Katherine gasped. It was a rattling breath, one that burned hot and cold all at once. "It's coming," she hissed. "The baby is coming." Stabbing pains radiated through her, burning her from the inside out. Her contractions intensified.

"Deep breaths, my lady. In then out. There now." The words were spoken calmly, with encouragement.

Katherine tried to follow orders, squeezing tightly to the hand that held hers. Around her, the darkness was alight with glowing dragon eyes. There were thirty-two of the creatures in the cavern, all humming with excitement. Their voices were penetrating, reverberating throughout her body, but they did nothing to calm her rising fear. Something was wrong.

The Sprite midwife began to sing, weaving her magic through the air. A contraction wracked her body. She pushed—hard. Each time she pushed, she cried out, growing weaker, pained, more desperate. She was hurting.

"This Rider is losing too much blood," the Sprite said aloud to the dragons. It did not matter. As long as the child was safe. In the end, she would die no matter what.

"Please," Katherine hissed. She begged Asjaa, the Mother. "Please let my baby live."

At first, she could be sure of nothing. Then she felt a kick, and another contraction, and this one felt different than the others. More productive. The Mother had listened. Somehow Katherine knew one thing with certainty: Her child would be strong, a leader, like its father.

The baby freed itself from her body, followed moments later by a shrieking wail. "It is a boy, my lady! A boy! A healthy son!" The Sprite's relief rang in her voice.

"Call him Tristan," Katherine begged, "after my father."

A dragon trumpeted in refusal. Its bugle was too loud for an enclosed space like this and threatened to crumble the rock around them. Then a telepathic thought filled her mind. "We agreed, my lady. If this child is to be raised by our clan then he will bear a dragon's name. A proper name. And that name will bind him to his deeds...forever."

She wanted to protest. Dragon magic was different. She hated the idea of imposing a future on a son who was only minutes old. Yet, she could not fight this because she had agreed. "What shall he be called?" she breathed, taking the screaming child into her arms, loving it as only a mother could, even if her time was fleeting.

Her gaze was already dimming, but she could see that he was beautiful, with a tiny tuft of pearlescent white hair. "How unique!" she whispered, caressing it. The pale wisps were soft against her calloused skin. "Please be like your father," she begged, hoping the gods would hear her prayer, for he would never know his father. As her vision faded, she could feel the years of her life, her exhaustion, her sorrow, slamming against her like heavy blows. Death was close.

"We will name him Gallant, my lady." The dragon's voice was tender, soft, easing her into the world beyond this one. "For your son will be our hope."

"Gallant," she whispered. It was a good name. An honorable name. Her eyes closed, her breathing stilled. She met Daudagher, the god of death, with open arms. 

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