Kicked By The Imperial Twins

Harolin moved Anatolia out of the healing quarters and into his private royal quarters, countless set of rooms connected directly to the sacred moonstone chamber, where ancient Moon Goddess energy pulsed gently through the walls to sustain her failing life force.

Jemisha warned him gravely while adjusting the silver tubes running into the stone walls. "The shock to her nervous system was too severe, Your Majesty. Her soul has been deeply fractured, She may remain unconscious like this for months. Perhaps even years."

Harolin stared down at Anatolia, standing motionless beside the heavy velvet curtains. "She will wake up."

"Sire—"

"She is an imperial slayer who fought her way through an army of elite guards," Harolin said, his voice quiet, though his eyes lingered on the steady rise and fall of her chest. "She is too stubborn to stay asleep forever. Leave us."

Jemisha bowed quietly and slipped out of the room, closing the heavy oak doors behind her.

When the room fell completely silent, Harolin pulled up a heavy wooden chair, scraping it across the stone floor, and sat down beside the bed. At first, he spoke to her only about practical matters, the boring details of his court duties to keep his own mind from snapping under the strain.

"The eastern borders are quiet for now," Harolin murmured, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at her pale hands. "Jemisha says your fever has subsided. The healers are pumping strengthening herbs into your veins, though I must say you look entirely ridiculous lying there looking peaceful when you spent the last twelve years trying to cut my throat open."

He paused, waiting for a twitch, a frown, any sign of life but there was nothing.

An irritation flared in his chest, hot and sharp. "You are, without question, the most infuriating prisoner I have ever captured," he muttered, leaning closer. "You drop curses like a born witch, you stab kings, and now you’ve gone and trapped us both in a fated bond just to spite me. Wake up, Anatolia. Tell me to my face that you hate me. Do anything, just stop lying there like a corpse."

He reached out, his thick fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from her temple.

As his thumb grazed her skin, her index finger gave a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch.

Harolin froze. His breath caught. "Anatolia?"

He waited, watching her hand like a hawk. A second passed and nothing happened.

Harolin cursed under his breath, leaning back in his chair with a mixture of heavy disappointment and a strange, twisting ache in his chest. Jemisha had warned him that it was likely just an involuntary nerve twitch reacting to the sound of his voice.

Still, a strange warmth settled in his chest. He didn't leave instead, he cleared his throat, leaned forward again, and began to talk. Not about politics, wars, or borders. He started telling her about the castle, about the ridiculous habits of the court nobles, and about the way the silver moonlight hit the eastern gardens at midnight.

And as the hours bled into the night, Harolin realized with a sinking, undeniable certainty that he was sitting here, whispering stories to a sleeping enemy, and waiting for her to hate him again.

Nine full months bled away into seasons.

Under Jemisha’s strict supervision, Anatolia’s pregnancy progressed steadily, protected by the strange, resilient magic of their bonded blood. But as the nine months wore on, Harolin’s protectiveness bordered on absolute madness.

He didn't trust a single soul inside the castle walls. Every meal prepared for Anatolia was personally inspected and tasted by Harolin before it was put through her feeding tube. He doubled the magical barriers surrounding the moonstone chambers, rewriting the ward runes with his own blood, and flatly refused to allow any unfamiliar servants or low-ranking guards anywhere near the corridor.

Late one afternoon, during the final month of the pregnancy, the heavy oak doors of Anatolia's chamber clicked open.

"You're going to drill a hole into my stone floors, Harolin," a gentle, raspy voice echoed from the doorway.

Harolin turned to see Basilia Draycott, his grandmother, leaning lightly on a carved wooden cane as she walked into the room. She was his only surviving family after the terrible siege three years ago that had taken his parents and brothers, and her presence always brought a quiet, comforting warmth to the heavy castle air.

"Grandmother," Harolin said, his tense posture relaxing just a fraction. "You shouldn't be walking all the way up the eastern tower alone."

"Nonsense. I am old, not made of glass," Basilia said with a soft smile. She walked slowly over to the bed, looking down at Anatolia with deep, thoughtful eyes. She reached out and smoothed a hand over Anatolia's dark hair with surprising fondness.

"She is a remarkable woman," Basilia murmured. "To hold on through nine months of sleep, carrying royal twins while her body fights ancient magic... she has the spirit of a true queen."

Harolin blinked, slightly taken aback. "You don't hold a grudge against her? She killed our warriors, Grandmother. The entire court hates her."

"The court is full of fools who see only blood and titles," Basilia replied softly, turning her warm, wise gaze up to him. "I see a woman who fought fiercely for what she believed was right. I see the only woman in this world strong enough to stand beside you without flinching, Harolin. She is fitting for you. The Moon Goddess knew exactly what she was doing when she tied your souls together."

Harolin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "She tried to kill me, Grandmother."

"And yet here you are, hovering over her bed like a terrified first-time father," Basilia teased gently, her eyes twinkling with affection. "You have posted twenty armed guards outside this door. I had to threaten two of them with my cane just to come bring you some fresh tea."

Harolin cracked a rare, small smile, looking down at his feet. "I am just being cautious."

"You are being a devoted mate," Basilia corrected softly, patting his cheek with her warm, wrinkled hand. "And there is no shame in that. Sit with her. I will handle the council for the evening."

Later that night, after Basilia had left and the castle had fallen completely silent, Harolin sat in his usual chair beside Anatolia’s bed. The hearth fire crackled softly, casting long, golden shadows across the stone walls.

Exhausted, Harolin dragged a hand down his face, letting out a long, weary sigh. Without thinking, he reached out and placed his large, warm palm flat against Anatolia’s heavily swollen stomach, feeling the steady, warm heat of the two lives growing inside her.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of her quiet breathing.

Then, suddenly, something shifted beneath his palm.

A sharp, distinct thud pressed against his skin. A kick.

Harolin jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned, his golden eyes widening in pure shock. He stared down at her stomach, breathless. A second later, another tiny, stubborn kick pressed directly into the spot where his hand had been.

A sudden, fierce laugh burst from Harolin's chest. The sound was deep, startled, and entirely genuine.

"Well," Harolin whispered, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he carefully pressed his hand back against her warmth. "I see they've already inherited their mother's terrible temper."

He leaned closer, resting his forehead gently against the edge of the mattress, whispering into the quiet dark. "Wake up, Ana. Your children are fighting me already. I need you here to handle them."

The peace shattered two weeks later, precisely at midnight.

Harolin was sitting in his private study down the hall, buried under a mountain of military logistics and border reports, when the heavy oak doors were thrown wide open.

Jemisha burst into the study, her hair disheveled, her healer’s apron stained with fresh blood, her face pale with panic.

"Your Majesty!" Jemisha gasped, clutching the doorframe as she tried to catch her breath. "You must come immediately!"

Harolin was on his feet in a fraction of a second, knocking his heavy wooden desk chair backward onto the floor. His golden eyes flared with sudden, blind terror as his mind raced to the worst possible outcome.

"Is it the babies? Is she—"

"She’s gone into labor!" Jemisha shouted, her voice trembling with sheer urgency. "Her water has broken. The twins are coming now!"

Harolin didn't wait to hear another word. He sprinted out of the study and down the stone corridor, his boots thundering against the marbled floors as he pushed past the startled guards standing outside Anatolia's doors.

He burst into the bedroom and rushed straight to the side of the bed, his heart hammering violently against his ribs.

Anatolia was twisting slightly on the sheets, her pale forehead slick with sweat, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps as a contraction rippled through her body.

But her eyes remained firmly closed.

Harolin grabbed Jemisha by the arm as the healer hurried to the bedside, his voice dropping into a desperate, furious growl. "She's in labor? Then why is she still asleep?!"