Page 19 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate
"The men are exhausted—"
"Now, Darian." I swing into the saddle, ignoring the way my hands shake. "Something's changed. She's close. I can feel it."
And I can. That pulse beneath my ribs has grown stronger, more insistent. The dream left me with a certainty I can't explain: she's somewhere ahead in this endless white, and she needs me. Whatever strange magic connects us, whatever interest we've drawn from powers better left sleeping, none of it matters except finding her.
The men scramble to break camp, no one daring to question their King's urgency. Within minutes we're moving again, pushing deeper into the storm-wracked wilderness. The cold bites deeper with each passing hour, but I barely feel it. All I can think about is that circular room, that impossible warmth, the terror and hope in her eyes when she almost saw me.
Hold on,I think, hoping whatever connection we share carries the words to her.I'm coming. I swear on my crown, my blood, my very breath—I'm coming for you.
Somewhere ahead in the endless white, my wife waits in a tower I've never seen. And all around us, ancient powers watch and whisper, their interest a weight that presses down like wings made of night.
Let them watch. Let them whisper. I'll tear apart heaven and earth to find her.
The storm rages on, and we ride deeper into the heart of winter.
Chapter 9 - Calliope
I wake from dreams of fire and wings, his voice still echoing in my head.
Hold on,he had said, or perhaps I only imagined it.I'm coming for you.
The words felt real—more real than anything in this cursed tower, where time moves like frozen honey and the stones themselves seem to watch my every move. But I know better than to trust dreams. Know better than to hope.
Still…something has changed. The constant drain of winter magic on my body has eased slightly, leaving me feeling almost strong for the first time in weeks. Strong enough, perhaps, to do something monumentally stupid.
I dress carefully, choosing the plainest of the gowns Ulric has provided. The fabric is still too fine for my taste, too similar to what I wore in Millrath, but at least it's practical—dark wool that won't show dirt, with enough give to hide the slight swell of my stomach. Not that it matters. Ulric already knows about the baby. Already watches me with that calculating gleam in his eyes, like a merchant appraising valuable goods.
The guards outside my door straighten as I emerge. They're an odd pair—one missing three fingers, the other bearing burn scars across his throat. Neither speaks, but their eyes follow my every movement.
"I'd like to walk the grounds," I tell them, keeping my voice light, uncertain. Playing the scared little bird they expect me to be. "Just to get some air. Surely I’m allowed outside? Even for just a few minutes?”
They exchange glances. The scarred one shakes his head slowly.
"Please?" I let a hint of desperation creep into my tone. "I've been cooped up for so long. I only want to know where I am. Whether we're still even in Kaldoria, or—"
"The prince will see you." The words emerge as a rasp from the scarred guard's damaged throat. It's the first time I've heard either of them speak.
"Oh, I wouldn't want to bother him." I take a step back, letting fear show on my face. "Another time, perhaps—"
Rough hands close around my arms. I could fight them—could call the storm that perpetually rages outside these walls. But that would reveal too much, and it would drain me further. Better to play the helpless captive, to let them think me weak. Better to build my strength and wait to strike.
They march me through twisting corridors that seem to defy geometry. Left turns become right turns, stairs spiral in impossible directions. Sometimes I swear the windows face north, then south in the space of a few steps. If I weren't already familiar with the strange magic that permeates this place, I'd think I was going mad.
Ulric's study lies at the heart of this maze—a circular chamber whose walls are lined with maps and scrolls. Ancient weapons hang between tapestries depicting battles I don't recognize. The air smells of ink and leather and something sweeter, more cloying. The same scent that's been in my food lately, I realize with a chill. Perhaps there’s something in the water of this place.
He stands at a massive desk, golden hair catching the wan light from the narrow windows. The resemblance to his brother is still shocking—they have the same proud profile, the same predatory grace. But where Arvoren's features are hewn from stone, Ulric's seem carved from ice.
"Leave us," he tells the guards without looking up from whatever he's writing. They withdraw silently, closing the heavy door with heavy, final sort of sound.
I wait, letting the silence stretch. Playing his game. After what feels like hours, he finally sets down his quill and turns to face me.
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Curious about the world beyond these walls?"
"I only wanted some air." I fold my hands demurely, the picture of innocence. "It's so stuffy inside, and in my condition…"
"Ah yes. Your condition." He moves around the desk with fluid grace, reminding me uncomfortably of a snake. "How are you feeling? The morning sickness has passed, I trust?"
The concern in his voice sounds almost genuine. Almost. "Yes, thank you. Though lately I've been so tired—"