Page 12 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate
I peer at him with the hardest eyes I can muster. "Is that why you tried to kill him? Jealousy?"
His laugh has an edge of genuine pain. "Jealousy? No, Windwaker, no. I tried to kill him because he is exactly what our parents made him to be—a tyrant who sees the world as a thing to be owned and controlled. The throne made him worse, but the seeds were always there."
I think of Arvoren's fierce protectiveness. "You're wrong about him."
"Am I?" Ulric leans forward, his eyes reflecting the firelight like a cat's. "Tell me then—in all your time with him, did he ever truly give you a choice? About anything? Or did he simply decide what was best for you, secure in his rightness?"
The words hit closer to home than I'd like to admit. I focus on the food, using it as an excuse not to answer.
"You see?" His voice softens with false sympathy. "I'm not offering ownership, Calliope. I'm offering partnership. A chance to shape the future rather than simply being shaped by it. All I ask is that you trust me enough to listen. To consider the possibilities. There is nothing in this world more important than power, it’s true. But I believe one must have the freedom to take it.”
"And if I refuse to listen to you?” I ask. “What of my freedom then, Ulric?”
He sits back, that knife-edge smile returning. "Then you'll find this tower far less comfortable than it could be. I'd prefer not to resort to such measures, but…" He spreads his hands. "The future of Kaldoria is at stake. I'll do what I must."
The food turns to ash in my mouth, but I force myself to keep eating. Every bite is another small piece of strength recovered, another step closer to escape. I just have to play along, appear compliant, until I find an opening.
"Rest," Ulric says, rising. "Think about what I've said. We'll talk more tomorrow."
He pauses at the door, glancing back with an expression I can't quite read. "And Calliope? I truly am glad you're here. Whatever you might think of me, whatever stories my brother told... I'm not the monster in this tale."
The door closes behind him with the same tomb-like finality as before. In the renewed silence, I can hear the wind picking up outside, driving snow against the ancient stones.
My hand drifts to my midriff, feeling the warmth there—the only constant in this shifting game of powers and possibilities. The child moves slightly, a flutter so faint I might have imagined it. Perhaps I did. Perhaps I am going mad like a hypothermic wanderer, convinced he is burning alive. The cold rots peoples’ minds away. I have seen it in these past weeks. I know what it can do to people.
"We'll survive this," I whisper, though I'm no longer sure who I'm trying to convince. "We'll find a way."
But as night falls properly and the fire burns low once more, I can't shake the feeling that I'm caught between forces far larger than myself. Arvoren's possession or Ulric's manipulation—are those really my only choices?
The wind howls outside, and for the first time since fleeing Millrath, I find myself longing for the simplicity of iron chains.
Chapter 6 - Arvoren
Weeks bleed into one another like blood running thin in rain, losing their colour and shape. From my throne, detached from it, I watch as winter tightens its grip on Millrath, each day bringing fresh reports of disaster. The Great River has frozen utterly solid for the first time in recorded history, its surface a mirror of cracked ice that reflects the perpetually gray sky. None of the westerly cities can export or import food. If this keeps up, they will be starved out. Trade ships sit trapped in the harbor, their hulls slowly being crushed by expanding ice. Reportedly, the bombastic sound of splintering wood carries across the water at night, loud as eerie demolitions, as if the city itself is groaning in pain.
Every morning, more petitioners crowd my castle gates. Merchants whose caravans are stranded in the mountain passes. Farmers whose winter stores have frozen and burst. Fishermen who can no longer feed their families. Their voices blend into a constant murmur of desperation that echoes through the castle halls.
I receive them all, dispensing what aid I can while searching their faces for any hint, any whisper of news about Calliope. If it weren’t for my desperation to find her, I would cast them all away. But if they know anything, fear keeps them silent. The common folk whisper that she's become some kind of winter spirit, stalking the northern forests and freezing anyone who draws too near. Others claim she's gathering an army of her own, preparing to return and claim the throne for herself.
Let them whisper. Their fear is nothing compared to the ice that grows in my own heart.
The Lords circle like vultures, growing bolder with each passing day. They send missives full of thinly veiled threats and demands for action. Bellrose writes of unrest in his territory, of peasants who blame the crown for their suffering. Morwen speaks of trade routes that must be reopened, no matter the cost. Even Sturmsen, usually of steadfast neutrality, sends firm and unsympathetic warnings of rumblings of rebellion in the border towns, of skirmishes with Fort Caddell.
Only Lord Caddell himself remains silent, though his human city in the north must be suffering worst of all. His silence worries me more than the others' complaints.
I spend my nights pacing the castle battlements, watching the endless snow fall. The guards have learned to keep their distance when they see me coming, steam rising from my skin as I fight to contain the dragon's rage that builds with each day she's gone. Sometimes, in the darkest hours before dawn, I swear I can smell her on the wind—that crisp sweetness that always clung to her skin, now turned sharp as broken ice.
Darian tries his best to maintain order, to keep me focused on the immediate needs of the kingdom. But his voice of reason grows fainter with each passing day, drowned out by the howling storm in my head. My dreams are filled with visions of her lost in the wilderness, alone and afraid. Or worse—not alone at all.
The castle feels like a tomb without her. Servants whisper that the very stones know their queen is missing, that the ancient magic woven into the foundations yearns for her return. In our chambers—my chambers now—the bed remains untouched. I sleep instead in my study when exhaustion finally claims me, surrounded by maps marked with every reported sighting, every rumor of her whereabouts.
None of it makes sense. The patterns of the storms, the movements of troops in the north, the whispers of rebellion—there's a shape to it all that I can't quite grasp. Like a word on the tip of my tongue, or a shadow glimpsed from the corner of my eye.
Until today.
The spy was caught trying to access my private correspondence—specifically, letters between myself and Lord Sturmsen regarding troop movements near Fort Caddell. Darian found him, severed his hand almost clean off. A minor breach of security, ordinarily. But something about the timing, about the specific documents he sought, nags at me like a splinter under the skin.
I've left him to stew in the dungeons for three days now, letting the cold and dark work on his resolve. The dungeons beneath Millrath were built long before my time, their walls blackened by centuries of dragon-fire, mere feet above the crypt, the tombs. Water seeps eternally through cracks in the ancient stone, leaving mineral deposits that gleam like teeth in torchlight. The air down here tastes of rust and old fear, thick enough to coat the tongue.