The sun loomed high above the half-built arch of Jerusalem’s new stone bridge, casting gold over laborers and scaffolds. The sound of chisels echoed through the canyon, rhythmic and steady, a testament to months of effort carved into stone. Baldwin stood atop the temporary platform overlooking the construction site, robes gathered at his ankles, crownless for practicality’s sake, but no less regal. Beside him stood Tiberias, his trusted advisor, arms crossed and gaze sharp.
His royal cloak fluttered against the wind as he and Tiberias observed the laborers hauling stone and timber, their voices mixing with the distant roar of the river below. Dust swirled in the air as masons shaped the final arches, while engineers stood with their wooden scrolls, calculating the precise moment the bridge would be safe to bear weight.
“How long until it bears the weight of a thousand men?” Baldwin asked, eyes tracing the mortar lines.
“The architect says before the winter rains return,” replied the man they spoke with—a governor of the province, robed in white linen stained with clay from the site.
“Good,” Baldwin murmured. “this road will carry more than soldiers. It will carry peace.”
Just as Tiberias was about to comment on the ironwork below, a sudden cry cut through the air.
“Your Grace!!”
They turned. A figure dashed across the dusty path, stumbling slightly as she ran—Amara. Her dress, once white, was smeared with mud, her braid undone, cheeks flushed from exertion and panic.
“Your Grace—!” She reached them, panting, her voice broken by the sprint. “T-the queen—s-she—she fainted!”
Baldwin’s blood froze. Without pause, he turned on his heel. “Bring the horses,” he commanded, already moving. “now.”
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
By the time the palace gates loomed ahead, Baldwin was no longer the king of public poise. His gloves were gone, hair windswept from the ride, face pale beneath the sun. As he entered the royal chambers, the scent of lavender greeted him—Hyacintha’s favorite—but it did not soothe him.
She lay in the grand bed, her figure still and porcelain-pale against the silken sheets, dark curls spilling across the pillows. A physician stood at her side, having just completed his examination, and now looked to Baldwin with careful measure.
She was alive.
The palace physician, an elderly man with wise, observant eyes, stepped away from her side as Baldwin approached. He bowed low before speaking.
“Your Grace,” the physician began, his voice solemn yet carrying something else—something almost … joyful. “The Queen is not ill.”
Baldwin’s brow furrowed, his throat tightening. “Then why did she collapse?”
The physician’s lips curved into a faint smile.
“Because, Your Highness … she is with child.”
The air itself seemed to shatter.
Baldwin froze, the words crashing over him with the force of a thousand storms. His mind reeled. His heart pounded.
Hyacintha … was pregnant.
A child. Their child.
The physician continued, completely unaware of the silent chaos within Baldwin’s soul. “Her body is merely adjusting, Your Majesty. She is otherwise healthy. I even felt the child’s movements—the feet and fists are strong.”
The weight of the words pressed into Baldwin’s chest. He exhaled, slowly, carefully, yet his entire world had shifted.
His heir.
Their child would be born.
He stepped forward slowly, hand trembling as he reached to brush a lock of hair from her forehead. His flower. His chaos. His queen. Now lying still as moonlight, guarding a secret that bloomed within her without warning.
He was seated now at her bedside, fingers laced with hers, head bowed. The weight of kingship felt lighter and heavier all at once.
She stirred.
A soft sigh escaped her lips, and her lashes fluttered. Her eyes blinked open, dazed.
“Your Majesty … ?” she murmured faintly, voice like a breeze.
He rose at once, leaning close. “Hyacintha—my heart, are you in pain? Do you feel unwell?”
“I … I remember the garden,” she whispered. “And then … falling. What happened?”
His hand tightened around hers, and for the first time in many years, the steel in his eyes softened into something almost wet.
“You scared me,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “but you're safe now.”
Her gaze searched his.
He exhaled slowly. “The physician says you’re with child. You’re—pregnant.”
Hyacintha blinked. Then blinked again, lips parted in shock. “A child?”
He nodded. A slow, reverent smile broke through his overwhelmed expression as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple.
“You carry our heir, my love.”
She gasped—half-laughter, half-tears—and cupped his face with both hands, her eyes shining.
“Oh … my lord …”
“You’ve always brought life where there was none,” he whispered, pressing his brow to hers. “now, you carry the future.”
Baldwin exhaled softly, glancing down at his own gloved hands. These hands had held a sword, had signed decrees, had ruled a kingdom with unwavering strength. Yet now, these very same hands would one day hold a newborn—fragile, small, his.
The weight of fatherhood settled over him, a new kind of responsibility—one that no war, no diplomacy, no battlefield could ever prepare him for.
Slowly, he leaned down, pressing a soft, almost hesitant kiss against Hyacintha’s forehead.
“You never cease to surprise me,” he whispered against her skin.
And outside the palace, Jerusalem roared with celebration.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Jerusalem’s skies were heavy with anticipation that night, cloaked in velvet clouds as thunder murmured in the distance, as if heaven itself braced for the arrival of something sacred. Lanterns flickered through the palace corridors, dimming under the weight of silence. Servants stood hushed near the birthing chamber, their heads bowed in prayer. The air trembled with anticipation.
The palace, usually brimming with quiet elegance, pulsed with restless energy. Behind the grand doors of the royal birthing chamber, Hyacintha labored through the long and harrowing hours, surrounded by her ladies and the most skilled midwives in the kingdom.
Inside, chaos danced beneath the arch of moonlight spilling through the stained glass. Midwives moved like shadows—soft steps, hushed voices, hands soaked in effort. Hyacintha lay upon layers of silken linens, now wrinkled and soaked through, her body writhing, glistening with sweat and flushed with pain. Her dark hair clung to her temples, and her breath came in ragged, broken sobs.
She screamed—once, twice—shattering the quiet like glass.
“Push, Your Majesty,” the elder midwife said, voice as firm as a bell toll. “You’re almost there. I feel the head.”
Hyacintha gripped the bedframe until her knuckles turned white, her body arching as another contraction rolled through her like a storm tide.
Outside, Baldwin stood at the doors—powerless. His crown was forgotten, his cloak cast aside, pacing like a man who had never known war. Tiberias waited nearby, stone-faced, but even he stole anxious glances at the doors. Baldwin’s hands trembled despite himself, curled into fists at his sides. He could not fight this pain. He could not trade places. He could only wait.
Time stretched unbearably, marked only by the dimming of torches and the hushed movements of attendants passing by. And then, just as dawn began to unfurl its golden light across the horizon, a new sound shattered the stillness—a sharp, wailing cry. The cry of a newborn.
Then a cry—a long, soul-splitting cry.
Not Hyacintha’s.
A child’s.
Baldwin froze, breath caught in his chest.
The doors opened.
A midwife stepped out, her hands still red, her eyes shining.
“Your Majesty,” she said, her voice catching. “a daughter. Whole and strong.”
His legs nearly gave out beneath him.
“A … daughter,” he whispered.
“She lives,” the woman said. “both mother and child.”
He brushed past her without another word, as if his heart had already leapt ahead of him. Inside, the chamber smelled of life and blood and lavender. Hyacintha lay against the pillows, utterly spent, her cheeks pale but her eyes—her eyes shone with light not even pain could dim.
The room was dimly lit by flickering candlelight. Incense curled in the air, meant to ward off illness and evil spirits. Silken curtains framed the grand bed where Hyacintha lay, her body exhausted, her hair clinging to her damp skin. But despite her weariness, she was radiant—glowing in the way only a mother could be. And in her arms, swaddled in the softest linen, was their child.
Baldwin approached with careful steps, his breath unsteady as he gazed down at the tiny life cradled against her chest. The baby’s small fingers twitched, curling ever so slightly, as if already reaching for something—someone.
In her arms, wrapped in white linen, was their child.
Their daughter.
Tiny, pink, and wailing like a herald of spring.
Hyacintha looked up and saw him, tears already streaking her cheeks.
“Your Grace,” she whispered, breathless. “We made her.”
Baldwin knelt beside the bed, too overcome to speak. He reached with trembling hands, brushing a finger against the newborn’s tiny fist. She clutched it tightly, like a promise.
“She’s … beautiful,” he managed at last, voice thick. “like her mother.”
Hyacintha gave a weary, teary laugh. “She’s loud. Like her mother.”
He bent and kissed her damp brow, resting his forehead against hers.
“I have fought battles,” he whispered, “but nothing has shaken me like hearing her cry for the first time.”
The chamber had quieted now. The storm of birth had passed, leaving only the gentle rustle of silk and the soft, steady breaths of mother and child. The air was warm, thick with the scent of lavender and something holy—something untouched.
Hyacintha lay back against the pillows, the ghost of pain still lingering in her expression, but her eyes held a glow no suffering could erase. Baldwin remained at her side, silent for a long while, as if still gathering the fragments of his heart from where they had scattered in the wake of her agony.
Then he lowered himself beside her, cupped her cheek with reverent care, and leaned down to press a kiss against her brow. Another followed—her temple, her nose, her lips, her damp collarbone. Each kiss was an apology, a thank-you, a vow.
“You are … ” he began, voice breaking into silence. “You are the strongest soul I have ever known.”
Hyacintha blinked, her lashes wet.
“I have led men to their deaths. I have stood untouched before arrows and swords. But never—never—have I felt more helpless than tonight, hearing you cry out while I could do nothing. I would trade my crown, my kingdom, my breath if it meant I could spare you even a moment of that pain.”
His fingers trembled as they brushed through the strands of her hair, tucking them gently behind her ear.
“No more children,” he murmured suddenly, eyes glassed with tears. “not if it means seeing you like that again. Not if it means hearing you scream and knowing I can’t save you.”
She smiled faintly, though her face was pale. “You’re being dramatic, Your Grace … ”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re soft tonight.”
“I nearly lost you,” he whispered. A tear fell, trailing down his cheek and landing against her skin. “and I never want to feel that again.”
Hyacintha reached up with her free hand and gently wiped his tears, the corners of her mouth twitching in amusement. “I’m alright. I promise. And if fate blesses us again someday, I will gladly suffer for another miracle.”
His breath caught at that, at the strength in her even now. He pressed his lips to her hand, unable to speak for a moment.
Then he turned his gaze toward the bundle nestled in her arms. The baby had calmed now, her tiny fists curled near her face, her lips parted in a quiet sleep. Baldwin traced her forehead with a knuckle.
“She deserves a name born from light,” he said quietly. “From magic. From everything you are.”
Hyacintha watched him, her eyes filled with wonder.
“I’ve chosen one,” he said, smiling through the tears that still lingered in his voice. “Nuala.”
Hyacintha blinked. “Nuala … ”
“She will carry the name of a goddess,” he said. “A protector. A noble soul. A dream woven from silver thread and the breath of spring. It means fair-shouldered, beautiful—and secretly noble. Just like her mother.”
Hyacintha’s eyes welled anew. “Nuala,” she whispered, pressing her lips to the babe’s forehead. “Our Nuala.”
Baldwin turned his gaze toward the bundle nestled in her arms. The infant stirred, wriggling softly as if sensing his eyes. Baldwin reached out, hesitant at first, his hand large and calloused beside her fragile form. He touched her brow with the back of his finger, then her cheek, tracing the smallest, softest skin he had ever known.
“She has your eyes,” he breathed, almost reverent.
Hyacintha tilted her head to look. “Rhodonite,” she whispered, the word blooming from her lips like a secret. “as if the stone itself wept into her gaze.”
The infant’s eyes, though still drowsy and new to light, held that strange, rosy hue—neither wholly pink nor red, but something dreamlike, shimmering faintly in the candle’s glow. “Like mine,” Hyacintha murmured, smiling faintly.
Baldwin’s lips twitched. “No. Hers shine gentler. Yours spark when you’re scheming.”
She laughed softly. “Well, you should worry, Your Majesty. She will inherit that spark too.”
Baldwin’s eyes lingered now on the baby’s hair—soft tufts of pale gold, barely visible but unmistakable in hue. He brushed them with a tender thumb. “But this … ” he whispered. “This is mine.”
“Blonde as sunlight,” Hyacintha added. “as if she bottled a piece of you before arriving in this world.”
“Golden and pink,” he said. “a daughter painted by the dawn.”
And the name bloomed again in the air like a promise.
“Nuala,” they said together—two voices made one by love.
And in that quiet, in the still of the birthing hour, the name passed through their lips like a prayer.
Outside, Jerusalem still slept—but the stars above burned brighter than they had in years. And within the palace, a queen who had defied pain, and a king who had broken no oath, held the future in their arms, wrapped in the silks of love.
The bells rang out again—this time louder. The city would awaken to the sound of triumph. The queen had bloomed, and with her, a new star had risen over Jerusalem.