Maréa’s Little Miracle

There’s an air of quiet excitement in the tower today, one that I can’t help but feel bubbling under my skin. It’s not often I get to share big news about the creatures who inhabit our secluded world, but this—this is something truly special.

Maréa, my father’s magnificent Duskwalker Elk, is pregnant!

I’ve grown up watching Maréa move with an almost otherworldly grace, her antlers shifting with the seasons and her presence calming even the most turbulent days. She’s more than a companion to Father—she’s family. And now, she’s carrying her own little one.

When Father told me the news, I think I squealed. Loudly. For a moment, he even looked startled, which is a rare thing for him. But how could I not? The thought of Maréa, so stoic and serene, with a tiny calf trotting beside her, is almost too wonderful to imagine.

She’s resting at my grandmother’s estate now, where she’ll have plenty of space and care as she prepares for the little one’s arrival. I miss her presence around the tower—the soft rhythm of her steps on the stone, the quiet way she’d nuzzle my hand when I was lost in thought. But knowing she’s safe and comfortable is worth her absence. After all, this is her time to focus on herself and her calf.

Father told me it’s not uncommon for Duskwalker Elks to show subtle changes in their behavior when they’re expecting. Looking back, I can’t believe I didn’t notice. She’s always been gentle, but in the past few weeks before she left, she seemed more careful, more deliberate in her movements. Even her usual stoic demeanor had softened, as though she was already preparing to nurture something precious.

I’ve already started planning for when we visit her and her calf after the birth. I’m not sure how Duskwalker Elks celebrate new life (if they celebrate at all), but I think a handmade wreath of flowers and vines would make a lovely gift. I’ve also considered baking something special, though I doubt Maréa would be interested in my cakes.

Father has been more subdued about the whole thing—no surprise there—but I can tell he’s just as excited in his own way. He talks about the calf with the same quiet pride he has when he mentions his work or my magic. It’s a rare softness in him that I cherish.

For now, I’ll wait, counting the days until we can visit Maréa again. I can already picture it: the little calf, wobbly on its legs, peeking out from behind Maréa’s strong frame. And when that day comes, you can be sure I’ll be the first to welcome it into our little family.

Until then, I’ll be dreaming of the sound of tiny hooves echoing in the tower halls, a reminder that even in the most enchanted places, life finds its way to surprise and delight us.