Page 7

“W ELCOME, EVERYONE, to the first-ever Witcher Wellness Workshop,” Atlas announces the next afternoon at the prearranged event that I insisted he proceed with, feeling much better today. His deep voice echoes through the transformed space of Fae Fitness.

The main exercise room has been cleared of its usual equipment and now features an array of specially designed magical fitness apparatuses, including enchanted yoga mats that adjust their cushioning based on the practitioner’s needs, floating meditation crystals that hover at the perfect eye level, and most intriguing of all, a set of dumbbells that shimmer with arcane energy.

I stand at the back of the room, watching with pride and nervousness as Atlas introduces his newest program to an audience that includes not only my skeptical mother but also several of Evershift Haven’s most prominent magical practitioners. “Today, we’ll explore the intersection of physical wellness and magical potency. Many magical beings focus exclusively on developing their arcane abilities while neglecting the physical vessel that channels that power. Our goal is to create harmony between body and magic, resulting in more controlled, more powerful spellcasting.”

My mother, seated primly in the front row, raises a skeptical eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt. Progress.

“Let’s begin with a simple centering exercise,” he says, demonstrating a stance that looks deceptively easy—feet planted firmly, spine straight, and arms extended with palms facing upward.

The assembled group follows his lead, some more gracefully than others. My mother, to my surprise, moves into the position with fluid ease, her posture perfect.

“Focus on your magical core,” Atlas instructs. “Visualize your internal energy as a sphere of light at your center. With each breath, we’ll expand that sphere outward, creating a magical-physical connection that reinforces both.”

The room fills with the soft glow of various magical signatures as the participants follow his guidance. Blues, greens, reds, and purples shimmer around the practitioners. My mother’s signature—a deep violet with silver streaks—manifests with particular clarity.

Atlas catches my attention and smiles, clearly pleased by the group’s engagement. This workshop has been his passion project for months, and seeing it finally come to fruition fills me with happiness for him.

That happiness is short-lived as a now-familiar contraction seizes me. This one is different—sharper and more insistent—triggering an immediate magical response. My purple energy flares outward in a sudden burst, colliding with the carefully balanced energies in the room.

The effect is immediate and chaotic. The enchanted yoga mats curl up like startled caterpillars. The floating meditation crystals shoot toward the ceiling like rockets, and most dramatically, the magical dumbbells rise from their rack and begin to orbit the room like miniature planets, picking up speed with each circuit.

“Duck,” yells someone as a particularly enthusiastic dumbbell swoops low over the participants’ heads.

Atlas, always calm in a crisis, moves to the center of the room. “Everyone, maintain your centering stance. Your stable energy will help counteract the disruption.”

Most of the participants comply, though a few dive for cover as the dumbbells continue their erratic flight. My mother not only maintains her stance but actually extends her magical aura outward, creating a buffer that deflects the wayward equipment.

I try to regain control of my magic, but the contraction makes concentration impossible. Another surge ripples through me, and now, the treadmills along the wall spring to life, their speed increasing to alarming levels. One breaks free of its moorings and begins to skid across the floor like a magical mechanical bull. At least no clients are using them at the moment.

“Atlas.” I gasp as the contraction subsides, blinking back tears. “I’m so sorry.”

He makes his way to me, deftly dodging a pair of enchanted jump ropes that have decided to play cat’s cradle without human assistance. “Don’t apologize,” he says, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder. “This is actually a perfect demonstration of why this workshop is necessary. Magical control under challenging circumstances is exactly what we’re practicing.”

His ability to reframe chaos as a teaching opportunity would be admirable if it weren’t so exasperating. “The treadmill is about to break through the wall,” I point out.

“An excellent example of magical momentum,” he agrees, as if this is a planned part of the curriculum.

My mother, having apparently decided that enough is enough, strides through the mayhem with impressive dignity. With a complex series of gestures, she brings the flying dumbbells to a halt, returns the treadmill to its proper place, and generally restores order to the room.

“Perhaps,” she says tartly, “The practical demonstration portion of today’s workshop has been sufficient.”

Atlas beams at her. “Excellent work, Ms. Greenwarth. You’re a perfect example of centered magical response under pressure. Would you mind explaining your technique to the group?”

My mother blinks, clearly surprised by being asked to teach, but after a moment’s hesitation, she straightens her already impeccable posture and addresses the room. “The key to maintaining magical control in chaotic situations is threefold,” she says, slipping into a professorial tone I’ve rarely heard from her. “First, you must establish an unshakable internal rhythm, ideally based on your heartbeat. Second, you must create clear boundaries between your magic and external influences, and third, you must maintain awareness of your entire magical field while focusing on the specific task at hand.”

The participants, many of whom had been ready to flee moments before, are now listening with rapt attention. Even I find myself drawn in by her unexpectedly engaging teaching style.

“Think of your magic as a symphony orchestra,” she continues, warming to her subject. “You are the conductor. Each instrument—each aspect of your power—must be acknowledged and included, but only certain sections are emphasized at any given moment. The rest remain ready but subdued.”

“A brilliant analogy,” says Atlas sincerely. “Would you be willing to demonstrate the application of this approach to a simple levitation exercise?”

And just like that, my mother—who arrived in Evershift Haven convinced Atlas’s gym was a frivolous waste of space—takes over the Witcher Wellness Workshop with the authority of someone born to teach.

I watch in amazement as she guides the group through exercises that combine physical movements with magical techniques, her explanations clear, and her demonstrations flawless. Atlas assists, adding insights about how each movement supports the magical flow, but it’s clear my mother has become the star of the show.

By the end of the two-hour workshop, the participants are glowing with accomplishment. Several approach my mother afterward, asking questions that she answers with unexpected patience.

“That was...unexpected,” I say to Atlas as we observe from the sidelines.

“Not entirely,” he says with a knowing smile. “Your mother’s magical control is exceptional. I suspected she would be an effective teacher if given the opportunity.”

“You set this up? You knew she would take over.”

He shrugs, his massive shoulders rising and falling like mountains in miniature. “I created an opening. She chose to fill it.”

“Sneaky,” I say admiringly, “And surprisingly manipulative for a philosopher.”

“Socrates was an expert at leading others to discover their own knowledge through strategic questioning. Sometimes, the most effective teaching happens when people don’t realize they’re being taught.”

My mother approaches us, her cheeks flushed with unusual color, and her eyes bright with an energy I haven’t seen in years. “An interesting concept,” she says to Atlas, “Though your initial explanation of magical-physical integration could use refinement.”

“I would welcome your input,” he says. “Perhaps you might consider co-teaching the next session?”

My mother looks startled, then thoughtful. “Perhaps,” she says noncommittally, though I detect a hint of interest in her tone. “I’m not convinced that those enchanted dumbbells serve any practical purpose.”

“The magical resistance they provide strengthens both physical muscles and magical channels,” he says, “But I agree, the enchantment needs fine-tuning. Currently, they’re a bit too responsive to ambient magical fluctuations.”

“Obviously,” my mother says dryly, glancing at the ceiling, where a pair of dumbbells still hover stubbornly out of reach. “A simple modification to the binding spell should resolve that issue. I could show you, if you’re interested?”

“I would be most grateful,” he says, and I marvel at his ability to accept criticism and suggestions with such genuine grace.

As my mother launches into a technical explanation of magical binding principles, I try to pay attention, but my mind wanders. Another week past my due date, endless false contractions, and still no baby. The frustration builds like pressure in a cauldron.

"Perhaps we should head home." Atlas clearly notices my distraction. "It's been a long day."

My mother looks between us, then nods. "Yes, Grizelda looks tired. We can discuss the binding modifications another time."

The walk home is quiet. Even the May evening air, usually so refreshing, feels heavy with my disappointment. Atlas keeps a supportive hand on my lower back as we navigate the familiar streets.

Once home, my mother excuses herself to her room. "I'll be working on my notes for your class, Atlas. Call if you need anything. Or you, Grizelda," she adds, like I’m an afterthought.

Atlas helps me upstairs to our bedroom. As soon as the door closes behind us, I sink onto the edge of our bed with a frustrated groan. "Still nothing. Not a single real contraction all day. Just another one of those weird ones that causes everything around me to go haywire." I rub my enormous belly. "I'm beginning to think this baby is never coming out."

Atlas sits beside me, covering my hand with his larger one. "He or she will come when they are ready."

"What if it’s never ready?" My voice cracks. "What if I have to be pregnant forever? I can barely tie my own shoes, I haven't seen my feet in months, and I'm so tired of waiting."

"As Lao Tzu said—"

"If you quote one more philosopher at me right now, I swear I'll scream." But there's no real heat in my words, just exhaustion.

He chuckles softly and pulls me against his side. "No philosophy then. Just us."

I lean into his solid warmth, breathing in his familiar scent of stone and moss with a hint of earth magic. "I miss us. I miss feeling like myself. I miss..." I trail off, heat creeping into my cheeks.

"What do you miss?" His voice has dropped lower, and I feel the rumble of it through his chest.

"I miss being close to you. Really close." I turn to face him, noting how his amber eyes darken with understanding. "It's been weeks since we've been intimate, and I know you're being careful with me, but..."

"But?" He reaches up to stroke my cheek, his touch lingering.

"Maybe that's exactly what we need." I catch his hand, bringing it to my lips to kiss his palm. "I've heard it can help induce labor."

His eyebrows rise. "Is that so?"

"Mmhmm. Something about oxytocin and prostaglandins." I shift closer, running my hand up his chest. "Very scientific."

"If it's for science..." He cups my face with both hands, studying me intently. "Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't. You never do." I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to his.

The kiss starts gently, almost tentatively, but quickly deepens as weeks of pent-up desire surface. Atlas makes a low sound in his throat, sliding one hand into my hair, and the purple strands wrap around his arm independently, while the other traces down my spine.

I break away just long enough to straddle his lap, my swollen belly between us. "I need you," I whisper against his mouth. "I need to feel like a woman again, not just an overdue incubator."

He grips my hips, pulling me closer despite the awkward angle. "You're always a woman to me. My woman. Beautiful, powerful, and carrying our child." He kisses along my jaw, finding that sensitive spot below my ear that makes me shiver. "Let me show you."

I melt against him as he continues his exploration, his stone lips surprisingly soft against my heated skin. When he reaches the neckline, I help him ease the fabric over my head, leaving me in just my undergarments.

Atlas's intake of breath is audible. His hands hover over my changed body—fuller breasts, rounded belly, and wider hips—as if afraid to touch. "You're stunning." His voice is rough with desire. "Like a fertility goddess come to life."

I take his hands, placing them on my swollen breasts. "Then worship me."

He doesn't need to be told twice. His large hands cup me gently, brushing his thumbs over my sensitive nipples through the thin fabric of my bra. I arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping my lips.

"So responsive." He unhooks my bra with surprising dexterity, tossing it aside. "I've missed this too." When his mouth closes over one peaked nipple, I gasp at the sensation. Pregnancy has made me incredibly sensitive, and every touch feels magnified. He lavishes attention on both breasts, alternating between gentle sucking and teasing flicks of his tongue.

"Atlas..." I stroke his head. "I need more."

He pulls back to look at me, his amber eyes swirling with desire. "Tell me what you want."

"You. All of you." I reach for the hem of his shirt. "I want to feel your skin against mine."

We work together to remove his clothes, revealing his magnificent stone body. Even after all this time, the sight of him takes my breath away—all carved muscle and strength, yet capable of such tenderness. I run my hands over his chest, tracing the natural patterns in his stone skin. When I reach lower, wrapping my fingers around his impressive cock, he groans.

"Careful, love. It's been a while for me too."

"Then we'd better make this count." I stroke him slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure.

Atlas has other plans. With careful strength, he lifts me, repositioning us so I'm lying back against the pillows with him kneeling between my legs.

"Let me take care of you first." He hooks his fingers in my underwear, sliding them down and off. "I want to taste you."

Heat floods through me at his words. He spreads my thighs wider, taking a moment to admire the view before lowering his head. The first touch of his tongue against my clit makes me cry out. He's always been skilled at this, but tonight feels different—more intense and more desperate. He licks and sucks with single-minded focus, using his knowledge of my body to drive me wild.

When he slides two thick fingers inside me while his tongue circles my clit, I nearly come off the bed. I grasp the sheets as pleasure builds rapidly.

"That's it," he murmurs against me. "Let go for me."

He curls his fingers just right, finding that spot that makes me see stars, and I shatter. My orgasm rolls through me in waves, leaving me gasping and trembling. Atlas doesn't let up, working me through the aftershocks until I'm squirming from oversensitivity. Only then does he kiss his way back up my body, pausing to nuzzle my belly.

"Hello in there," he whispers. "Daddy's trying to convince you it's time to come out."

The tender moment makes my heart swell, but my body has other demands. I reach for him, pulling him up for a deep kiss. I can taste myself on his lips, which only fuels my renewed arousal.

"I need you inside me," I whisper against his mouth. "Please, Atlas."

He positions himself carefully, mindful of my belly. "Like this?" His cock enters me slowly, and he watches my face for any sign of discomfort.

I wrap my legs around his waist as best I can, urging him deeper. "Oh, that's perfect."

He starts to move, setting a gentle rhythm that gradually builds in intensity. Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure through me, and I notice something new. Our magic is responding to our connection.

Purple light dances along my skin wherever he touches me, while silver energy emanates from him. The two colors swirl together, creating beautiful patterns in the air around us. "Do you see that?" I gasp as he hits a particularly good angle.

"Our magic knows we're creating something together." He speeds up slightly, driving deeper. "Not life this time, but love."

The combination of physical pleasure and magical connection is overwhelming. I feel another orgasm building, this one deeper and more powerful than the first. "Atlas, I'm close."

"Me too." His thrusts become more erratic. "Together?"

I nod, unable to form words as the tension coils tighter in my pussy. He reaches between us to circle my clit with his thumb, and that's all it takes. I come with a cry of his name, clenching my inner walls around him. The magical energy explodes outward, filling the room with swirling lights. Atlas follows immediately, groaning my name as he spills inside me.

For several moments, we stay joined, trading soft kisses as we catch our breath. The magical light show gradually fades, leaving us in the soft glow of twilight.

"I love you," I whisper, running my fingers along his jaw.

"And I love you." He carefully withdraws and settles beside me, pulling me against his chest. "Feeling better?"

"Much." I snuggle closer, feeling more relaxed than I have in weeks. "I don't think it worked though. No contractions yet."

"Give it time." He strokes my hair soothingly. "If nothing else, we've reminded each other what we have together."

I'm about to respond when I feel a different kind of tightening, low in my belly. I place a hand there, waiting.

"Zelda?"

"Shh." I concentrate as the sensation builds, peaks, and slowly fades. "That felt...different."

We wait in silence. Five minutes later, another one comes. Then another after only four minutes. "Atlas." I meet his gaze, excitement and nervousness mingling in my chest. "I think it actually worked."

His face lights up with joy and wonder. "Really?"

As if in answer, another contraction grips me, stronger than the others, and making me squeeze his hand. "Really." I laugh, then wince as it peaks. "Our baby has interesting timing."

He kisses my forehead. "Should I get your mother?"

"Not yet." I want to savor this moment of just us before everything changes. "Let's time a few more to make sure they're consistent."

So we lie there together, timing contractions and sharing quiet moments between them. The sky gradually lightens, and by the time they're coming every three minutes, there's no denying it.

"I think it's time." Atlas helps me sit up and find a clean nightgown.

"Time to meet our child." The words fill me with equal parts terror and joy.

As Atlas goes to alert my mother, I pause at the doorway, looking back at our bed—the site of so many intimate moments, and now the place where our journey to parenthood truly began.

Another contraction reminds me there's no time for nostalgia. Our baby is coming, and nothing will ever be the same.