Zephyra Point of View

I'm not saying I've made peace with my current situation — which, if you're keeping track, is birthing an entire football team one member at a time — but I've reached the kind of mental state where pain is just a background noise, like elevator music. In hell.

My body is tired. Like, ancient-oak-tree-during-a-windstorm tired. Like, if someone bumps into me I might just collapse into a puddle of soft regret tired.

And then it happens.

That familiar tightening. The gut-level oh stars, not again.

"Baby number three is on his way," says Nurse Mira like she's announcing the next bus arrival.

I let out a long, broken sigh. "Does he have an ETA? Maybe a heads-up next time? I'm still recovering from the last round."

But no. No warning. No pre-game pep talk. Just another contraction that body-slams me straight into my next transformation sequence.

I'm wheeled into the now all-too-familiar delivery suite like a warrior going back into battle, except the sword is my uterus and I am the battlefield.

Again.

This one takes his time. He's not in a rush, no dramatic flailing, no yelling. He moves with the slow, unstoppable energy of tectonic plates.

I think he's just being polite.

When he finally arrives — heavy and warm and full of silence — he doesn't cry.

He opens his eyes, blinks once, and just exists, like he's been here all along and we're the ones who were late.

And so, just like the previous two times, the name rises in me like stone through soil.

"Teran. Teran Virelle Valen," I whisper. "The one who holds the earth steady."

And just like that, the room settles too. The machines beep softer. The air thickens into peace.

Three down, five more to go.

You can do it Zephy. I know you can!

Next morning I've had one bite of solid food, three power naps totalling seventeen minutes, and exactly zero percent of my soul left. So obviously, it's time for fourth to arrive.

And unlike his brother, he is not subtle.

Contractions hit me like I owe someone money. I'm mid-sip of lukewarm tea and suddenly I'm gripping the bedrail like I'm about to tear a hole in time.

"Oh, he's eager," Dr. Rowan says, her tone now entering the mildly impressed tier of concern.

I joked with her. "Tell him to wait his turn."

He doesn't. Of course.

He practically catapults out of me, like a dignitary arriving fashionably late to a war council. When they place him in my arms, he is already squinting around the room like he's deciding who gets promoted.

"Marcellus," I say, barely containing a smile. "Marcellus Virelle Valen. The one who commands from the moment he breathes."

He yawns. Like, obviously.

And so, I was sent to the side room again for some rest until the next baby kicks out of me.

Four out, four more to go.

Okay. I'm just going to say it.

There is not enough pudding in the galaxy to make up for what my body is going through.

You'd think after four back-to-back births, I'd be granted a nice intermission.

A little break.

Maybe even a congratulatory fruit basket.

But no. My uterus has apparently decided it's hosting a marathon.

An eight-stage, no-refund, interdimensional marathon.

And guess what? Stage five just began.

It starts the same way all nightmares do — quietly. Sneaky. A little cramp here, a warm tightening there, and I'm like,

Hmm. Surely not again already.

The fetal monitor beeps like it's tired of this too.

"Contractions increasing," Nurse Mira chirps, a little too brightly for someone who's about to witness yet another human being exit my body.

The pain is different this time — sharp but somehow playful? Like my womb is being poked by someone who's both apologizing and laughing at me.

"Here comes Number Five," Dr. Rowan says, her voice steady like always, but even she seems to be bracing.

I push.

Once. Twice.

Then—he bursts out laughing. Not even kidding.

This child lets out a bubbling, gurgling giggle the moment air hits his lungs. The giggles and cry were mixed together but his laughter was more than his cries.

And I just stare. "Is he—?"

"Laughing," Dr. Rowan confirms, holding him up like he's a medical miracle "Yes."

They bring him over and his eyes are wide, sparkling. Like joy is the language he was born knowing.

"Jovian," I say, breathless. "Jovian Virelle Valen, as in Jupiter, the god of thunder."

He hiccups in my arms. I almost drop him from laughing too hard.

Okay, five sons. Five tiny celestial beings. I am officially a portal to the stars and no one can tell me otherwise.

I manage a nap that lasts longer than an hour, I eat something resembling soup, and someone even brushes my hair while I'm half-asleep. Honestly, I almost cry harder from that than from childbirth.

And then—the next one decides to make his entrance.

Now, this one? He's different.

It's not pain that starts his arrival. It's a pressure. Like my whole body is being pulled downward, slowly, methodically, like gravity itself wants to hold my hand.

No rushing. No chaos.

Just... inevitability.

"I think he's coming," I whisper before anyone says a word. "And I think he's going to take his time."

And he does.

Hours pass. The contractions are long, low, ancient-feeling. Like waves crashing in slow motion.

When I finally push — it feels less like force, and more like surrender.

When he's born, he doesn't cry. Doesn't laugh. Just looks around with ancient eyes like he already knows how this story ends.

"Saturnino," I say, in a voice so quiet I barely hear it myself. "Saturnino Virelle Valen, the one who brings wealth."

He closes his eyes in my arms like he's seen enough for today.

And I'm stunned silent. Even the nurses are still.

This one... he's going to be the calm in every storm. The gravity in the room.

By now, I'm operating on pure instinct and intravenous fluids. I am no longer a human woman — I am a vessel of light, fatigue, and hormonal mood swings. If anyone even looks at me wrong, I will cry, laugh, or turn them into a chair. Depends on the minute.

And then, the next one comes knocking. Which one is this already?

How many more to go?

"How many more to go?" I ask Dr. Rowan, voice hoarse like I've been yelling at the universe for the past week.

"Two," she says. "You're more than halfway there."

Great. That's the cheer I need.

The contractions start again, slower this time, like someone dragging a heavy chain through molasses. I remember the breathing drills — deep breaths, in and out — but honestly, I'm past technique. I'm at the barely hanging on phase.

Nurse Mira is there, steady and calm. She reminds me to keep hydrated. I try to sip water, but I'm sweating too much and shaking too much to get it right.

The pain isn't new — just the familiar fire burning low and steady. The dull roar beneath every nerve. It's exhausting and relentless, like a bad song on repeat that you can't change or skip.

When it's time, I push.

And push.

And push.

My legs feel like spaghetti. The bed feels like a boat rocking in a storm, and I'm the only one on board trying not to fall overboard.

Then, a cry.

A sharp, urgent sound that fills the room and sinks deep into my bones.

They place him on my chest — wet, squirming, real.

His cry is sharp, urgent, like he's announcing his arrival to the world with no room for debate.

I blink past the haze and find his eyes—bright, curious, and fierce.

A name rises up, clear as the first breath he took:

"Uraniel," I whisper, voice cracked but steady. "Uraniel Virelle Valen. The one who guides the heavens."

He settles against me, tiny fists curled around my fingers, and for a moment, the storm inside me quiets.

Seven down, one more to go.

I could only rest for the night and the next day by noon my contractions started again.

I barely have time to catch my breath before the tightening starts again.

This one doesn't announce himself with urgency like Uraniel—no, he's more deliberate, measured, like he's pacing himself for the grand finale.

The contractions come slow but steady, like the steady ticking of a clock counting down the last moments.

When the time came, I pushed through the blur of exhaustion and pain, every muscle trembling with the effort.

And then—

He was here.

Small and warm and perfectly alive, squirming against my chest like he'd been waiting patiently in the wings.

His cry was gentle but determined, a promise that whatever came next, he was ready.

I looked into those wide, bright eyes and the name bloomed in me, strong and clear.

"Neven," I whispered. "Neven Virelle Valen. The one who brings new beginnings."

And thus, I finally summed up this series of giving birth.

Now, I have eight sons.

Eight sons. Eight legacies. Eight reasons to believe.

And finally, the storm inside me began to settle.

And before I knew, I fell unconscious, leaving myself to the doctors and my sons to their father and the family.

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Hello Sweeties,

Next chapter is here. Enjoy!

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Finally. Finally it's done. Zephyra's delivery series is done.

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Lady Prim