Chapter 80: No Cries, No Heartbeat
The night is thick with quiet.
That kind of silence that feels like it's listening. Watching. Waiting.
The lamp beside my bed casts a soft, amber glow, throwing my shadow across the wall like a distant echo of myself.
I drift between sleep and thought… about names, about tiny fingers and breathless laughter, about the way Cassian's face would light up the moment he saw our child.
Then it begins.
A pull.
Sharp. Sudden. Like something inside me tightens and twists without warning.
My hand flies to my belly. "Shh, little one," I whisper, breath trembling. "We're almost there."
Another wave hits me — deeper, sharper. I sit up slowly, my legs dangling off the bed. A strange warmth pools beneath me.
I glance down.
And everything in me shatters.
Red.
Spreading.
A scream tears from my throat before I even know I'm crying. "Esther!"
My voice sounds strange — hoarse and frantic, like it's fighting its way out of someone else's mouth.
Esther runs in, a steaming teacup in her hands. It slips and shatters on the floor.
"Oh God," she breathes. Then louder — a command and a plea all at once: "GUARDS! GET THE DOCTOR — NOW!"
I'm shaking. "It's not time," I gasp. "Esther, it's not time—"
She rushes to me, trying to press something beneath me, trying to stop the bleeding, to stop the unraveling. But I already feel it.
Something is slipping.
Something is leaving.
The pain doesn't feel like labor.
It feels like a tearing.
Not a birth…
A robbery.
They carry me to the infirmary. My legs are numb, but the rest of me screams.
The storm outside has risen wild. Rain pounds the windows like fists. Thunder growls like the voice of God… or something crueler.
Everything blurs; faces, gloves, flashes of white fabric and silver tools. I hear Dr. Menas bark orders, sharp and fast.
"We're losing time."
I try to ask for Cassian. My voice breaks. No one hears.
Esther grips my hand, threading her fingers through mine, whispering prayers, holding in the tears she thinks I can't see.
I don't know if it's minutes or hours.
Only pain. Only blood. Only fear.
And then — nothing.
No more pressure.
No more movement.
Just… cold.
Someone sobs.
Maybe it's me.
I turn my head, searching — for a cry, a whimper, anything.
But the room has gone deathly still.
A whisper. A gasp. A nurse covering her mouth.
Esther looks at me. Her face crumples before she forces a brave smile and touches my cheek.
I already know.
No cries.
No heartbeat.
No life.
Only the storm outside…
And the silence it left behind.
They place something beside me. A small bundle, wrapped in the white silk I picked out weeks ago.
I can't reach for it.
I stare at the tiny shape.
This was supposed to be the beginning.
I turn my face to the window. The rain blurs the moon until it looks like it's crying with me.
And somewhere deep inside me…
Something falls.
And doesn't rise again.
***
Amira, my mother, wraps herself around me the moment they let her in. She hasn't let go since.
She smells like lemongrass and soft musk — childhood and strength. She sits on the bed now, stroking my hair, whispering prayers too quiet for the world to hear.
Then the doors swing open.
I don't need to look.
I know it's him.
Cassian.
I hear his steps falter halfway across the room. Then — stillness.
I turn just enough to see him in the doorway.
His chest rises, his eyes locked on the tiny bundle beside me in white silk and silence.
He doesn't speak at first.
Then — a broken whisper:
"No… Celeste…"
He crosses the room in two long strides, then falls to his knees at the foot of the bed, clutching my hands.
His skin is cold. Or maybe mine is.
"I'm sorry," he keeps saying. "I should've been here. I should've—"
"You couldn't have stopped it," I say, my voice thin, cracking like glass.
Mother leans forward and gently wraps her shawl around the child's still form. Her hands tremble.
"The wind doesn't ask permission before it takes," she murmurs.
Cassian buries his face in my lap. I place my hand on his head — not to comfort him, but to feel something warm… something still breathing.
The room is too full, and yet too empty.
There is love everywhere, but no heartbeat. No cries.
Just us.
A mother.
A father.
A grandmother.
And the ache of a child the stars wouldn't keep.
***
My mother never leaves my side.
At night, she sleeps at the foot of my bed, her lips moving in ancient lullabies. During the day, she sings the old songs she once used to chase away fevers and shadows.
None of them can chase this.
The cradle Cassian built still stands untouched by the window — dressed in lace and dreams that will never breathe.
On the third day, Dr. Menas returns.
We sit — Cassian, my mother, and me. Esther stands by the door, red-eyed and silent.
Dr. Menas clears his throat. "I owe you the truth."
His voice is soft, deliberate.
"There was… a placental abruption. The placenta separated from the uterine wall prematurely. It caused a sudden and severe loss of oxygen."
I close my eyes. I already know the rest.
"She didn't suffer," he adds quietly.
Cassian finds my hand again. I haven't let go since that night.
"There's more," the doctor continues. "We found traces of an unknown agent in your bloodstream. Very subtle. Very deliberate. We believe it was administered in small doses, likely over time. Not enough to harm you — but enough to affect the baby."
My mother goes still. "What kind of agent?"
"We're still testing. But it doesn't appear to be naturally occurring."
Cassian's voice is iron beneath ice. "So someone poisoned her?"
"We can't rule it out."
My heart turns over.
I think of the flower. The whispered gifts. The strange tea. The Queen's sudden kindness after weeks of nothing.
Later that day, Madam Jesse arrives.
She doesn't speak. She just takes the seat beside my mother and places her warm, wrinkled hand over mine.
"She was light," I whisper. "Too light. Too quiet."
My mother brushes my cheek with her thumb. "But she was yours. Even silence cannot erase that."
Ray peeks in once, clutching Esther's leg.
"Where's the baby?" he asks, blinking.
Esther pulls him back, whispering something he doesn't understand.
The door closes behind them.
And I am glad.