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The following day passes in fragments, like shards of broken ice catching sunlight. Each step blurs into the next as Arvoren carries me through endless white. My protests grow weaker as the hours stretch on. I drift, caught between sleeping and waking, aware only of Arvoren's fever-warmth against the bitter cold.

Memories and sensations surface and submerge, fish moving beneath frozen water, mere shadows: the crunch of boots on snow, the whisper of wind through ancient pines, Arvoren's voice rumbling in his chest as he speaks to me, though I can't make out the words. At some point, we pass the bleached bones of some massive creature half-buried in snow. Dragon bones, perhaps, or something older still. I try to ask, but exhaustion drags me under before I can form the question.

The brief moments I'm fully conscious paint a stark picture of our journey. Arvoren's jaw is set with determination as he picks our path through treacherous terrain, though I feel his own exhaustion through our bond. His clothes bear fresh tears and bloodstains—evidence of skirmishes fought against wolves and beasts while I slept. Once, I wake to find him arguing with a group of shadows that might be spirits, might be memories. His voice carries on the wind: "She needs rest. Please."

But when I blink, the shadows are gone, and I can't be sure they were ever there. I suspect I may have dreamt it. Nothing feels real.

Now I wake to silence.

The first thing I notice is the absence of wind. After weeks of endless howling between peaks, the quiet feels almost holy. I'm lying on something softer than frozen ground, my head pillowed in Arvoren's lap. The air smells of old leather and wood polish, with an underlying sweetness I can't quite place.

When I open my eyes, I find myself in what appears to be an abandoned carriage. Moonlight filters through gaps in boarded-up windows, casting strange patterns across worn velvet seats. The space is small but well-crafted, though years of exposure have left the wood warped and the upholstery faded. Still, it offers real shelter—the first we've had in many hours.

"How long was I asleep?" My voice comes out rough from disuse.

Arvoren's hand strokes my hair, a gesture so gentle it makes my chest ache. "Most of the day. You needed it."

"Where are we?"

"An old trade route, I think. This carriage has been here years." His fingers continue their gentle motion. "The wheels are shot, but the body's solid enough. Good shelter."

I start to sit up, but he places a hand on my shoulder, keeping me still.

"Rest. We're safe for the moment."

Through our bond, I feel his exhaustion warring with alertness. He hasn't slept, of course. Never does when there might be threats lurking in the dark. But there's something else in his posture, a tension I can't quite read.

"What is it?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want the answer.

Before he can respond, sound breaks the silence: boot-steps crunching on snow, the soft clink of weapons against armor. Many sets of feet, moving with military precision.

Before I can think, before I can even move to grasp his hand, we’re surrounded.

Arvoren moves with liquid grace, helping me to my feet while positioning himself between me and the carriage door. Smoke curls from between his teeth as scales ripple beneath his skin. Ready to fight. Ready to kill.

"Stay behind me," he growls.

"I can help—" But even as I say it, my knees buckle. The child's magic pulses erratically, responding to my fear. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

Arvoren catches me with one arm, his other hand already reaching for the door. "Just stay close. I’ll keep you safe.”

We step out into knife-sharp air. The carriage sits in a natural hollow, surrounded by towering pines whose branches bend under the weight of fresh snow. Moonlight turns the world to silver and shadow, bright enough to see the armed figures emerging from the trees.

Their armor catches my eye first—the distinctive, blue-tinted steel of Fjordmarse craftsmanship, elegant yet practical. The soldiers move with the fluid grace of dragonborn warriors. I can practically smell their draconic nature. But behind them…

"Hold!" A voice rings out, clear and commanding. "We mean you no harm, Your Majesties."

Two figures step forward, and I have to blink to make sure I'm seeing correctly. The messengers wear the earth-toned leathers of Fort Caddell rangers, their faces bearing the weather-beaten look of humans who spend their lives in the northern wilderness. One carries a white flag of parlay.

"Impossible," Arvoren snarls, pushing me further behind him. "The forces of Fjordmarse and Fort Caddell work together about as well as fire and ice. This is a trap."

"Times change, my king." The taller messenger bows deeply. His accent marks him as northern, indeed a human settler—the hard consonants of the accent Ulric once used to fool me into believing he was Linus. "When word reached us of your presence here—"

"Word?" Arvoren's laugh is sharp as breaking glass. "And how exactly did you come by this intelligence?"

The female ranger steps forward, her silver-streaked hair catching moonlight. "We've had scouts watching the passes since reports came of the attack on Ulric's fortress. We’ve been trying to intercept you.”

"You're avoiding my question." Smoke pours thicker from Arvoren's mouth. "Why are you really here? Why work together now, after centuries of border wars? I want a straight answer. I am your king.”

The Fjordmarse commander removes his helm, revealing features carved from ice and shadow. Steam curls from his nostrils as he speaks: "Because we remember, my king. When the coalition moved against you, both our Houses stayed loyal. We know the cost of chaos. Here in the north, we cannot afford a coup. We deal in loyalty."

"Pretty words," Arvoren growls. "But Lord Sturmsen has never been one for poetry. What does Fjordmarse gain from this alliance?"

"Survival." The commander's voice carries the weight of mountains. "The winter grows worse by the day. Trade routes are frozen. The undead mass at our borders while we waste strength fighting each other. We need a strong throne—and a queen who might actually unite human and dragon blood. Our cities can take no more war.”

I feel Arvoren's surge of protective fury through our bond.

" Careful ," he snarls. "Choose your next words with extreme care."

"Peace, my king." The human female ranger raises her hands. "We want to help you. We want to bring you back to Millrath, protect you on your journey, ensure your survival. You won’t live long enough to make it in this cold without help. We are loyal to the throne.”

"My lord," the Fjordmarse commander cuts in smoothly, "we have supplies. Food, medicine, warm clothing. A proper camp not far from here. Let us help you both."

As if on cue, more soldiers emerge from the trees, bearing packs and bundles, tents and wagons. The scent of bread and dried meat makes my stomach clench. How long since we've eaten real food?

"Arvoren." I touch his arm gently. Through our bond, I feel his struggle—the need to protect me warring with the reality of our situation. "We need help."

He glances at me, and something in his expression softens fractionally. After a long moment, he nods once, sharply.

"Any false move," he tells the soldiers, "any hint of treachery, and I'll burn this forest to ash, and your cities with it."

"Understood, my king." The commander bows. "Shall we escort you to camp? Our healer is waiting."

Arvoren's arm tightens around my waist as we follow them through the trees. The soldiers give us a wide berth, though I catch several of them exchanging knowing looks. Whether they're reacting to my obvious weakness or my condition, I can't tell.

The camp appears through the darkness like a dream—proper tents made of thick canvas, cooking fires burning cheerfully, the smell of food and medicine and safety . My knees buckle again, but this time strong hands catch me before I can fall.

"Easy there, my queen." The female ranger steadies me. "Let's get you to the healer's tent."

"Be gentle with her," Arvoren growls, but he releases me carefully into the ranger's care. I feel his reluctance through our bond, his need to keep me close warring with the knowledge that I need proper medical attention.

"I'll be fine," I tell him, though we both know it's at least partly a lie. "Go. Talk to the commanders. Learn what's really happening out there."

Arvoren touches my cheek briefly, a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. Then he turns to the waiting officers, his posture shifting into something more regal, more controlled. The King reasserting himself after weeks of being simply a man protecting his wife.

The ranger helps me toward a large tent that smells of herbs and clean linen. A woman waits in the doorway, tall and lean, with the sharp features common to Fjordmarse dragonborn, though her eyes hold a healer's gentleness.

"Welcome, my queen," she says softly. "Let's see what we can do about making you more comfortable."

***

After I have been assured by the medic that, miraculously, my baby appears to be developing at a perfectly normal rate and is in good health, I stagger back into the snow like something revived, as if this body is new to me. I feel made anew. Something tightly knotted and furiously worried inside me has loosened. I didn't hurt them, not with the stress and starvation and fighting. They're alright. The draconic magic confirmed it.

For once I barely notice the cold. Our child's magic pulses within me, strong and steady, no longer paired with the erratic surge of anxiety that's plagued me for weeks. The medic's touch—dragon-warm and ancient with knowing—showed me what I couldn't see before: our baby grows perfectly. I protected them.

I only have to protect them a while longer. Millrath, city of my downfall, will protect us.

Sounds of the military camp drift through the darkness—soldiers talking in low voices, weapons being sharpened, the crackle of fires burning against the bitter night. Steam rises from cookfires where massive pots simmer with something that smells rich and hearty. The scent makes my mouth water, but I need to find Arvoren first. Need to share this precious certainty with him.

I find him in the commander's tent, bent over a spread of maps with several officers. Their voices carry into the night, tense with carefully contained urgency. Even before I enter, I catch fragments that make my blood run cold:

"—proclamation sent to all the major cities—"

"—claiming the king died in the northern reaches—"

Arvoren's head snaps up as I push through the tent flaps. His eyes find mine instantly, and through our bond I feel his fierce surge of protectiveness mixed with mounting fury at whatever news he's receiving. Steam curls from between his teeth, and scales ripple beneath his skin in the lamplight.

"My queen." The Fjordmarse commander bows deeply. His armor gleams blue-black in the dim light, and his breath frosts despite the warmth of the tent. "We were just discussing—"

"Ulric." Arvoren's voice is deadly quiet. "Tell her what you just told me."

A new figure steps forward—a draconic man wearing the elaborate insignia of a high-ranking General. His face bears the sharp, angular features common to their people, but his expression is grave. "Word reached us three days ago. Your brother sits upon the throne in Millrath. He has declared the king dead—fallen in battle in the northern reaches. He claims the throne by right of succession, as the last of your line."

The words hit like physical blows. "But surely no one believes—"

"Many do." This from one of the Fort Caddell scouts, his weathered face lined with concern. "But many care not, so long as aid is promised. The winter grows worse by the day. Trade routes are frozen. The people are desperate for stability, even if it means accepting a usurper's claim."

"He's convinced them the king died trying to reclaim his runaway queen." The general's voice carries centuries of ceremonial gravity. "That the storm that follows you, my queen, claimed them both. He speaks of building a new Kaldoria, one free from the 'tyranny' of the old ways."

"While our armies watched the northern borders," another officer adds, "he gathered support in the south. The Iron Lords have already sworn fealty to him. Others will follow."

Arvoren's growl fills the tent, smoke pouring thick from his mouth. The temperature spikes as his dragon nature surfaces. "How long to ready an escort south?"

"We can have you on the road by dawn," the Fjordmarse commander says quickly. "A small force, moving fast. The bulk of our armies will follow."

"Not fast enough." Arvoren's claws score deep marks in the wooden table. "Every day he sits that throne—"

"My king." The general's voice cuts through Arvoren's fury. "There's more. He speaks of…continuation. Of securing the future of the realm through a proper heir. He’s claiming…claiming to have a child of his own.”

I feel Arvoren's rage through our bond, hot enough to scorch. Smoke rises where his hands grip the table's edge.

He means to take my child.

"He will not touch them." The words emerge in a snarl. "Either of them."

"No," the general agrees simply. "He will not. Both our cities stand ready to march. The armies of Fjordmarse and Fort Caddell united for the first time in centuries—all to see the true king restored."

"And your lords?" I ask. "They support this alliance?"

The commander and general exchange looks. "Lord Sturmsen and Lord Caddell understand what's at stake," the commander says carefully. "A child of both bloodlines…the significance cannot be ignored. For our cities, it signifies a break in a long, long war that has cost us innumerably.”

I feel Arvoren's protective fury surge again at the mention of our baby, but before he can speak, the general continues.

"More importantly, they know Ulric of old. Know his instability, his hunger for power. They will not see him destroy everything your line has built, my king."

"Then ready your fastest horses," Arvoren orders. "We ride at first light."

The tent erupts into activity as officers hurry to carry out his command. I stay where I am, one hand pressed to my middle. Whatever comes next, whatever battles await us in Millrath, at least I know they're safe. Know that despite everything, we haven't lost what matters most.

Arvoren's hand finds mine in the chaos, fever-hot against my frozen fingers. Through our bond, I feel his struggle—the need to reclaim his throne warring with his desperate desire to keep us protected. To keep us close.

For the first time, I believe they could be one and the same. If we’re smart, they could be.

"They're alright," I whisper, just for him. "The baby. The healer confirmed it. They're growing perfectly."

His other hand comes up to cup my cheek, and for a moment I glimpse the man beneath the fury—the father beneath the king. The man I’ve been searching for, tracking down, teasing out into the light.

Then he straightens, scales rippling beneath his skin as he turns back to his commanders.

"Whatever it takes," he tells them, smoke curling from between his teeth. "Whatever armies you can muster. My brother will not keep my throne. Will not threaten my family."

The officers bow, and I feel the weight of ancient oaths in the gesture. These unlikely allies—dragon and human united—will follow him south. Will help us reclaim what's ours.

The question is: will we be in time?