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A midwife servant knelt beside her, silent and still. She held the newborn wrapped in thin cloth, her face caught between awe and hesitation.
There was sothing strange about this child.
Not the crying. Not the tiny body or the clenched fists or even the shock of black hair already growing across the scalp.
It was the hand. The right hand.
Wrapped around the baby’s fingers was a ring. A silver band that pulsed faintly with dark light. Not bright enough to fill the room, but strong enough to be noticed. The midwife stared at it for a mont, lips pressed into a line. Her instincts told her to say nothing.
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
Boots stepped across the stone floor. They were too clean for this part of the estate. The man who wore them did not belong in a place like this (the servant area).
He stopped at the edge of the bed and said nothing for a long mont. Then he looked at the child.
"So this is the ninth," he said. "Born in secret. Raised in dirt."
The midwife held the baby a little closer.
"He is your son, my lord," she said quietly.
The man didn’t respond. His gaze moved to the woman lying motionless on the bed.
"She was never ant to matter," he said. "A favor to keep the commoners quiet. That was all."
He turned and walked back to the door.
"No records. No celebration. You may na him if you wish, but he will not be raised as a noble. He will stay here. Out of sight."
The door closed with a dull click. The wind picked up outside. The shutters rattled. The baby’s cries softened.
The midwife stared at him. Then she glanced at the dying woman, and a deep sigh passed through her chest. So servant girls ca and took the dying won away.
"Your na will be John," she whispered. "John White."
She didn’t know why the na ca to her. It felt right. As if the na John had already belonged to him.
She swings the child slowly, back and forth, her hands steady despite the trembling in her shoulders.
And high above the roof of the cottage, deep within the clouds, a faint echo rumbled across the night sky.
It was not thunder. It was the sound of sothing awakening. John’s previous life mories ca in fragnts.
The warmth of a blanket pulled too tight. The sharp ache of hunger that grew familiar over ti. The flickering of candlelight on the walls. Rough wooden floors. A cold draft that never seed to leave. A woman’s voice humming softly in the quiet hours, always just before sleep.
The ring never left his hand. No matter how tightly the midwife wrapped him, the silver band remained exposed. It never slid off. It never dulled. Sotis it pulsed at night, its faint light dancing across the ceiling like a heartbeat in shadow.
Years passed.
The woman who nad him grew older, thinner, and slower. She taught him how to walk and how to read. She taught him how to light a fire when the wind blew hard against the walls. She taught him to be quiet whenever footsteps approached the cottage, especially when they wore polished boots.
Those were the days John hated the most.
n would co, dressed in noble black and silver. They never smiled. They never spoke to him. They looked around the cottage like it was a cage full of insects. Sotis they dropped coins on the table. Sotis they didn’t.
Once, when he was five, one of them called him a stain.
The midwife didn’t argue. She lowered her head and said nothing. That silence taught John more than words ever could.
He did not belong here. Not in the mansion that stood beyond the iron gate. Not in the family whose blood ran in his veins.
Not even in the stories other children told about dukes and sons and birthdays.
He lived on the edge of their world. Close enough to hear the music from the grand hall on festival nights, but never close enough to see the candles.
He watched them from behind the wooden fence. The nobles. The children with silver cloaks and proud steps. His half brothers.
They didn’t look at him. They pretended he wasn’t there.
Once when he was six, on a sunny day John had felt brave, maybe foolish. He decided to wave at one of them through the fence.
The boy on the other side wore clean clothes stitched with silver thread His boots looked like they had never touched anything but polished stone His hair was combed and oiled and he slled faintly of roses even from that distance
John raised his hand slowly awkwardly grinning with the hope of being seen or being noticed or being accepted. He just wanted soone to play with him or talk to him.
The boy turned and looked right at him and without a word bent down and spat into the mud. His voice ca clear and sharp like a thorn through flesh.
"Low born."
Then he walked away without another glance. John stood frozen, his small hand still in the air until the sun shifted and the shadow of the fence fell across his face. He never waved again. Not to anyone. Not for many years.
The seasons passed one after another in a long grey march. His chores grew heavier. His back learned the weight of water buckets and firewood. His hands blistered and cracked from scrubbing stone and chopping kindling. The cottage was small and cold, always creaking in the wind. The midwife who raised him grew older. Her once steady hands now shook when she poured tea or tried to sew. She muttered more often and forgot simple things like nas and days.
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