him every corridor, every guard, every torch-dimmed hallway alive with anticipation, waiting for the moment the heir decided to enter the world. Silence did not exist anymore, not in truth; even the hush was heavy with readiness. Magnus felt it the moment he opened his eyes each morning the tension, the love, the worry, woven into everything around him. The hum of magic in the walls was different too, softer and watchful, as if the entire palace recognised the life held beneath the curve of Magnus's hands.

The Silent Brothers arrived first, veiled and solemn, gliding through the gates with that eerie grace only they possessed. Their presence steadied the palace like an anchor dropped into trembling waters. They bowed to Magnus, skeletal fingers brushing briefly over his temples, murmuring blessings in a language older than Idris itself. They set up a private chamber for the birthing ritual, cleansing the air with runes and moonwater, weaving wards of protection thicker than armour. Healers from the capital followed next midwives, rune-specialists, herbalists carting crates of salves and steaming tonics. Nurses filled the hallways, whispering instructions to one another, learning which herbs soothed fairy nerves, which compresses eased strain from the lower back, which charms quieted the baby's restless nighttime turning.

Last came Ruelle she did not walk into the palace she arrived, a breeze of jasmine and moonlight trailing behind her, her eyes fierce with both tenderness and command. She kissed Magnus's forehead the way only another fairy ever could pressing magic gently into his skin like warmth, like strength, like home. And then she took her place, not on the sidelines, but at Magnus's left hand, where she had stood for every important moment of his life "I will not leave until the child is born," she said, voice brooking no argument. "And even after."

Princess Isabell took his right hand on that same morning, fiercely proud, refusing to be anywhere except next to him. "Alec can tear down kingdoms," she declared, "but I can get Magnus through labor. And I will." Clarissa Morgenstern insisted on joining them, bright and soft, her touch gentle on Magnus's elbow, her voice calming every time he startled or stiffened. Between the three of them, Magnus was surrounded on all sides by feminine strength fierce, tender, unyielding.

Alexander the mighty king of Idris, meanwhile, was unraveling.

The king of Idris, conqueror of Calmaria, defender of realms, had become an anxious, hovering, overprotective shadow. He refused to leave the palace for more than an hour, and even that hour was a battlefield he lost daily. His armor gathered dust. His horse grew restless. His generals learned quickly that all meetings must happen in the palace gardens or corridors just outside Magnus's chamber because Alec would not tolerate even the thought of distance "He could go into labor any second," Alec muttered every time Raphael suggested a brief inspection of the border. "Any second."

"Magnus is not made of glass, your majesty," Raphael replied once Alec's glare could have cut stone "He carries my child," he said simply, and that alone sealed all arguments Magnus, for his part, was exhausted.

Pregnancy had never felt heavier, never so consuming. His belly had grown taut and full, stretching the silk of his robes into soft curves that glowed under candlelight. His back ached with every step. His feet swollen, ankles tender, his breath came slower, deeper. Each night he shifted in bed a dozen times, searching for a position that didn't strain him.

His hands never left his belly not once, not even for a breath. They rested there like a shield, like instinct, like a vow carved into muscle and bone. Sometimes his palms pressed lightly against the curve, steadying the child's restless movements. Other times, Magnus traced slow circles over the swell, as if calming the baby, or maybe calming himself he was tired in a way he had never known bone-deep, soul-heavy, sacred and yet he was radiant.