The storm rolled into Duskvale like a drunk stumbling home—loud, clumsy, and soaked to the bone. It had been brewing all day, clouds piling up over Ashrend's hollows until the sky sagged with them, heavy and gray. By dusk, the wind was kicking up dust along the village's dirt lanes, rattling shutters and sending the chickens into a squawking fit. Mira Tarn stood in the doorway of her squat little forge-house, arms crossed, squinting out at the mess. Her dark hair whipped loose from its braid, slapping her cheeks, and she muttered something sharp under her breath—probably a curse at the weather, or maybe at the ache in her belly that'd been gnawing at her since noon.
"Gettin' worse," she said, loud enough for her brother, Gav, to hear over the wind. He was hunched by the forge inside, poking at the coals with a stick, trying to keep the fire alive despite the damp creeping in. The room smelled of wet iron and smoke, the kind that clung to your clothes and hair for days. Gav grunted, not looking up, his broad shoulders hunched like he could bully the flames into staying put.
"Storm's a mean one," he said, voice rough as the gravel underfoot. "You oughta sit, Mira. Been on your feet too damn long."
She waved him off, one hand sliding to her swollen stomach, the other gripping the doorframe. "I'll sit when it's done. Not before." Her tone was flinty, the kind that didn't invite argument, though Gav shot her a look anyway—half worry, half exasperation. Eight months gone, and she was still hauling firewood, hammering nails, acting like the babe wasn't about to turn her life upside down any day now. Stubborn as a mule, their dad used to say, and Mira wore it like a badge.
The first raindrops hit then, fat and cold, splattering against the thatch roof and dribbling down the walls. Mira stepped back, pulling the door shut with a creak, just as a gust shoved it hard enough to make the hinges groan. Inside, the forge glowed a dull red, casting jittery shadows across the dirt floor. It wasn't much of a place—two rooms, if you could call them that: this one with the forge and a workbench, and a smaller one in back with a straw pallet and a rickety table. The Tarns weren't rich, not by a long shot. Blacksmithing kept them fed, mending plowshares and shoeing mules for Duskvale's farmers, but it didn't leave much for extras. The walls were mud and wattle, patched with whatever Mira could scrounge, and the roof leaked when the wind blew wrong. Still, it was theirs, and she'd fight tooth and nail to keep it that way.
"Water's boiling," Gav called, nodding at the kettle slung over the fire. He'd set it up an hour ago, when Mira's pacing had turned into sharp little gasps she tried to hide. She nodded, wincing as another pang hit, this one strong enough to make her grip the workbench, knuckles whitening. Gav dropped the stick and stood, wiping soot off his hands onto his trousers.
"You sure you don't want me fetching Old Tilda?" he asked, hovering like he didn't know what to do with himself. Tilda was the village midwife, a wiry woman with hands like leather and a tongue twice as sharp. She'd delivered half of Duskvale's kids, including Mira and Gav back in the day.
Mira shook her head, breathing hard through her nose. "Not yet. Storm's too bad—she'd drown before she got here. I can handle it."
Gav snorted, but there was no fight in it. "You're a damn fool, you know that?"
"Runs in the family," she shot back, managing a grin that turned into a grimace as the next pain rolled through. She shuffled toward the back room, one hand braced on the wall, the other clutching her belly. Gav trailed her, muttering about stubborn sisters and bad timing, but he grabbed the kettle anyway, steam curling up as he carried it after her.
The back room was darker, the forge's light barely reaching past the doorway. A single oil lamp flickered on the table, throwing a weak yellow glow over the pallet where Mira eased herself down. The straw crunched under her weight, bits of it poking through the patched blanket she'd thrown over it. She kicked off her boots, toes curling against the cold dirt floor, and leaned back, letting out a shaky breath. The wind howled outside, rattling the shutters, and rain drummed against the roof, a steady thump-thump that drowned out the quieter sounds—the creak of the pallet, the hiss of the kettle, Gav's boots scuffing as he set it down.
"Need anything?" he asked, hovering again, his big frame filling the doorway. He looked out of place here, all muscle and soot against the cramped, soft-edged space.
"Just stay close," Mira said, voice tight. "And don't fuss. I'll holler if it gets bad."
He nodded, stepping back to give her room, but he didn't go far—just leaned against the wall by the forge, arms crossed, listening to the storm and the uneven rhythm of her breathing. The pains were coming faster now, sharp and insistent, and Mira bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to keep quiet. She'd seen calves born, pigs too—messy, loud affairs—and figured this couldn't be much different. Didn't make it hurt less, though. She shifted, straw jabbing her back, and gripped the edge of the pallet, waiting for the next wave.
It hit like a hammer, a deep, wrenching ache that stole her breath and turned her knuckles white. She couldn't hold it in this time—a low, guttural sound slipped out, half groan, half curse, and Gav poked his head back in, eyes wide.
"Mira—"
"I'm fine," she snapped, though her voice shook. "Just… loud. Get that rag, yeah? The one by the table."
He grabbed it—a scrap of linen she'd washed that morning—and dunked it in the kettle, wringing it out before handing it over. She pressed it to her forehead, the heat cutting through the chill that'd settled into her bones. The storm was roaring now, thunder cracking so loud it rattled the lamp, and she flinched, the sound too close, too sharp. Gav muttered something about the weather gods being bastards, but she barely heard him over the next pain, this one worse, like something was clawing its way out from the inside.
Time blurred after that, the room shrinking to a haze of heat and hurt. Mira lost track of how long she'd been at it—minutes, hours, it all smeared together under the storm's relentless pounding. Gav stayed near, fetching water, mopping her brow when she let him, his usual gruffness softened into something quieter, almost tender. She didn't cry—not her style—but the sounds she made were raw, animal, spilling out despite her best efforts. The wind screamed through the cracks, rain seeping under the door, and the forge's glow dimmed as the coals burned low. She didn't notice. All she knew was the pressure, the weight, the need to push that wouldn't let up.
"Gav—" she gasped, voice breaking, and he was there, kneeling by the pallet, hands hovering like he could catch whatever was coming. She gripped his arm, nails digging in, and bore down, a yell tearing free that matched the thunder outside. It hurt—gods, it hurt—but there was a shift, a sudden release, and then a sound cut through the storm: a thin, furious wail, sharp as a blade.
Mira slumped back, chest heaving, sweat stinging her eyes. Gav fumbled, clumsy and quick, lifting a slippery, wriggling thing from the blanket—a baby, red-faced and bawling, tiny fists flailing against the world. He laughed, a short, startled bark, and held it out to her, hands shaking a little.
"It's a boy, Mira. You've got a boy."
She took him, arms trembling, and pulled him close, the heat of him against her chest cutting through the damp cold of the room. He was small, wiry, with a shock of dark hair plastered to his head, and his cries were loud, insistent, like he was mad at being dragged into this mess. Mira laughed too, a ragged sound, and brushed a finger over his cheek, smearing blood and sweat. "Look at you," she murmured, voice hoarse. "Already shouting like your uncle."
Gav grinned, wiping his hands on his trousers, leaving streaks of red. "Got lungs on him, that's for sure. What's his name?"
"Ryn," she said, the word slipping out easy, like she'd known it all along. "Ryn Tarn." She shifted, wincing as she settled him against her, his cries softening into hiccupping little gasps. The storm was still raging, rain pelting the roof, but it felt distant now, muted by the weight of him in her arms.
Gav stood, stretching his back with a groan. "I'll get Tilda now it's slowing. She'll want to check him over." He hesitated, glancing at the babe. "He's alright, yeah? Looks… small."
"He's fine," Mira said, sharp enough to shut down any fuss. "Small's how they start. He'll grow." She looked down at Ryn, his eyes screwed shut, mouth working like he was still figuring out how to yell. He was hers—hers and no one else's—and that was enough for now.
The door creaked as Gav stepped out, wind snatching it wide before he wrestled it shut. Mira leaned back, exhaustion crashing over her like a wave, but she kept her eyes on Ryn, tracing the lines of his face in the lamplight. The storm battered on, thunder rumbling softer now, and the forge's last embers hissed as rain dripped through the roof. She didn't move, didn't speak—just held him, letting the world spin on without her for a little while longer.
Outside, Duskvale slept, or tried to. The storm kept the dogs barking, the goats bleating in their pens, and a few candles flickered behind shutters as folk peeked out, cursing the weather. Old Tilda trudged through the mud an hour later, her shawl soaked, grumbling about fools who didn't call her sooner. She checked the babe, pronounced him healthy despite the fuss, and left Mira with a pat on the shoulder and a jar of salve for the aches. The village settled as the rain eased, the hollow sinking back into its quiet, stubborn rhythm.
Mira didn't sleep that night. She lay there, Ryn tucked against her, listening to his breathing—soft, steady, a counterpoint to the fading storm. The forge was cold by morning, the kettle still steaming faintly on the table, and Gav snored in the next room, sprawled across the workbench. Duskvale woke slow, smoke curling from chimneys, the air thick with wet earth and ash. Life went on, same as always—except for the new weight in Mira's arms, a scrappy little thing who'd already made his mark, loud and clear.