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“I THINK WE’RE OFFICIALLY in labor,” Atlas says, his normally calm voice tinged with excitement and anxiety.

My mother looks up from her tea, her eyes narrowing as she observes me waddling into the kitchen with one hand pressed against my lower back. “Consistent contractions?” she asks clinically.

“Three minutes apart for the past hour,” I say, lowering myself carefully into a chair. “And they’re definitely stronger than the Braxton Hicks.”

My mother sets down her teacup with deliberate precision. “It appears your child has finally decided to make an appearance.”

Despite her matter-of-fact tone, I detect a hint of excitement in my mother’s voice. She rises and begins gathering items from around the kitchen—herbs from the windowsill, crystals from the decorative bowl on the counter, and her wand from where it rests beside her teacup.

Atlas kneels beside my chair, his massive hand engulfing mine. “How are you feeling?”

“Nervous. Excited. Ready.” I squeeze his fingers. “Mostly ready. I’m so tired of being pregnant.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “As Aristotle said, ‘Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.’”

“If you quote one more philosopher during my labor, I might turn you into a garden gnome,” I threaten, but the effect is ruined by my smile.

“I’ve prepared a list of relevant philosophical insights for each stage of childbirth,” Atlas says with a mischievous twinkle in his amber eyes. “With appropriate timing for maximum inspirational impact.”

My mother snorts from across the kitchen. “Save your breath. When the serious contractions begin, philosophical platitudes will be the last thing she wants to hear.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of—” Atlas begins but is interrupted by my sudden gasp as another contraction seizes me.

This one is stronger and deeper, accompanied by a distinctive popping sensation and a rush of warmth between my legs. “My water just broke,” I say unnecessarily, as the puddle spreading across the kitchen floor makes it rather obvious.

Atlas’s eyes widen, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he seems momentarily speechless. My mother, in contrast, springs into action with impressive efficiency. “Atlas, help Grizelda to the birthing room we prepared. I’ll gather the remaining supplies and alert the midwife.”

Minerva Nightbloom has been the town’s magical midwife for over thirty years and my practitioner since the beginning of the pregnancy. I’m surprised by my mother’s willingness to share authority, having prepared myself for a fight to include Minerva, but she takes it in stride. Another contraction hits, and this one makes me gasp with its intensity.

“Time to go,” Atlas murmurs, scooping me into his arms with effortless care.

As he carries me toward the birthing room, my leaking amniotic fluid leaves a trail of magical aftereffects, making small flowers sprout from the hardwood, miniature rainbows arc between furniture pieces, and leaving a faint purple glow that lingers in the air behind us.

“My magic is going wild again,” I say, watching as the doorknob transforms into a small singing bird before reverting to metal as we pass through.

“It’s part of the process. The magical barriers between mother and child begin to dissolve during labor, creating energy fluctuations.”

“How do you know that?” I ask, momentarily distracted from my discomfort by his unexpected knowledge.

“I’ve been reading every book on magical childbirth I could find for the past seven months.” His cheeks turn a darker gray, revealing his flush of embarrassment. “That included some rather obscure trollish texts requiring special translation charms.”

My heart swells with affection for this extraordinary being, who has prepared for our child’s birth with the same thoroughness he applies to everything else in life.

In the birthing room, Atlas gently lowers me onto the specially prepared nest of enchanted cushions. The room looks ready, with crystals positioned at cardinal points, magical candles flickering with protective flames, and a shimmer of protective spells visible around the perimeter.

“I’m going to change into something more practical,” I say, looking down at my now-soaked nightgown.

Before I can move, my mother enters the room, arms laden with additional magical implements. With a flick of her wand, she transforms my wet nightgown into a comfortable birthing robe of soft lavender fabric.

“Thank you,” I say, genuinely grateful for her practical magic.

She nods briskly. “Minerva is on her way. In the meantime, let’s begin the magical preparations.”

The next hour passes in a blur of increasing discomfort punctuated by my mother’s efficient instructions and Atlas’s steady support. Contractions intensify, coming closer together, with each one triggering magical surges that transform the room in unpredictable ways. Flowers bloom and wither in the corners. The ceiling briefly becomes transparent, revealing a sky that shifts between night and day regardless of the actual time. At one point, all the furniture except the birthing nest levitates three feet off the floor.

“Quite the magical light show,” comments Minerva Nightbloom when she finally arrives, ducking as a flock of conjured butterflies swoops past her head. The midwife is a small, round woman with silver hair twisted into an elaborate knot and eyes that shift color with the magical currents in the room.

“Zelda’s magic has been particularly responsive during pregnancy,” says Atlas, wiping my forehead with a cool cloth.

“Common with powerful witches,” she says with a comforting smile. “Especially when the baby has mixed magical heritage. Troll-witch combinations are rare but historically quite powerful.”

Another contraction grips me, stronger than any before, sending a wave of purple energy rippling outward. The walls of the room briefly turn to crystal before returning to normal.

“Seven centimeters dilated,” Minerva says after examining me. “Moving along nicely.”

“It doesn’t feel nice.” I gasp as the contraction subsides. “It feels like I’m being torn in half.”

“The pain has purpose,” says my mother, unexpectedly taking my hand. “It brings your baby closer to us with each wave.”

Her rare gesture of physical comfort surprises me so much that I momentarily forget my discomfort. “Mom?”

“I was in labor with you for twenty-six hours,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “The longest and most worthwhile day of my life.”

This glimpse into my mother’s experience—this connection between us as women and mothers—moves me deeply. Before I can respond, another contraction claims my attention, this one so powerful that my magic explodes outward, turning everything in the room temporarily purple.

“Transition phase,” says Minerva calmly, seemingly unfazed by her newly violet appearance. “Things will move quickly now.”

She’s right. The next hour is the most intense experience of my life, with pain beyond what I thought possible, magical surges that defy all attempts at control, and a growing urge to push that becomes impossible to resist.

Atlas remains at my side throughout, his solid presence staunch despite the magical chaos swirling around us. He supports my back when I need to sit up, cools my brow when I’m burning with exertion, and whispers encouragement that somehow rises above the din of my magical misfires, all without one utterance of philosophy.

“You’re doing brilliantly,” he assures me. “Our child is almost here.”

“I can’t.” I gasp after a particularly overwhelming contraction. “It’s too much.”

“You can,” says my mother firmly. “Grizelda Greenwarth does not give up.”

“As Seneca said,” Atlas begins, and despite my earlier threat, I find myself listening eagerly for whatever philosophical wisdom he’s about to impart, “‘Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.’”

A laugh bubbles up unexpectedly, breaking through the pain. “You and your philosophers,” I manage to say before another contraction builds.

“The head is crowning.” Minerva gives me an approving smile. “With the next contraction, I need you to push with everything you have, Grizelda.”

The next wave of pain comes with an irresistible urge. I bear down with all my strength, feeling an impossible stretching and burning. My magic surges uncontrollably, causing the entire house to shudder on its foundation. Outside, I vaguely register the sounds of magical chaos—wind howling, objects clattering, and what might be the distant whinny of a conjured spectral horse.

“One more,” encourages Minerva. “One more big push.”

Gathering my remaining strength, I push with every ounce of determination I possess. There’s a sudden release, a sliding sensation, and then the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard—my baby’s first indignant cry.

“She’s here,” Atlas whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “A girl, Zelda, and she’s perfect.”

Minerva places the squirming, wet bundle on my chest, and time seems to stop. She’s tiny and red-faced, with a dusting of silver-white hair like her father’s and eyes that, when they briefly blink open, show hints of amber like his but mixed with my purple color. Her skin is the same shade of green as mine, but it has the rippling water effect of living stone like his. She’s larger than most witch or human babies, due to being part mountain troll, but I like the substantial weight of her in my arms. It feels right.

“Hello, little one,” I whisper as tears flow freely down my face. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Atlas leans in, his massive face comically gentle as he gazes at our daughter. A single tear traces a path down his stone cheek, crystallizing into a tiny diamond as it falls. “She’s miraculous,” he says simply.

My mother approaches, and I’m shocked to see moisture in her eyes as well. She touches the baby’s head with uncharacteristic gentleness. “She has powerful magic. I can sense it already.”

As if in confirmation, the baby gives a tiny sneeze, and all the magical chaos that has been swirling around the room suddenly settles, returning objects to their proper places, colors normalize, and a profound peace descends over the birthing space.

“Already showing her talent for bringing order to chaos,” says Atlas proudly. “A valuable skill in this family.”

The three of us laugh, united in this perfect moment of new life and new beginnings. The long journey of pregnancy, with all its discomforts, unexpected turns, and maternal invasions, fades into insignificance. All that matters is this tiny being in my arms, the devoted father beside me, and the surprising softness in my mother’s eyes as she welcomes the newest witch into our family’s long and complicated lineage.

Our daughter yawns, her tiny face scrunching up in an expression so like Atlas’s thoughtful frown that I smile. The pain is already a fading memory as I stare down at my daughter, sensing the magic my mother mentioned. She’s powerful, but she’s also hungry and starts opening her mouth a moment later, clearly looking for food.

“Definitely my child,” says Atlas with approval that makes me laugh.