Maria's PoV
There was a little babe in her arms.
Cheeks swollen and pink like spring flower petals. Eyes closed, lashes dark against pale skin.
Sleeping with the kind of peace only infants knew—unaware of the storm outside, unaware of the desperation that had brought her here.
She was so small. So impossibly fragile.
My arms extended toward Calla before my mind caught up to my body. Some instinct older than thought, reaching for the child.
"Calla?" My voice came out barely above a whisper. "Who—"
"Maria." Calla's voice cracked. Raw. Desperate. "I've never asked anything from you. Never. But today I need you. Only you can help me."
I took the baby carefully, cradling her against my chest. She was warm.
Real in a way that made my heart clench.
"Why? What happened?"
Calla's face crumpled. "This is my child, Maria. My one and only child."
The words hit like stones. Calla—perfect, composed Calla—had a daughter?
"After years of trying," she continued, voice shaking, "I was finally blessed with a daughter. But when she was born—"
She stopped. Pressed her hands to her mouth.
"She—she was diagnosed with mana deterioration."
The world tilted.
Behind me, I heard Garrett's sharp intake of breath. "Mana deterioration..."
Calla nodded, tears streaming freely now. "Yes. Her mana slowly decays. And it affects her body too. Eats away at her from the inside."
She looked at the sleeping child with such profound grief it hurt to witness. "There's no cure. She'll continue to get weaker and weaker. And one day she'll—"
Her voice broke completely. Sobs tore from her throat—ugly, desperate sounds that spoke of a mother's worst nightmare.
I looked down at the baby in my arms. At her tiny, wrinkled fist clenched against my chest. At the slight blue tinge to her lips that I'd missed at first but now couldn't unsee.
"No," I breathed.
"But there is hope." Calla wiped her face roughly. "There's a medicine. It can help. It can slow the deterioration, give her time. Maybe—maybe enough time for a real cure to be found."
She stood, moved closer, her hands hovering near the baby like she wanted to touch but was afraid to. "But it isn't from here. It has to be imported from distant lands. A single vial—" Her voice cracked. "A single vial costs enough to buy a mansion."
The number was incomprehensible. Impossible.
"And if people found out about her condition..." Calla's expression twisted with rage and fear. "They'd treat her as a blight. Cursed. They might even harm her—claim she's bringing bad luck, that she should be put down before the curse spreads."
"That's barbaric—"
"That's reality." Calla's voice was hard now. Bitter. "I've seen it happen. Noble families dispose of imperfect children all the time. Quietly. Efficiently. Like they never existed."
She dropped to her knees, hands clasped like prayer. "Please, Maria. For her medicine, I need to—I need to do everything I can. Work. Trade. Sell everything I own if necessary. But I can't protect her while I do that. I can't keep her safe."
Tears fell freely, spotting the floor. "They'll take her from me. The Count. The court. They'll make her disappear. But if she's here, hidden away in a remote village no one cares about—"
Her eyes met mine. Desperate. Pleading. "Please. Raise her as your own. Love her as your own. And when I've gathered enough for her medicine, I'll bring it. I swear it. I swear on everything I have."
My heart wrenched.
How could I do this? How could I take someone else's child and pretend she was mine?
What if I couldn't love her properly? What if she sensed the truth somehow and grew to resent me?
What if I let myself love her—really love her—and then had to watch her die?
Could I survive that? Losing a child I'd raised as my own?
My hand moved of its own accord. Wiped the baby's soft lips, feeling her warm breath against my palm.
So alive. So vulnerable.
"Calla, I—I—"
The baby's hand suddenly closed around my finger.
Tiny fist gripping with surprising strength. Like she was holding on. Like she knew somehow that I was her only chance.
Warmth flooded my chest—fierce and protective and overwhelming. Something I thought had died three years ago suddenly blazing to life.
This feeling. This impossible, terrifying, beautiful feeling.
"I will," I whispered.
Then louder, stronger: "I will."
I smiled down at the baby. At the child who'd grabbed hold of me and refused to let go.
Calla surged forward, grabbing my free hand. "Thank you. Thank you, sister. Thank you."
She pressed her forehead against our joined hands, sobbing with relief so profound it shook her entire body. "You've saved her. You've saved us both."
She stood, wiping her face, trying to compose herself. From her coat, she pulled a small bundle—cloth wrappings, a few glass bottles.
"For feeding," she explained, voice still thick. "And clothes. Everything she needs for now. I'll send money when I can. Medicine when I've gathered enough."
She set everything carefully on the table. Then turned back to us—to me holding her daughter, to Garrett standing silent and solid behind me.
"I need to go." Her voice was steadier now. Resolved. "If I don't report back to the castle tomorrow, they'll send people looking. And if they find me here—"
She didn't finish. Didn't need to.
She moved to the door. Stopped with her hand on the latch.
Then turned back one last time. Crossed the room. Bent down to press a kiss to the baby's forehead—gentle, lingering, heartbroken.
"Be good," she whispered. "Be strong. Your mother will take care of you."
She straightened. Looked at me with eyes that held too much—gratitude, grief, guilt, love.
"Please take care of her. As your own daughter."
She walked to the door again. Pulled it open. Wind and snow burst in, making the fire gutter.
"Calla!"
She paused at the threshold, looking back.
"What's her name?"
For a long moment, Calla said nothing. Just stood silhouetted against the storm, shoulders bowed with the weight of what she was surrendering.
"You're her mother now," she said finally. Voice barely audible over the wind. "Choose a name for her."
The baby stirred in my arms. Made a small sound of protest at the cold air.
Then her eyes opened.
For the first time, I saw them clearly.
Violet. The exact color of the most glorious amethyst—deep purple with hints of blue, luminous even in the dim firelight.
Extraordinary. Impossible to forget once seen.
"Violet," I breathed. The name came without thought. Perfect. Right.
Calla smiled—sad and beautiful and final. "Then Violet it is."
She pulled her hood up. "Goodbye, Maria. Take care of my daughter."
Then she was gone, swallowed by the blizzard. The door closed. The storm's roar muffled to distant howling.
I stood in the sudden quiet, holding a baby named Violet, feeling like I'd just witnessed something both miraculous and terrible.
"Maria."
Garrett's voice. Careful. Uncertain.
I turned to face him. He looked at me, then at the baby, then back at me. Reading the decision already written on my face.
"Please," I said. My voice shook. "Can I be selfish? Just this once? Can we save this child?"
Garrett moved closer. Looked down at Violet properly for the first time.
She'd opened her eyes fully now. Those stunning violet eyes tracked movement sluggishly, unfocused but aware. One tiny hand reached toward nothing, grasping at air.
Something shifted in Garrett's expression. Softened.
"I told you," he said quietly. "I'll walk any road you choose."
His large, scarred hand reached out. Let Violet's tiny fingers wrap around one of his. "If you choose to be her mother, then I promise—I'll protect you both with my life."
His other arm came around me. Drew me and Violet both against his chest.
We stood like that—three people who'd somehow become a family in the space of one impossible night.
Violet made another small sound. Not quite a cry. More like a question.
"We've got you," I whispered to her. "You're safe now. We've got you."
Outside, the blizzard raged.
Inside, by the fire's warmth, something broken had been made whole again.
Not the way I'd imagined. Not the child I'd thought I'd never have.
But mine nonetheless.
Ours.
Our daughter.
That was you... Our Violet.
***