Nyx watched the final batch of elves were carried away on stretchers, their bodies limp, their faces frozen in expressions of pure, transcendent bliss.
And seeing this, a deep sense of satisfaction washed over her.
For two days, she had been the architect of this miracle—scheduling, organizing, coordinating, making sure every woman of childbearing age had her turn with the Hero.
She had argued with the hesitant, coaxed the fearful, and physically dragged the reluctant.
She had tracked cycles, monitored recovery times, and calculated optimal impregnation windows with the precision of a general planning a campaign.
And it had worked.
Every single eligible woman in the village was now pregnant.
The little ones and the elders, those past the age of bearing children were the only ones left untouched.
But every healthy womb, every woman capable of carrying a child, had been bred.
