Page 21

I wake to the snap and flutter of canvas strung in wind. The makeshift shelter around us trembles, pine boughs creaking against each other where Arvoren lashed them together hours ago. Through gaps in the greenery, I glimpse a pearl-gray sky heavy with coming snow. My bones ache with more than just the endless cold—they seem to know the storm building on the horizon, to resonate with it like struck crystal.

Arvoren kneels beside our nest of furs, studying a spread of wrinkled parchment by guttering candlelight. The flame casts strange shadows across his face, deepening the exhaustion etched there. His formal clothes, once immaculate, now bear the marks of our journey: tears from thorns, scorch marks from battle, bloodstains that won't wash out. A fresh scratch mars his jaw, still crusted with blood he hasn't bothered to clean away.

My heart clenches at the sight. Even now, after everything, the urge to reach for him burns like fever beneath my skin.

"How long until dawn?" I ask instead, my voice rough with sleep.

He doesn't look up from the maps. "An hour, maybe less. The weather's turning. We need to move."

I push myself to sitting, biting back a groan as my body protests. The child's magic pulses within me, stronger every day, but it takes its toll. Each surge of power leaves me weaker, as if they're drawing strength from my very blood to fuel their growing abilities.

Sometimes I catch Arvoren watching me with a mix of wonder and terror when he thinks I'm not looking. He can sense the changes in me through our bond, though he tries to hide his concern behind his usual mask of control. But I see how his hands clench when I stumble, how his jaw tightens each time I press a hand to my swollen belly.

"Here." He hands me a water skin without looking. "Drink. We have a long day ahead."

The water tastes of snow and pine needles. I drink deeply, watching him trace our route with one claw. His shoulders are rigid with tension, scales rippling beneath his skin in response to some thought he won't voice.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Now he does look at me, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim light. "The pass ahead is controlled by House Morwen. Their patrols have increased since—" He breaks off, smoke curling from between his teeth.

"Since your brother tried to claim your throne," I finish quietly.

His expression hardens. "We'll need to move quickly, stay off the main paths. If they catch your scent—"

"They'll what? Kill the heretic queen?" The words come out bitter. "I'm already marked for death by half the Houses in Kaldoria."

"They won't touch you." The possessive growl in his voice makes something low in my belly clench with heat. "I won't allow it."

"And what of our child?" I rest my hand over the swell of my stomach. "What future awaits them in a kingdom that sees their mother as a curse?"

He's beside me in an instant, his fever-hot hand covering mine. Through our bond, I feel his fierce protectiveness war with fear. “They will be safe. You know that.”

"If we survive long enough to see it." I lean into his warmth despite myself. "If your kingdom doesn't tear itself apart first."

His other hand cups my chin, turning my face up to his. "Then we'll build something new from the ashes. I’d do it for you."

The promise in his voice makes my chest ache. I want so badly to believe him—to trust that the man who once kept me in chains can become the protector our child needs. But trust, like love, must be earned. Must be chosen, again and again.

Before I can respond, a gust of wind tears through our shelter, snuffing out the candle and sending the maps scattering. Arvoren curses, gathering them quickly as the temperature plummets. Fat snowflakes begin to drift through the gaps in the pine boughs.

"We need to move," he says again, more urgently. "Now."

I struggle to my feet, wrapping my cloak tighter as another shiver wracks me. The storm builds in my blood like lightning about to strike, responding to my unease. Soon the very air will crack with winter's fury.

Arvoren dismantles our shelter with efficient movements while I force down some dried meat and berries. The food sits heavy in my stomach, but I know I need the strength. Know our child needs it more.

We set out just as false dawn begins to paint the sky in shades of iron and pearl. The eerie silence of the forest has begun to settle within me. It feels almost a part of my being now, after all this.

Arvoren leads the way, his steps careful on the treacherous ground. Ice coats everything, making each footfall a battle against gravity. I follow in his tracks, one hand pressed to my belly, the other trailing along tree trunks for balance.

The miles crawl by in a haze of exhaustion and growing cold. My legs shake with each step, and black spots dance at the edges of my vision. The child's magic pulses erratically, making the temperature fluctuate wildly. One moment sweat freezes on my skin; the next, I burn with fever from within.

Eventually, he notices my failing strength. Of course he does—he feels it through our bond, just as I feel his mounting concern. But we can't stop, can't risk being caught in the open when the storm hits. So he slows his pace, staying close enough to catch me if I fall.

The attack comes just before nightfall.

One moment we're picking our way through a dense stand of pines; the next, figures melt from the shadows ahead.

Their armor bears House Morwen's sigil, though it's partially obscured by frost and grime. The stench of cheap alcohol carries on the wind.

Drunkards, and fools. But we cannot afford a fight. Not in my condition. Not with the cold, the long journey, the exhaustion, the hunger…

"Well, well." The largest of them steps forward, smoke curling from his nostrils. "What have we here?"

Arvoren moves in front of me, his voice deadly quiet. "Stand aside."

The soldier laughs, the sound as sharp as breaking ice. "The dead king gives orders still! And what's this?" His eyes fix on me, gleaming with cruel interest. "You know, they say in Millrath that the people pray for your deaths. Our lord cares not, but he will pay well for your heads."

More soldiers emerge from the trees, forming a loose circle around us. I count six, then eight, then lose track as the world begins to spin. The child's magic rises unbidden, making my vision blur with power I can barely contain.

"Last warning." Scales ripple across Arvoren's skin as his dragon nature surfaces. "Move, or die where you stand."

"Bold words for a fallen king." The soldier draws his sword, the metal singing in the frozen air. "But there are eight of us and one of you."

Everything happens at once.

The transformation begins before any of us can move. Scales burst through Arvoren's skin in waves of ruby red, his formal clothing tearing as his body reshapes itself. Steam pours from between elongating teeth as he places himself between me and the soldiers, who take involuntary steps backward at the display of raw power.

But they've come too far to retreat now. The first soldier launches himself forward with impossible speed, his own partial transformation letting him match Arvoren's movements. Their bodies crash together with enough force to shake snow from nearby branches. Blood sprays across white ground as Arvoren's claws find flesh, but more attackers press in, their weapons gleaming dully in the fading light.

I try to help, reaching for the storm that always hovers at the edges of my consciousness. Power rises like a tide, making the very air crystallize—but something's wrong. The magic slips through my fingers like smoke, leaving me hollow and shaking. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as another wave of weakness hits.

My knees buckle. The world tilts sideways as I collapse into snow, one hand still pressed protectively to my stomach where our child's magic pulses erratically. Through blurred vision, I watch Arvoren fight with terrible efficiency, his partially transformed state letting him tear through flesh and bone as if they were parchment. But there are too many, and exhaustion slows his movements. A blade catches his shoulder, drawing first blood, and his roar of pain shakes loose more snow from the pines.

Then everything changes.

The temperature drops so suddenly that the air itself seems to crack. Sound dies, swallowed by a silence deeper than mere absence of noise. Through the gathering dark, shapes begin to coalesce—forms that hurt the eyes to look at directly. They drift between the trees like liquid moonlight, their features constantly shifting between dragon and storm and something older than either.

The soldiers falter, their weapons lowering as ancient magic floods the clearing. Even Arvoren goes still, steam rising from his bloodied mouth as he stares at the impossible beings surrounding us. Blood drips from his claws, freezing before it hits the ground.

One of the spirits flows closer, its form rippling like smoke on water. When it speaks, its voice carries notes of avalanche and aurora lights: "The old blood stirs. The child grows strong."

More spirits press in, their presence making my teeth ache with cold. But rather than fear, I feel something else—a connection that runs deeper than bone, older than kingdoms or crowns. Recognition floods through me: these are the true children of Kaldoria, the powers that walked these lands before the first dragons flew. Before the gods themselves turned their eyes to mortal affairs.

They reach for me with fingers like icicles, their touch promising an impossible cold. But they don't hurt me. Through that contact, I feel them recognize what grows within me—dragon and Windwaker blood combined into something that hasn't existed for centuries. Their interest feels like lightning in my veins, terrible and beautiful at once.

"Protect them," I whisper, though speaking feels like swallowing shards of ice. "Please."

The spirits turn as one, their forms solidifying into something almost human. Almost dragon. Almost storm. The temperature plummets further as ancient magic fills the air, making it difficult to breathe.

"You dare threaten what is ours?" Their voices blend together into a sound like breaking glaciers. "You who have forgotten the old ways, forgotten what it means to carry sacred blood?"

The soldiers try to fight. They're brave, I'll give them that. But their weapons pass through spectral forms like smoke, and where the spirits' touch lands, flesh blackens with frost. Screams echo off ancient pines as the attackers fall one by one, their bodies frozen from within.

"No, please—" The leader drops his sword, backing away. "We didn't know—"

But there's no mercy in these ancient beings. They flow around him like living darkness, and his plea cuts off in a strangled cry. When they pull back, he stands frozen in a pose of terror, ice crystals forming in his eyes.

Arvoren takes advantage of the distraction, tearing through the remaining attackers with ruthless efficiency. Blood steams where it hits snow, and the copper-sharp scent of it fills the air. In moments, it's over.

He's at my side instantly, gathering me into his arms. His skin burns fever-hot against mine, chasing away the bone-deep cold left by the spirits' touch. Through our bond, I feel his fear warring with awe at what we've witnessed.

"I've got you," he murmurs into my hair, his voice rough with emotion. "I've got you both. You're safe now."

The spirits linger at the edges of the clearing, their forms growing less distinct as true night falls. Snow begins to drift down, already erasing signs of the battle. Soon there will be nothing left but memories and questions.

"Why?" I ask them, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Why help us?"

One spirit drifts closer, its form settling briefly into something almost feminine. "The child you carry bridges ancient magics, Windwaker," it says in a voice like wind through ice caves. "What was sundered might be made whole again. What was broken might be reformed."

"The gods will not all be pleased," another adds, its shape suggesting wings and frost. “But they will be watching.”

"Let them fear us, then." Arvoren's arms tighten around me, scales still rippling beneath his skin. "They won't touch either of them."

The spirits seem to smile—terrible, beautiful expressions that speak of avalanches and aurora lights. "Brave words, dragon-king. But you will need more than courage in the days ahead." They begin to fade like morning frost in sunlight.

"Wait—" I reach for them, but my hand passes through mist. "What do you mean? What's coming?"

But they're already gone, leaving only whispers behind: "A new day dawns for Kaldoria."

Silence falls with the snow, broken only by our breathing and the soft crackle of ice forming on dead flesh. Arvoren shifts me in his arms, his transformation slowly receding as the immediate danger passes. Blood still seeps from the cut on his shoulder, but he seems not to notice.

"Are you hurt?" His hands move over me with infinite care, checking for injuries. "The baby—"

"We're alright." I cover his hand with mine where it rests on my swollen belly. Our child's magic pulses between us, stronger now than before the spirits' intervention. "Just tired. So tired…"

He presses his lips to my temple, and I feel him trembling slightly. Whether from battle-fury or fear or both, I can't tell. "I should have protected you better. Should have sensed them coming—"

"Shh." I turn my face into his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of smoke and winter air. "You did protect us. We're still here."

Around us, snow continues to fall, already covering the frozen bodies of our attackers. Soon there will be nothing left to mark this place as anything special—just another clearing in an endless forest. But we'll remember. The land will remember.

Arvoren gathers me closer, his fever-warmth chasing away the last of the spirits' cold. Through our bond, I feel his fierce protectiveness warring with lingering awe at what we witnessed. What it might mean for our future.

"We need to move," he says finally, though I feel his reluctance to disturb this moment of peace. "Find shelter before the storm worsens."

I nod against his chest, knowing he's right but not quite ready to face the world again. Here in his arms, with ancient magic still singing in my blood and our child's power pulsing between us, I can almost believe in happy endings.

He stands carefully, cradling me against him as if I'm made of glass. Steam rises where his boots touch snow, and frost patterns dance in the air around us—dragon-fire and winter storm in perfect harmony.

Above, the storm breaks at last, and snow falls thick and fast. But we're together, we're alive, and we're not alone in this fight.

Whatever comes next, we face it as one.