The runner arrived breathless at twilight, robes damp with dew. His words tumbled over one another: Crysta was with a laboring mother already, but another had begun. Laeni Greenleaf.
Lytavis felt her heart leap and stumble all at once. Laeni - who had once pursed her lips at the sight of a girl with a satchel, whispering to Crysta that she was too young to be trusted with such work.
But there was no time for hesitation. Lytavis seized her satchel from its place by the hearth, kissed her mother's cheek in passing, and was out the door before the runner had quite caught his breath.
The Greenleaf home smelled of woodsmoke and lavender. Laeni was already pacing, hands braced on her swollen belly, sweat darkening the fabric of her gown. Her eyes widened when she saw Lytavis in the doorway.
"You…?" Her voice was sharp with pain and disbelief.
But Tyrus, her husband, stepped forward quickly, placing a steadying hand on his wife's shoulder. "She's here, Laeni. And she knows what to do." His tone held more confidence than his eyes, but it was enough to bridge the silence.
Lytavis set her satchel on the table, every movement calm, deliberate. She laid out cloths, boiled water, crushed herbs for easing pain. She spoke gently, her voice a tether: "It's time, Laeni. You're not alone."
Laeni sank onto the bed, another contraction seizing her, but this time she did not protest.
Hours passed in a rhythm of breath and effort, of murmured encouragement and hands that knew more than their years should. Tyrus fetched water, held Laeni's hand, wiped her brow. And with each contraction, each quiet instruction from Lytavis, the doubt in the room ebbed like a tide.
At last, a cry split the night. Clear. Strong.
Lytavis lifted a boy into the lantern glow - red-faced, wailing, alive. She wrapped him carefully and placed him in Laeni's trembling arms.
"Laeni. Tyrus. Your son."
Tears blurred Laeni's exhausted eyes. She bent to kiss the wet crown of her child's head, voice breaking. "Lothan," she whispered. "His name is Lothan."
For a moment, silence held them—before Tyrus's laugh broke it, warm and incredulous. "You did it," he said, looking not at his wife but at Lytavis. "Perfectly."
Lytavis's throat ached with the weight of it. She only smiled, smoothing the newborn's blanket, as Laeni cradled her son close.
Outside, the night deepened. But within the Greenleaf home, confidence had been born alongside Lothan.