Page 18 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate
"The men need rest—"
"The men can rest when we find her." Smoke curls from my nostrils, making the horses stamp nervously. "Or would you rather my brother reach her first?"
No one argues further. They know what Ulric is capable of, what he'd do to anything I hold dear just to spite me. The thought of him finding Calliope, of him laying one finger on her…
The storm intensifies as we ride, as if responding to my fury. Night falls properly, turning the wilderness into a maze of shadows and swirling snow. The men's torches create small islands of light that only serve to make the darkness beyond seem deeper, hungrier.
We push on until the horses begin to stumble, their legs trembling with exhaustion. Even I have to admit we're more likely to break their legs than make real progress in these conditions. When we finally make camp in the lee of a massive fallen pine, the men are nearly dead on their feet.
"Two-hour watches," I tell Darian as the others set up the tents with shaking hands. "We move again before dawn."
He just nods, knowing better than to argue. But as he turns away, I catch him watching me with something like concern. Like he knows I won't sleep again tonight.
He's right. I pace the perimeter of our camp as the others settle in, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. The strange presence I felt earlier has grown stronger, pressing down like a physical weight. Through the gaps in the storm I catch glimpses of stars, wheeling in patterns that seem wrong somehow. As if the very sky is holding its breath, waiting.
The wind whispers.Soon you will understand.
When exhaustion finally claims me, I dream of her again. The dream is different this time.
Instead of the endless white wilderness, I find myself in a circular chamber that seems to stretch endlessly upward into shadow. Moonlight streams through narrow arrow-slits, cutting silver paths across worn stone floors. The air feels strange—heavy with age and magic that makes my scales want to emerge.
And there she is.
Calliope sits on the edge of a narrow bed, her dark hair falling forward to hide her face. She looks thinner than I remember, more fragile, though somehow her presence fills the space like smoke. Even in dreams, the sight of her makes something twist painfully in my chest.
"Little bird," I breathe, and her head snaps up.
For a moment—just a moment—our eyes meet across the impossible distance. Recognition flares in her gaze, followed by something that might be hope, might be fear. Then she shakes her head violently, pressing her hands to her face.
"Not real," she whispers, and the broken sound of her voice makes my dragon blood howl. "Just another dream. He's not really here."
I try to reach for her, to cross the space between us, but my feet won't move. All I can do is watch as she curls in on herself, one hand pressed protectively over her stomach. That strange warmth I've been sensing pulses between us like a captive star.
"I'm coming for you," I tell her, willing her to hear me, to believe. "I'm closer than you think. Just hold on—"
The dream begins to fade, the edges of the room dissolving into mist. The last thing I see is her face, turned toward where I stand as if she heard me after all. A tear traces down her cheek, catching the moonlight like a fallen star.
"Arvoren?" she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips follows me into waking—
I wake with a snarl, claws fully extended, smoke pouring from my mouth. It takes a moment to recognize my surroundings: the small tent, the furs beneath me crusty with frozen sweat. Outside, the storm continues its endless assault, but something has changed in the air.
Power thrums through the night like a plucked bowstring. When I throw open the tent flap, I'm met with a sight that makes even my dragon's blood run cold.
The storm has…stopped. Not ended, but frozen in place. Snow hangs suspended in the air, caught between one moment and the next. Through the gaps in this impossible stillness, stars wheel in patterns I've never seen before, casting an eerie light that turns the world to crystal and shadow.
And there, moving between the frozen snowflakes, are the shapes I've been sensing. Not quite visible, but not quite invisible either—forms that hurt the eyes to look at directly. They drift through our camp like curious ghosts, leaving neither tracks nor shadows.
The gods are walking.
"My king?" Darian's voice seems to come from very far away. He stands at the edge of camp, sword drawn, though what good steel would do against divine curiosity, I can't say. "What's happening?"
"I don't—" The words die in my throat as one of the shapes drifts closer.
It towers over me, a suggestion of wings and eyes and ancient hunger that makes my dragon want to both attack and submit. A voice that isn't a voice whispers through my mind, tasting of storm winds and mountain peaks.
Before I can begin to understand what it speaks, time snaps back into motion. Snow resumes its relentless fall, and the strange shapes fade like smoke in wind. But the power remains, humming in the air like the aftermath of lightning.
"Sound the alarm," I order, already striding toward my horse. "We ride. Now."