The knock at the villa door came before dawn, hurried but polite. A breathless acolyte from the Temple bowed quickly to Zoya.
"Crysta asks for Lytavis. Corina Mosswing is in labor."
Lytavis was already pulling her cloak about her shoulders before her mother could answer. Her heart beat fast with a mix of nerves and excitement. She pressed a kiss to Zoya's cheek, then hurried after the runner, feet light against the stone paths of Suramar's outskirts.
The Mosswing home was warm with the scent of broth and candlewax. Corina lay upon her bed, hair damp against her brow, her hands curled around the sheets. Yet her face brightened when she saw Lytavis at the door.
"Lytavis!" she exclaimed, voice soft with strain but full of joy. "I'm so glad you came. To see another child into the world—it's the greatest blessing. And you, so young, already learning. Elune smiles on you."
Danyr Mosswing sat close at his wife's side, steadying her with a hand upon her shoulder. He was not a man of many words, but his eyes spoke volumes—calm, patient, and utterly devoted. He whispered encouragement whenever Corina closed her eyes in pain, his hand never leaving hers.
Crysta guided the labor with practiced ease, her presence calm as water. "It will be a simple one," she murmured to Lytavis as she checked the mother's progress. "Watch closely, and remember."
Hours passed in a rhythm of breath and whispered encouragement. Corina bore each contraction with quiet strength, leaning into her husband's support. Lytavis held cloths, fetched water, pressed cool compresses when Crysta asked. She scarcely noticed the ache in her own back or the weariness in her legs—her whole attention was fixed on the miracle unfolding before her.
And then, with one final cry, the child slipped into the world.
Crysta caught her in steady hands, lifted her into the lamplight. A wail filled the room, fierce and strong.
"A girl," Crysta announced with a smile. "Healthy and perfect."
Corina's tears were immediate. "Cindara," she whispered. "Her name is Cindara."
Danyr bent to kiss his wife's brow, his quiet composure breaking into a soft laugh of relief.
Lytavis stood transfixed, her throat tight, her eyes stinging. She had seen small wonders before—tiny fingers curled against a mother's chest—but nothing compared to this moment: the instant when a soul first entered the world and made it brighter by its cry.
Later, when mother and child rested peacefully, Lytavis stepped outside. The sun was setting, casting the garden in pale gold. She drew a long breath, heart racing still, the sound of Cindara's first cry echoing in her memory.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
Today, my daughter witnessed her first birth. She came home alight, her words tumbling faster than her ink could capture.
She told me of a woman's strength, of a husband's steady hand, of the moment when a cry split the silence and the world seemed new. She told me the child's name – Cindara—and her eyes glowed as though she had seen the stars themselves descend to earth.
Lytavis has stood in the room where life enters and does not falter. That, too, is a kind of courage.