The first sign was Ingrid's absence.
She'd gone quiet over the last few days, her hands resting on her swollen belly more often than not, her usual chores slowly passed to me with warm smiles and gentle instruction. Her voice had taken on a softer, more reflective cadence, like each word cost more energy than the last. She no longer moved through the house like the quiet force she always had; now, she drifted, serene and detached, like she was already partly somewhere else.
Einar hovered like a nervous shadow, always nearby but pretending not to be. He kept finding excuses to linger close—sharpening tools that didn't need sharpening, refolding furs that were already neat. His gruffness softened in strange ways I hadn't quite seen before. Sometimes I caught him watching Ingrid when he thought no one noticed, his brow furrowed, his fingers twitching at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them—awkward, tense, but endearing.
Then came the night when the midwife arrived.
She came wrapped in the wind and cold, her cloak dusted with frost, her eyes sharp and clear despite the late hour. I opened the door, and she nodded once before sweeping past me like this was simply another task, another trial in a life filled with such moments. Her presence was brisk, efficient—an anchor in a storm none of us quite understood.
I wasn't allowed in the room. Einar kept me close beside the hearth, where the fire already blazed too hot. Still, he stoked it over and over, pushing wood into flames that didn't need feeding. The smoke scratched at my throat. My skin prickled with sweat. But I didn't move.
The walls muffled the pain, but not enough. I heard Ingrid's cries—raw, primal, utterly unlike her—and something inside me twisted up tight. Fear, mostly. Helplessness. A strange ache I couldn't place. Even after a lifetime's worth of experiences, there was nothing in me prepared for the sound of someone I loved in that kind of agony. I would have traded places with her if I could. I think that's when I realized how deeply I belonged here, in this strange, brutal, beautiful life.
Einar didn't speak. He just stirred the fire again and again, as if he believed that if he worked hard enough, burned bright enough, it would somehow protect her.
And then, after what felt like an eternity—
A cry. But this one was different.
Small. Fragile. New.
A baby's cry.
Einar froze mid-motion. The poker slipped from his hand and clattered to the hearthstone. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath with us.
The midwife emerged not long after, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her hands red and raw, but her expression radiant with pride. "He's strong," she said, voice rich with satisfaction. "And so is she. You may see them now."
Einar moved first, then hesitated. He looked down at me, eyes unreadable, and jerked his chin toward the room. "Go on," he said, voice rough like gravel.
I rose to my feet, legs trembling more than I expected, and slipped through the doorway. The rushes on the floor had been replaced, clean and fragrant beneath my bare feet. A bowl of steaming water sat near the bed, the air thick with the sharp tang of blood and bitter herbs. Candles flickered along the walls, their flames dancing like tiny spirits keeping watch.
And there—wrapped in soft wool, nestled against Ingrid's chest—was my brother.
He was impossibly small. Wrinkled, red-faced, still blinking at the world like he wasn't sure he approved of it yet. His fists twitched near his mouth, and his breath came in tiny, shuddery hiccups. A whimper escaped him, more confused than upset, and Ingrid shushed him with a tenderness that made my throat tighten.
Ingrid looked up as I approached, her face pale with exhaustion but glowing with a quiet joy. Tired, yes—but more peaceful than I'd ever seen her. Her hair clung to her forehead, damp with sweat, but she didn't seem to notice.
"Come here, Alice," she whispered, voice barely audible but full of invitation. "Meet Leofric."
I knelt beside the bed, eyes locked on the bundle in her arms. My hands itched to reach out, but I held them at my sides, overwhelmed. My mind was blank. No words came. Just a cascade of feelings I couldn't name.
"He's..." I began, then faltered. What was I supposed to say? I'd never had siblings in my previous life. Never even imagined having one. I wasn't sure what this was supposed to feel like. Was I happy? Scared? Left out?
Panic stirred in my chest like a sleeping beast. What if this did change everything? What if, now that they had their child, they didn't need me anymore? What if I'd been nothing more than a placeholder? I tried to push back down the thought that wriggled back to the forefront of my mind with no success.
But then Ingrid reached out, her free hand taking mine with a gentle but steady grip. Her fingers, though cold, squeezed with unmistakable warmth. "You're his big sister," she said. "He's going to need you."
That simple truth shattered whatever storm had begun to build in my heart. Not replaced. Not pushed aside. I wasn't an afterthought.
I was part of this.
We weren't diminished. We were growing. Becoming more.
Einar appeared in the doorway, eyes softer than I'd ever seen them. He looked almost afraid to speak, like words might break the moment. He stepped closer, the floor creaking under his weight, and placed one calloused hand on my shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding. A quiet promise.
And then the baby—my brother—squirmed, yawning, his mouth opening wide in a soundless wail before settling again. His eyes opened just a sliver, unfocused but searching.
That was all it took.
I was his.
Not by blood. Not by fate. But by choice. By love. By promise.
Ingrid shifted slightly, adjusting her hold, and looked to me with a nod. "Do you want to hold him?" she asked, her voice hushed but steady.
I could only nod, afraid that if I spoke, I might cry.
She helped guide my arms, easing the tiny bundle into them like passing a torch. He was so light I thought I might drop him, but at the same time, he carried more weight than anything I'd ever held. My whole body went rigid at first, afraid to move, to breathe, to ruin something so impossibly perfect.
And then he stirred, his nose brushing the wool of my sleeve, his mouth moving in a half-hearted suckle. I exhaled, breath shaking, and tightened my grip—just enough to support him, to let him know he was safe.
Something bloomed in my chest. Something wild and wordless.
Love, yes—but more than that. Instinct. Purpose. A tether to something primal. Perhaps it was magic. Perhaps it was nature pleading through me, demanding I protect the helpless. I didn't know. I couldn't explain it.
In my old life, babies were distant things—photos on coworkers' desks, crying passengers on flights, things that existed in the world but not in mine. I had deadlines, inboxes, static. I didn't know what it meant to care like this. To be needed like this.
All I knew was this: he needed to live. No matter what. Regardless of the cost.
And I would make sure he did.
I sat there for what felt like hours, cradling my new brother, memorizing every detail of his tiny face—the shape of his ears, the faint fuzz on his head, the way his breath warmed the crook of my arm. My heart beat in strange rhythms, full of terror and wonder all at once.
If the gods of this world came for him, they would find me waiting. If monsters crossed the threshold, I would stand between them and this child. I wasn't strong. Not yet. But I had magic. And I had will.
That would be enough.
Because from the moment I held him, he became my reason.
My reason to fight.
My reason to grow.
My reason to stay alive.
Leofric whimpered again and shifted, his little fingers curling against mine.
I curled my body around him protectively, as if I could shield him from the weight of the world.
And I whispered, so soft only he could hear:
"I'll keep you safe. I promise."