Herbalists' Cache muradoii

the first to be born.
he came into the world slick with blood, silent at first—too silent.
but then, a sound. low. quiet. a warbling little cry that shuddered from his tiny chest. weak, but alive. his body wriggled, instinct guiding him as he flailed against the unfamiliar air, his limbs trembling with the effort of being.
his mother’s tongue found him, rough, relentless. pulling him into the warmth of her body, the scent of blood and milk heavy around him. he did not know warmth before this moment, but now he craved it, his tiny mouth opening blindly, desperately.
the world had no shape yet. only sensation. heat. pressure. the pulse of something vast and living.
he would not know that his mother was watching him with judgment in her blood-red gaze. he would not know that had he failed to cry, to breathe, he would not be here at all.
but he had cried.