The Mountain Sings

(Paige’s POV)

Nothing fills me at the start. What comes before sound, before shape - this is where I begin.

A hush sits wide and shaking, empty now where heat once pressed hard against itself. Back it flows, that ache, pulling away as ocean pulls from sand, dumping me on ground that wobbles beneath. Split apart, I stand - broken casing, nothing inside but echo.

After that, noise floods the space.

A cry, sharp and narrow. That's my boy.

I catch breath, sharp and ragged, just like he does. Her shape moves fast - midwife - a smear of red and effort, holding something tiny that writhes. Wet. Alive. Right there, surrounded by endings.

A whisper escapes Mara's lips - soft, hushed. Her rough fingertip moves forward. Then, sudden grip: the infant’s fingers clamp down, tight, raw, alive. Strength floods through such a small thing.

Lysander. That was the name, soft on our tongues late at night - something held close, never spoken loud. It suits him now. Means someone who sets free. Inside me, something tight gives way, just slightly, like air finding its first crack after winter.

Lying there, they set him on my chest, close. Red-faced, crumpled, flawless in a way that feels strange, almost foreign. His crying fades into grumpy little gasps near my heartbeat. Heat from his body marks me like fire writes on wood. Reality shifts. Mine. Ours. Born from Noah and me, now breathing here, alive in this cold room surrounded by chaos.

Love hits like thunder before you hear it coming. This force pulls down walls inside me, leaving only raw need. A single cry reshapes everything, pushing out old terrors. Now I feel what drove Noah - deep in the bone, quiet but unshakable.

A sudden stillness takes hold when my hand meets the gentle round of his skull. Reality splits apart right there.

This isn’t some forecast ahead. Beneath that lies something more. A sensation takes hold.

Inside, something shifts - tightness gives way when breath follows bone. Not vision arrives, yet weight, heat, pressure building where silence lived before.

The mountain moves through me.

It breathes, not lies still like stone or ice. Under the fortress floor, something old pulses low and deep. This rhythm aches, worn thin by time.

Under the pounding of war machines, a sharp ache tears through its sides. Where flames from Greymont bite into earth, heat gnaws without pause. From deep within, grief stirs - roots torn loose, animals fleeing, stillness broken too soon.

Beneath the ache, fury takes shape. Not the kind people feel, but something deeper - like stone shifting under its own weight. Time stretches long, yet even that grows short now. Power means nothing here, nor rank. What matters is trespass. What remains clear is order. That order lies shattered.

Inside, everything shakes. Not just memory but right now - bones rattling like stones under ice. This weight in my arms - heavy like frost at dawn. Skin on skin, yet it feels ancient. Like roots splitting rock without hurry. Silence hums, thick with what never got spoken. Cold moves through me, not sharp but deep, like water under snow. What the earth holds - the crush, the ache - it lives here too.

Ah - I jerk upright, breath caught tight. Then comes that thin scream from the crib, cutting through the quiet like glass.

“My lady?” Mara’s voice is alarmed. “The afterbirth, now, just breathe - ”

Stillness takes me now, where air once moved. Weight presses - rock, frost, rage - all at once. Not visions ahead, yet something deeper: the peak’s own pulse, striking behind my sight.

Stillness holds where snow once roared down. Centuries pass without a sound. Hidden tension builds beneath quiet slopes. Weight gathers above silent valleys. Time stretches, then snaps.

Crevices carve through ice, hungry for open cracks. Deep inside the frozen river, pressure builds without sound.

A hush settles where ice presses down, unsteady atop the tallest ridges. Silence cracks under cold heaps that lean without warning.

Silence is what it craves. Not death, but clearing - like wind through bare branches. Irritants cling too loud, too hot, buzzing across its stone flesh. The screams fade when the air thins. Cold returns things to stillness. What remains belongs. Noise does not. Stillness does.

Here comes a question. A proposal follows.

A weight pushes behind my eyes, deep inside my ribs - someone else's cry tearing through me. Through me it flows. Vision finds its home in these bones. Tethered to soil and shadow without knowing how. Metal twists where the door once stayed closed.

A sob from my child pulls me close again, grounding me in the soft weight against my skin. This breath ties me down, roots me in what matters most. Clearer now, everything sharpens - shaped by need, carved by worry. Seeing straight feels different when love is trembling in your arms.

This isn’t merely a deal sitting on the table. What you’re holding could tear through anything - ruthless, unaimed. Yet somehow, against the force waiting beyond the walls, nothing else even comes close.

A sudden movement near my feet draws my attention - the midwife moves fast, hands busy down there, yet she keeps watching me, concern in her gaze. Beside me, Mara grips tight, knuckles white, her skin ghostly under the dim light.

Maybe it's time Noah knew. Could he even get what this means? Would he stand prepared when it matters?

Out here, words tear apart before they leave my mouth. That deep hum from the peak drowns everything out. Breath comes slow, like pulling rope through rock. Every inch of me pressed down by what stands above.

“Mara,” I croak.

Close she moves, head tilted toward my mouth. "Here I am," come the words, soft but clear

Somehow I pull together what little power remains. Not my voice speaking, but the mountain's echo through a heart coming apart. In thought, morning appears - light soft on white peaks, that instant when choice arrives.

A breath catches, sharp. Each syllable slips free - frozen glass, yet somehow light.

“Tell Noah… the mountain will answer. At dawn.”

Everything fades around the edges, turning dull and lifeless. My gaze drifts upward as strength slips away, pulled down by something deeper than tiredness. A hush settles in, quieting every thought until nothing remains but weight - the boy pressed close, his heat steady where I start to blur.

Her hands drop away, stiff like they’ve forgotten how to move. Eyes wide, she stares first at me - pale, hollow - and then flicks toward the child. The moment hangs, brittle. Her gaze finally lands on the woman who brought the baby into this cold room.

“What did she say?” snaps the midwife while securing a cord.

Her voice shakes, though not from fright. Awe runs through it instead - quiet, deep, like roots under stone. She has known these slopes since childhood. Now she hears what they’ve always hidden. Words come slow: “She spoke. Told me to say the mountain answers. When light returns.”

One woman stares at the other across my tired form. Beyond the walls, noise shakes the air. Within these four corners, something new begins to hum.

Out of nowhere, the aged midwife lifts a hand - still smeared red - either warding off darkness or honoring something unseen. The child draws her stare, no longer wailing, his face tight with resistance toward noise and light he does not know. Quiet comes slowly, like breath after storm.

She turns to Mara, words softer now, a whisper almost. Deliver it straight to the duke, she means. Without delay

Fingers press into mine before she turns. Her voice reaches the guards - quiet, firm - and each step echoes less with every breath I take. The hall swallows her shape. Boots tap once, twice, then nothing.

Alone in the room, the midwife watches while my boy rests near. Heavy now, the weight of words spoken earlier presses close. What slipped out feels beyond recall. Bound we are, him and I, to whatever stirs inside that peak.

Hot tears fall without sound, wetting the cloth under my face. Against his soft hair, my mouth stays close, pulling him near.

Sorry, I say softly, not just to him but to the peak above us, to the dark before morning comes. The words hang there - too small - for what waits ahead.

Down where words rarely reach, past dread and blame, something stiff like winter roots sets deep - quiet, stubborn, shaped by the weight of rock nearby.

Survival isn’t a question. Even if it takes everything.

The peak gave its answer. Silence broke only when stone decided.

(Noah’s POV)

Dead air hangs where breath should be. Still we stand, though every shadow wears the weight of those who fell. Tired eyes keep watch, driven by little more than habit and old oaths. The ground holds us, yet waves crash without pause. Not forever.

Over the broken stones she comes, sudden. Mara moves fast, breath sharp. An arrow zips past - she barely notices. Through smoke and noise, she locks onto me. Her stare says everything.

“My lord!”

Mara, drop right now! My voice is sharp as I push her low behind the stone barrier.

“The babe is born! A son! He’s strong!” she shouts over the din.

A gasp runs through me - news hits like lightning. It’s a boy. They survived. Just one breath, just one sound, and everything stops burning. That scream, small and wild, fills the air instead.

Yet there’s still more in her expression. Fear sits deep, mixed with another feeling. Wonder slips through.

“Paige?” It slips out like breath caught between hope and hurt.

“She is… spent. But she gave me a message. For you.” Mara grabs my armored forearm, her grip iron. “She said, ‘Tell Noah the mountain will answer. At dawn.’”

Smoke curls where the silence breaks. These phrases float, unclear at first. Still, something about them feels true somehow. Her voice echoes inside my head - the moment in the open field. Certainty lived there. Even the earth appeared to lean in close.

One day it speaks back. The peak replies when called.

Out there, beyond the ridge, spreads Greymont’s force - tiny figures crawling like insects across scorched earth. Their war machines huddle in formation. Smoke stains the fields where flames have eaten through crops. Deep inside me, something sharp begins to burn - not fear, but a raw kind of wanting. Victory feels close, though it tastes bitter.

Hope like this does not come from people. This comes from a wolf pressed to the cliff's edge, willing to drag the hunters down if it must fall.

His eyes meet mine first, before sliding to Mara. Alex stands close now, having pushed through the crowd, one brow raised like he wants an answer.

“Pull our men back,” I say, my voice clear and cutting through the noise. “Back from the outer walls. Back to the inner keep. Slowly. Make it look like a retreat.”

Alex stares at me. “My lord, if we give up the walls - ”

Out there beyond us, the big shadowy hills rise up without a sound beneath the empty night. My voice comes steady when I speak - giving ground doesn’t mean letting go. Space allows something older than us to keep moving

Alex sees it now, a heavy kind of knowing settling in. The stories come back to him, voices whispering through memory. Something in the soil had warned him long before today. His gaze moves between my face and the distant summits - no words needed, just one stiff nod, dark as stormlight.

Before sunrise, I say it soft - promise tangled in breath meant for her, the peak, what waits ahead.

Fingers steady, I face the clash again - this time with quiet fire in my bones. Not long now. Dawn will come soon enough.

Dawn is coming.

With that came the mountain’s rage.