The Maiden & The Dove

“Sir! A baby was left upon our doorstep,” a plump woman shuffles into the High Priest’s study chamber, clutching the crying newborn to her chest.

Her High Priest hums a response, his golden eyes narrowed on the spell book as he glances between torn papers. A quill pen gripped between his fingers, scribbling upon the parchments in quick strokes. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, his lips pursed.

The woman doesn’t dare enter further than the entrance, her body shaking while she waits for her leader to respond. The baby continues to cry, almost reaching the point of screaming as it searches for a meal. The woman hushes it, stroking a thumb over its pale cheek as its hands grab onto her dress. Glancing around, she debates on searching for a bottle. Surely, one of the mothers could afford to donate some of their milk.

“Bronwen, you do know the rules when I’m busy with my work,” her High Priest finally speaks, glancing at her.

She gulps, her eyes looking at the child quickly before focusing back on her leader. “I know, sir, I apologize. However, the babe has a silver necklace with your name.”

He pauses, the quill dripping black ink onto the parchment. He turns the pen back into the inkwell and leans against the desk. His eyes narrow on the small bundle of cloth. “Who left it?”

“We don’t know, sir. There was no one there when Aislinn found her,” Bronwen answers, her voice shaking as much as her body.

He nods, his eyes never leaving the child. Pushing himself off the desk, he walks over to the baby and gently pulls out the small, silver chain hanging from its neck. His jaw clenches when he reads Kieran across the silver plate hanging from its chain. Releasing a breath, he tilts his head, studying the baby.

From what little hair it had, he could tell its hair was as dark as his, and its lashes were long for a baby. The baby’s skin wasn’t too pale but more of a fair tone, much like his own. Pulling the blanket down a little, he searches for the birthmark his two children, and he shares. His frown deepens when he sees it, a dark spot in the shape of a snake on its ribcage. There were no other witches or humans with his birthmark. It’s a brand from the Mother of Witches, marking his family from her bloodline. At least, his mother explained this to him and his siblings when they were witchlings. Surely, though, his mother could have been mistaken.

“Impossible,” he hisses. “I haven’t had a wife since Niamh.”

Bronwen continues to soothe the child, whispering loving words. “What of that woman you visited Solteas with? You were courting her for quite some time, sir.”

He tenses, his eyes darkening momentarily as he looks away from her. Turning to his desk, he plucks the pen from its inkwell and begins writing. “You overstep, Bronwen.”

Bronwen blanches. “I’m sorry, sir, but she has you rbirthmark.”

Kieran doesn’t say a word, but his quill pauses again. He bows his head, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Tightening his grip on the quill, it almost snaps in his hand. Memories of his lover flash through his mind. He thought she would take away his pain and heal what was broken when he lost Niamh. He can never escape her hazel eyes, charming smile, and intoxicating laughter. She brought him joy only Niamh had ever managed to bring him, bringing light into his darkness. Then she betrayed him, crushed his heart in her palm before turning her back on him.

The baby can’t be theirs.

Yet, deep down, he knew the baby was his.

“Take the baby to the nursery, Bronwen. Find a mother who can feed it. We will hold her welcoming ceremony in two days,” he says softly. Give her time to grow and for our healers to check her health.”

Bronwen nods. “Thank you, sir. What...um...shall we name her?”

“Her?” He asks.

“Yes, sir,” Bronwen says with a nod. “She is a her.”

Kieran mulls over the thought, his lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. “Imogen, after my mother.”

Bronwen bows her head. “Very well, sir.”

He is soon alone again, staring down at the multiple pages of parchment. Sighing, he forgets his concerns with fixing the pages his son had accidentally torn and sits against the wall. His fingers play with a small token from his pocket, the gold glinting in the candlelight.

“A second daughter shouldn’t cause too much trouble, right?” He whispers to no one but the memory of his mother.

A/N: Hello readers! I hope you enjoyed a little snippet of what is to come of this story! I will try to update once or twice a week, depending on work and school. Please vote, leave a comment, and share with others!