Morrigan pushed open the door to the abandoned building, one hand pressed against her swollen belly. The space was perfect—large enough for beds, close enough to the harbor that desperate mothers could find it. She needed this. Her clinic had to grow beyond treating patients in borrowed rooms and cramped corners. But the warm orange glow from the hearth died the moment she stepped inside. The air turned cold. Something moved in the shadows near the far wall—not wind, not rats. It had weight. It had presence. Morrigan's breath misted in front of her face as the temperature dropped further. She stood her ground, one hand still on her belly, the other reaching for the door frame. Whatever lived here wasn't leaving quietly. The building was hers by right of need, but the dark thing coiled in the corner clearly disagreed. She would have to make it understand—or make it go. Black smoke poured from the corner, spreading across the ceiling. Skulls floated within it, their empty eyes fixed on her. Morrigan felt the weight of corrupted souls pressing against her chest. They weren't just haunting this place—they were feeding on it, drawing power from the stone and wood. She stepped forward anyway. "I'm not asking permission," she said. Her voice cut through the cold. "Mothers will die without this space. You can leave, or I can force you out." The smoke recoiled, then surged toward her. She planted her feet and raised one hand. The five lives inside her kicked hard, their energy bright and fierce. The souls hissed and pulled back. They couldn't touch her. Not while she carried so much life. The smoke retreated into the walls, fading but not gone. Morrigan breathed hard, her hand still raised. The infirmary was hers now. She just had to keep it. She walked outside and found the red cross sign leaning against the door frame. Someone had left it there, already knowing what this place would become. The paint was faded but the message was clear. Mothers were waiting. They had heard she might open something here, and they were already hoping. Morrigan picked up the sign and carried it inside. She hung it on the wall opposite the hearth, where the smoke still whispered in the cracks. The souls could stay in the walls if they wanted. But this building belonged to the living now.

Sedna returned an hour later with wood for the hearth. Morrigan watched her stack the logs without being asked, without expecting payment. "Mothers need warmth," Sedna said simply. She struck the flint and coaxed the fire to life. Orange light spread across the stone floor, reaching the corners where the corrupted souls still whispered. The flames didn't banish them, but they made the space feel less like a battlefield and more like shelter. Morrigan pulled two chairs close to the fire and they sat together in silence. She unwrapped one of the herb bundles and crushed lavender between her fingers, breathing in the scent. For the first time since claiming this building, she felt her shoulders drop. Sedna wasn't here because Morrigan had proven herself. She was here because the work mattered, regardless of who Morrigan used to be. That trust—offered freely, without conditions—settled into Morrigan's chest like an anchor. When the next desperate mother arrived, she would have more than skill to offer. She would have a space that felt like safety. And she would have proof that someone believed her clinic was worth building. But warmth wasn't enough to open the doors. Morrigan stood and walked to the back room where she'd been storing the few supplies she owned. Three clean blankets. A box of bandages. One stained midwife's journal with notes from her own deliveries. She laid them on the table next to Sedna's basket and felt the gap between what she had and what she needed. A mother in crisis required more than herbs and hope. She needed clean linens, sterile tools, medicine for bleeding and infection. Morrigan had claimed this building, but she hadn't filled it. Sedna appeared in the doorway, watching quietly. Morrigan turned to her. "I don't have enough," she said, her voice flat. "Not to handle complications. Not to keep anyone safe if things go wrong." The admission tasted like failure, but she forced it out anyway. She couldn't afford to pretend. Sedna crossed the room and stood beside the table. "I run a supply shack near the harbor," she said. "Medical goods. Clean cloth. Tools for midwives and healers." She gestured toward the window, in the direction of the water. "It's yours. Whatever you need, whenever you need it." Morrigan stared at her. This wasn't a loan. It wasn't charity with conditions attached. Sedna was offering her clinic a lifeline before a single patient had walked through the door. "Why?" Morrigan asked. The question came out sharper than she meant. Sedna met her eyes without flinching. "Because mothers are dying," she said. "And you're the one who decided to stop it." She placed one hand on the basket, then on the blankets. "I can't deliver babies. But I can make sure you have what you need to save them." Morrigan sat down hard in the chair by the fire. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her belly, feeling the five lives inside her kick and shift. She had walked into this building ready to fight corrupted souls and claim territory. She hadn't been ready for this—someone stepping in to carry part of the weight without asking for anything in return. Sedna knelt beside her and poured tea from a small flask she'd brought, pressing the warm cup into Morrigan's hands. The chamomile scent mixed with the lavender still hanging in the air. Morrigan drank and let the heat settle her nerves. She could open the doors now. She could hang a sign outside and trust that when a desperate mother arrived, she would have the tools to help. The clinic wasn't just hers anymore. It was theirs. And that made it real in a way claiming the building never had.

Morrigan hung the red cross sign outside the clinic door the next morning. The metal was cold against her fingers, still damp from the harbor mist. She stepped back and looked at it, watching the way it caught the light. This was the signal. This was how desperate mothers would know they could come. She heard the collapse before she saw it. A body hitting stone, the wet thud of someone who had nothing left to catch themselves. Morrigan turned and found a woman crumpled at the threshold, one hand stretched toward the red cross like she'd been reaching for it when her legs gave out. Her clothes were torn at the shoulders, mud-crusted at the knees. Morrigan knelt and placed two fingers against the woman's throat. The pulse was there, faint and racing. She turned the woman's wrist to check for swelling and froze. A crimson sigil glowed against the pale skin, the lines sharp and deliberate. Blood magic. Vladmir's mark. Morrigan's jaw tightened. She knew what that sigil meant—this woman had been claimed, bargained for, and had run anyway. Vladmir didn't let people break contracts without cost. Morrigan slid her arms beneath the woman's shoulders and knees, lifting her with a grunt. The weight pressed against her own belly, five lives shifting inside her as she carried one more across the threshold. She kicked the door shut behind her and laid the woman on the cleanest blanket near the fire. The sigil pulsed faintly, a reminder that Vladmir would come looking. Morrigan pressed her hand to the woman's swollen belly and felt the baby move. Still alive. Both of them still alive. She reached for the medical supplies Sedna had given her and began checking for injuries. This was the cost of opening the doors. She would have patients who brought enemies with them. She would have to choose between safety and her mission. Morrigan looked at the woman's face, pale and streaked with dirt, and made her choice. She pulled a clean cloth from the pile and began washing the blood from the woman's hands. Vladmir could come. She would be ready. The woman's eyes opened an hour later, wild with fear until she saw the fire and the red cross on the wall. Her hand went to her belly first, then to the dagger tucked into her belt—a dark blade with twisted edges that looked like it had been carried a long way. Morrigan didn't ask her to surrender it. Instead, she poured water into a cup and held it to the woman's lips. The woman drank, then spoke in a voice like gravel. "He'll find me." Morrigan met her eyes without flinching. "Let him," she said. She helped the woman sit up and wrapped a clean blanket around her shoulders. The sigil still glowed on her wrist, but the woman was here, breathing, safe for now. That was enough. Morrigan had opened her doors knowing this would happen. She had hung the sign knowing desperate mothers would bring their enemies with them. She couldn't protect everyone from everything, but she could give them a place to land when they had nowhere else to run. The woman's breathing steadied as she leaned against the wall, one hand still gripping the dagger, the other resting on her belly. Morrigan sat beside her and waited. The clinic wasn't just a building anymore. It was a line drawn in the dirt, and she had just proven she would hold it. Morrigan stood and walked to the window, looking out at the harbor. She had made a choice that couldn't be unmade. By taking in a woman marked by Vladmir, she had declared where the clinic stood. Not neutral. Not careful. Open to anyone desperate enough to need it, regardless of who came hunting after. She turned back to the woman by the fire and saw someone who had risked everything to reach this door. That trust—that terrible, costly trust—was the foundation her clinic would be built on. Not her skill. Not her supplies. The willingness to be the one place that didn't turn people away. She returned to the woman's side and checked her pulse again. Stronger now. The baby kicked against Morrigan's palm, and the woman's hand covered hers. No words passed between them, but Morrigan