Twin Cries
The pale light of dawn kissed the horizon, painting the mountains in hues of lavender and gold. The cries of newborn twins, a boy and a girl, pierced through the cold morning air, their sound fragile yet powerful. The camp, previously bristling with tension and urgency, seemed to hold its breath.
Isla lay on a bed of softened furs, her silver hair matted with sweat and her face pale from exertion, but her eyes were bright as they focused on the tiny bundles now being placed in her trembling arms. Eira knelt beside her, unusually gentle, her movements precise and steady.
“They’re strong,” Eira murmured, her usual sharpness replaced by something almost reverent.
Isla’s breath hitched as she gazed at her children for the first time. The boy, with his silvery hair and small, furrowed brow, clutched his tiny fists tightly, while the girl’s dark curls framed a face that seemed impossibly serene despite the chaos of her arrival. Their cries softened as they nestled against their mother, the warmth of her body calming them.
Draven knelt beside Isla, his large, calloused hand brushing over the boy’s soft hair with a tenderness that seemed out of place for the formidable Alpha. “They’re perfect,” he said hoarsely, his amber eyes glistening. He reached for Isla’s free hand, his grip firm yet gentle. “You did this, Isla. You brought them into the world.”
A faint, exhausted smile touched Isla’s lips. “We did this,” she whispered, her voice barely audible but laced with emotion.
Draven leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her temple, his touch lingering as if to ground both of them in this fragile moment. “You’re incredible,” he said, his voice raw with awe and relief.
Despite the overwhelming love flooding her chest, Isla’s gaze flickered toward the edge of the camp. Kaelen stood apart from the rest, his broad frame silhouetted against the rising sun. His golden eyes were fixed on the scene, but his face remained unreadable.
The memory of her vision clawed at Isla’s mind, an unwanted specter that twisted her joy with unease. Her mother’s voice, her father’s betrayal, and the haunting image of blood on his hands echoed like a cruel taunt.
“Was it real?” Isla whispered, her voice cracking as she turned to Eira. Her silver eyes searched the other woman’s face for answers. “What I saw—what happened to my mother—was it real?”
Eira’s expression was calm, almost soothing, as she knelt beside Isla. She rested a hand on Isla’s shoulder, her blue eyes meeting Isla’s unwaveringly. “No,” she said firmly, her voice quiet but resolute. “It was the pain, Isla. Hallucinations brought on by the stress of childbirth. Nothing more.”
Isla’s chest tightened as she studied Eira’s face, searching for any sign of deception. The other woman’s words offered a semblance of comfort, but the doubt lingered like a shadow in Isla’s heart. She lowered her gaze back to her children, their tiny faces peaceful as they slept in her arms, and forced herself to focus on the present.
For now, they were safe. For now, they were hers.
