Page 69 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ELIZABETH

T he scent of sagebrush and sweetgrass mingled in the air as I crushed herbs between my fingers—a ritual that now felt as natural as breathing.

Six moons had waxed and waned since my feet first pressed into the sacred earth of the tribal grounds, the land of those I came to know as the Sioux.

Each step I took here forged a new path vastly different from the life I once knew.

“Like this, Elizabeth?” a soft voice asked beside me.

I saw Little Dove carefully mimicking my movements, her nimble hands working with the same reverence for the healing plants we nurtured.

“Exactly like that,” I said, offering her a smile.

My voice still held the faint lilt of another world—a place I had all but left behind.

We were preparing poultices for the winter months, yet every task was a lesson in resilience, survival, and the quiet strength of the community.

The women here had become more than companions; they were my sisters in every way that mattered—the sinew to my bones, the peace to my once-unsettled spirit.

And yet, amid this newfound harmony, thoughts of Amir Hassan rose like endless tides in the quiet sea of my heart.

Stoic. Resolute. He lingered within me, etched into memory with a clarity time could not blur.

It was a silent longing, one I tucked beneath the rhythm of daily life, hidden like a note between the pages of a well-worn book.

“Elizabeth?” Mary’s voice pulled me from my reverie, her hand brushing lightly against mine.

“Apologies, I was…” I trailed off, shaking free from the web of memory.

Sky Raven stood beside her—a quiet strength, a testament to their growing bond. Their connection was as tangible as the crisp breath of fall that stirred the golden leaves at our feet, whispering promises of change.

“Are you ready for the eclipse?” Mary asked, her eyes alight with the same anticipation that seemed to ripple through the tribe. In the distance, the rhythmic beat of drums began to echo, a primal heartbeat growing louder as the celebration neared.

“Of course,” I lied, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

In truth, a deep-seated terror coiled in my chest. While others awaited the eclipse with wonder, I sensed only dread—a shadow poised to swallow the light. Where they saw beauty, I saw a harbinger—a darkness looming on the horizon.

But preparations pressed on, undeterred.

Children’s laughter rang out as they wove strands of black and gold into their hair, mimicking the celestial dance of the sun and moon.

Men erected viewing structures, determined to greet the skies with reverence.

Elders gathered in circles, their voices weaving stories of eclipses past—tales steeped in mystery, awe, and ancient wisdom.

“Look at them,” Mary said, gesturing toward the bustling crowd. “They’ve been planning this for weeks. It’s going to be a beautiful ceremony.”

“Beautiful indeed,” I murmured, watching young braves paint their faces with ochre and charcoal, transforming into celestial spirits beneath the open sky. My hands drifted to rest on my belly, where life stirred—a secret dance all its own, known only to me.

“Are you alright?” Mary’s concern softened her tone.

“Merely the season’s chill settling in my bones,” I replied, though we both knew it wasn’t the autumn wind that had unsettled me. It was the eclipse—the timing. The fear gripped me like frost in my veins.

As the tribe rejoiced in the promise of the celestial union, I clung to the warmth of the fire, willing it to push back the cold creeping into my bones.

And I prayed—not for myself, but for the light I had found in this place, among these people, for the life I now carried.

I prayed the darkness would pass us by and that I would not be forced to bring my children into a world shrouded in shadow.

Before long, the sky began to dim as though the heavens were drawing a curtain across the sun. I stepped from my teepee, clutching the doorway, as a sudden, searing pain lanced through me. My breath hitched. The contractions came swiftly, each crashing wave stronger than the last.

“Mary!” I called out, my voice barely more than a whisper against the wind’s rising murmur.

But there was no answer. She was gone, her attention fixed on the approaching eclipse like everyone else’s.

The tribal grounds, once filled with laughter and companionship, felt foreign now—isolated.

Every soul was entranced by the sky, moving with a singular purpose, blind to everything but the celestial dance above.

I stumbled forward, searching for the grounding authority of Dancing Fire, the one I trusted most. But he, too, was absent, lost to duties I could not grasp.

“Please,” I gasped, reaching out to those who passed me by. No one stopped. Their eyes were fixed on the heavens, faces alight with awe. Desperation clawed at my throat as the realization struck hard and cruelly—in this moment, I was alone.

Then—movement. An older woman, her face etched by years and seasons, noticed my struggle and hurried toward me.

Her grip was firm as she took my arm, steadying me and guiding me back into the sanctuary of my teepee.

Inside, the fire blazed defiantly against the encroaching darkness outside, its crackle loud in the silence, as though it, too, sought to ward off what lurked beyond.

“Mary… Dancing Fire…” I choked out, each word a blade twisting through me, laced with agony. “Please… find them.”

The woman nodded, her eyes relaxed in a way I desperately wished to feel. She vanished beyond the tent flap with a silent promise, leaving me alone with the searing flames and the constant tide of contractions.

I collapsed, the cool earth grounding me as I focused on the fire’s rhythmic dance.

Its flickering became my anchor—the warmth, the light, the life it represented.

I surrendered to the force within me, raw and unstoppable, driving my children into the world.

Each wave of pain tore through me, but with it came a strength I hadn’t known was mine.

Outside, the world waited to witness a cosmic wonder, yet within my teepee, under the fire’s glow, I braced to meet the souls who would eclipse everything I had ever known.

The tent flap rustled. The woman returned, breathless, her face shadowed with worry. “They are nowhere to be found,” she said. “They must have gone to the high point to see the eclipse with the others.”

“Yes,” I gasped, teeth clenched against the storm inside me.

The high point was a serene hill draped in emerald overlooking the lake, its towering pines swayed gently in the breeze, sunlight dappled the earth through needled branches. It was a place of peace and awe. But for me, there was no serenity—only chaos.

While others turned their eyes skyward, breathless before the cosmic wonder, I was in the dirt, trapped in a war of pain and fury.

My body was no longer mine—it was a vessel of agony.

Every breath I took was a ragged cry. Every contraction felt like it would tear me apart.

This wasn’t transcendence—it was survival.

It was blood and fire and the ancient, terrifying force of life demanding to be born.

Time lost all meaning. It blurred, tracked only by the spasms that racked my body, each one a fresh wave of torment. Pain consumed me, stripped me bare. I wasn’t Elizabeth anymore—I was raw flesh, trembling on the edge.

“Help is coming,” the old woman murmured, her hands hovering helplessly over my clenched fists, useless against the storm ripping through me.

At last, as the sky darkened into an eerie twilight, the tent flap shifted, and another figure stepped inside.

Her arrival hit me like relief, and a command all at once—solid, grounded, unshakable.

Her hands were rough with years of labor, her face a map of every birth she had guided.

She knelt between my legs, all business.

“Push now, Elizabeth,” she instructed.

I didn’t want to push. I wanted to scream, to run, to escape this torment. But there was no choice. My body took over, ancient instinct driving me. I pushed because I had to. Because life was demanding it of me.

Outside, the eclipse reached its totality. Day bled into night, and the world fell silent as if the sky held its breath, waiting.

And then—amidst the darkness, a sound. A wail. Piercing, fierce, alive.

I gasped, sobbed, and broke apart as the midwife laid my baby on my chest, slippery and warm and real. “You have a son,” she whispered.

A son. My son.

Tears blurred everything as I clutched him to me, his tiny chest rising and falling against mine. “I love you so much,” I breathed, kissing his damp forehead. “Your father gave me something beautiful.”

At that moment, the eclipse vanished. The world vanished. There was no tribe, no fire, no Mary or Dancing Fire. Only him. Roman. My son. And the wild, ferocious love that tore through me like the sun reborn, scorching everything else into ash.

But then the pain returned.

“There’s another,” the midwife said, urgency lacing her voice. “Push, Elizabeth.”

No time to breathe. No time to grieve or revel. Only the fight. Again.

With everything I had left—every shred of strength, every piece of me that hadn’t already shattered—I pushed, crying out as the second child slipped from my body into the hands of fate. I held Roman close, clinging to his warmth, his cries anchoring me.

And then—silence.

A sudden, heavy silence.

The cries stopped. The air grew thick, suffocating. Cold fear gripped me, wrapping its fingers around my throat. My heart thundered, trying to drown it out. I clutched Roman tighter, my only light in the growing darkness, unwilling to let fear claim this moment, unwilling to let death creep in.

But something was wrong.

My arms ached with the weight of my son—and yet, they felt unbearably empty. My soul split in two, searching for what was missing.