Warning: Mention of childbirthing. Please understand that it's necessary for the story, as such, if you are sensitive to that kind of content, please wait until chapter 2 is posted.

If you decide to continue, you have been warned.

A tent among thousands, slowly being torn from the land once white, now surrendered to ash and dust. A land now trodden by countless weary souls, ceaselessly moving through the cold and desolate earth, their worn boots marching either toward the ravenous mines or returning from them, carrying with them the heavy burden of exhaustion.

In this confined space, poorly sheltered, there are four souls.

One silhouette is that of a man, the others of women.

The man's name is Mikhail. He is a robust figure, physically imposing, shaped by years of work in the mines. Yet now, he is but a shadow of himself, his face etched with fatigue, deep bags under his once-light grey eyes, now darkened, betraying the sleeplessness forced upon him by the camp's harshness…

His Cautus ears lie flat against his skull, nestled within the wild strands of black hair now turning grey, twitching at every moan, every whimper, every muffled scream that fills the feeble space, His hand, blackened by crystal growths that sprout like pustules, disgusting warts, supports his head as he sits there, worry gnawing at his heart relentlessly

The woman beside him is old, very old. Her name is Katusha, also a Cautus. A small, brave woman with a sturdy build, her hair once white as snow now darkened by mine grime, and pale blue eyes dulled by age.

She too is concerned, her worry written in the deepening wrinkles of a grimace poorly concealed, on a face streaked with sticky filth. Her calloused hand rests gently on her son-in-law's shoulder.

The second woman is crouched. An Ursus. A poor wretch whose name no one needs to know, and who no longer needs to know it herself, dressed like all others in tattered worker's rags through which the cold slips in, slithering like a vile serpent to bite the skin with its sharp fangs.

This woman is the one assisting the last woman named Irina, currently lying on the ground, her head resting on a hastily-prepared sandbag,

She was a woman with very pale skin, now pallid, bearing her mother's eyes, with long silver hair stuck to her forehead by sweat and grime. Her face twisted in a grimace of agony, she bit down hard on a piece of cloth in her mouth until her gums bled, her belly bloated like a bladder, seized by atrocious cramps radiating into her womb.

"Push, madam," said the Ursus in a deep, impassive voice.

Not cold, far from it.

Just… Resigned.

She had seen this happen far too often. Not in books. Not in a white, sterile room.

Here.

In the mud, the filth, and the stench. In the coughs of hundreds of laborers enduring a slow, painful death each day.

In her hands, already prepared, was a thick piece of cloth, cleaned as best as the camp and conditions allowed, waiting for a living payload. It was usually used to carry minerals from the dark tunnels stretching beneath the earth's crust like the galleries of a great ant nest.

Irina pushed. A silent scream tore through her insides. She clenched her teeth harder. Her fingers twisted and dug into the soil, carving deep furrows in the cursed ground.

Desperately, the Cautus woman looked around, blinded by pain, seeking her mother and husband.

Her eyes locked onto the other two with such despair and anguish it defied description.

Mikhail took a step forward, but his mother-in-law held him back. He looked at her, confused. Katusha met his gaze directly, a hint of what was meant to be reassurance in her visibly worried expression.

"Let her be… She has to do this… alone. Besides, in this state, she could break your hand with ease… We'll need every hand we can spare to ensure the newborn's survival…"

Mikhail looked at the old woman for a moment, then turned his gaze back to his wife… Just for a few seconds, before averting his eyes toward a corner of the tent. His hand nervously tapped his chin as he tried to find something, anything, to focus on…

His heart leapt with every sound, his breath shortened with every grunt from the Ursus, and panic threatened to consume him with every contraction his wife endured. He was not a man used to helplessness, but in that moment, he could do nothing.

Nothing against the pain… Nothing against the black crystals visible beneath the sleeves of his wife's sweat-soaked top… Nothing against the cold creeping into the tent, a silent, merciless predator waiting to embrace the life of his daughter or son upon their first breath…

Absolutely…

Nothing.

Then, a scream. This time, not even the cloth muffled it, it was torn to shreds by the teeth as they grinded against each other so hard one could believe they could shatter. It tore through the fetid air, through the cold of night.

Irina screamed, arching her back as if under a blade, her nails raking the earth, some tearing off completely, leaving trails of blood in the soil, quickly absorbed as though the ground sought warmth in the frost.

There was one last push, one final, blood-curdling bellow…

Then came silence. Oppressive. Heavy…

"BWAAAH!"

This cry was sharper. Smaller. Confused maybe? The Ursus remained silent as she wrapped the crude 'blanket' around the newborn to shield it from the cold as best she could, before handing it to the mother with a faint smile.

"Congratulations, madam… It's a girl."

Irina, trembling, gasping, in utter agony as her pelvis settled back into place, reached out and cradled the crying, squirming little form in its cloth as Mikhail let out a sigh of relief, tears of joy welling in the corners of his eyes. Katusha remained by his side, reassured as well, placing a comforting and quietly congratulatory hand on the new father's arm…

The young mother drew her daughter close, pressing her against her belly to offer what little warmth she could…

The infant continued to squirm in her wrappings, missing the comfort of the womb, but also crying for nourishment.

Mikhail stepped forward and knelt. He extended a hesitant hand, as if touching his daughter could harm the pale-skinned newborn.

"Go ahead," said the Ursus as she stemmed the mother's bleeding with her arts, a gentle golden light glowing from her hands, "She needs all the warmth she can get."

Mikhail gave her a grateful look and placed his large hand on the sack's cloth.

"Welcome to this world…"

The baby stopped crying and opened her eyes.

Grey eyes like her father's, but curiously marked with a small red spot, stared up as the newborn fell briefly silent, gazing at the man who had helped bring her into being.

"...Yelena…"

Alright... Chapter 1 end notes...

This story is centered around FrostNova, I will kind of do a sort of half biography since it isn't really developped in her lore. Briefly mentionned, but not explored.

This is my objective in this story.

Hope you enjoyed this first chapter.