The gates of the Red Chapel hold stood open as thick fog crept in with the dawn. From it emerged the Behike, her steps guided by more than sight.
The guards parted without a word.
She moved like a prophecy fulfilled.
In the birthing tent, pain laced the air like lightning.
Elena was gritting her teeth against a leather dowel, soaked in saltwater and rosemary. Her hair clung to her face. Her skin shimmered—not with sweat, but something brighter, something lunar.
She had become Doña Guabancex in full now; storm goddess incarnate, trembling on the threshold of life and death.
Aurora knelt beside her, murmuring words of encouragement and dabbing the sweat off her brow.
Niegal stayed right next to Elena. He felt it deep with in, his role as El León Negro, guardian consort, lion of mercy and flame. He pressed his forehead to Elena's, whispering her back to center.
"You are the sky, mami. Let it pass through you. I'm here. You are never alone."
The Behike entered with no announcement.
Only a sudden hush. Even the fire dimmed in respect.
She placed her satchel on the ground and knelt beside Elena, touching her forehead. The air buzzed.
"She's between," the Behike murmured. "The veil is thinning. Prepare the cords."
Aurora boiled water. Niegal laid down fresh cloths and mana stones. The tent shimmered faintly, layered with protective wards.
The Behike unfurled the ancestral tools; twin cords, birthing salves, and a dagger that pulsed like it remembered every woman it had helped before.
Elena moved to her knees, gripping the cords above her like roots of the world tree.
Each contraction became a tide crashing into the reef.
Niegal's grip never wavered. He pressed his free hand to her belly, whispering old blessings through clenched teeth. "I offer my breath, my blood, my will. For her. For our child."
The Behike glanced beneath her shift.
It was time.
"With the next contraction," she said softly, "bite and push."
A leather dowel was pressed into Elena's mouth as she screamed and bore down. Niegal held her tightly, whispering encouragement through gritted teeth.
"Again."
Another scream. Another push.
Hours passed. Then an entire day.
Thunder cracked and lightning forked across a clear blue sky.
Niegal never left her side. Aurora never sat.
By the second day, delirium began to take root. Elena sobbed and raged through the pain.
"Just get out of me!" she screamed at her womb.
Niegal held her tighter, praying to gods both old and new to take her pain into his own bones.
Lightning cracked with every contraction. The people of Red Chapel grew restless.
Then, on the third morning, she could go no further.
She slumped in his arms, gasping, hollow-eyed. The Behike knelt again, this time drawing power from deep within. Her eyes widened.
"The child is fading," she whispered.
Elena didn't hesitate. "Do what you have to do," she rasped. "Save our baby."
Niegal kissed her hair. "You're so strong, mami. My tempest. You've already done everything, we'll ride this out."
The Behike called for them to hold Elena down.
Niegal on the right.
Aurora on the left.
The Behike unsheathed the sacred dagger. She poured alcohol over it and over Elena's swollen belly. Elena could barely register what was happening. Her limbs trembled, her eyes wide but vacant. The sigil on her vest flickered, as if fading.
Aurora whispered a prayer.
Then came the slice.
Elena's screams ripped through the air, shaking the earth itself.
Purple lightning cracked across her vision, her eyes alight with stormfire.
She felt everything- the tearing, the pressure, the weight of birth. Niegal watched, tears streaking his face, his body shaking as his beloved was opened before him.
It was brutal. Sacred. A battlefield of love.
So much blood.
And then-
A cry.
Not a whimper. A declaration.
A daughter born in the heart of magic.
The Behike wept as she placed the child on Elena's chest. The newborn shimmered with faint mana, her silver eyes wide as moons. Her cry was thunderous.
Elena sobbed. "Esperanza…"
Her eyes fluttered closed, lips still smiling.
Niegal kissed her sweat-dampened hair, gathering the infant in his arms as Elena rested. He gazed into her little eyes, his own still glistening.
"Our girl," he whispered. "Our Esperanza."
Aurora hugged him fiercely, joyful tears falling freely.
And in that sacred tent, beneath battered canvas and fading candlelight, Hope was born. Brilliant and brave, in the most unlikely of places.