Page 2 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

Heretic, heretic.

Something shifts inside me then, a strange pulse of awareness that makes me gasp. The magic flowing through my veins feels different suddenly—wilder, more unpredictable. There is an untold well inside me. I feel it and know it all at once, as if it has been there for some time now. An untold beacon of force, pushing out from me.

The temperature drops so rapidly that tree branches in all directions crack and shatter in the cold. Their breaking sounds ring like thunder in the eerie silence. There is suddenly no more shouting, no more stampeding. No more hunting. The hunt is over.

I press myself against the ancient trunk of a massive pine, trying to steady my breathing, to rein in this savage power somehow, though it is far too large for me; I feel its furious shrieking and straining like a physical tearing. But it's too late—I can feel the winter deepening around me, spreading outward like ripples in a pond.

This storm is mine, born of my fear and desperation, but it's growing beyond my control.

Voices carry through the whiteout, closer now. But they are not the voices of the hunt, now dead. They are not even the voices of the dead.

Mine,Arvoren says in my mind, in my soul.Little bird.

I hold my breath, pressing deeper into the shadows of the ancient forest. Only the gods could possibly know why I am so afraid. There is nothing to be afraid of here, naught but the dead. The thick trunk shields me from view as dark shapes seem to flurry past in the wind, barely visible through the curtain of snow. My heart hammers against my ribs, every beat seeming to echo in the strange silence.

Time stretches like frozen honey as I wait, scarcely daring to breathe. My legs tremble with exhaustion, and I can feel sweat freezing on my skin despite the bitter cold. The child's presence feels stronger somehow, as if they know we're in danger. As if they’re lending me their strength, helping me stay conscious even as my body screams for rest.

Gradually, the shadows seem to fade, moving deeper into the forest. Somewhere far beyond this stretch of woods, soldiers are still searching, but here, I am alone. Not even ghosts linger to watch me tread stubbornly on.

I wait longer still, counting my heartbeats.

“It’s okay,” I find myself murmuring, over and over, time and again, into the eerie quiet. I’m not sure whether I’m speaking to myself or my child. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be alright. It’s okay.”

When I finally dare to move, my muscles protest every motion. I push away from the tree, stumbling slightly as a fresh wave of dizziness washes over me. The magic is still there, humming beneath my skin, but it feels muted now, drained. Like me.

I need shelter. Need rest and warmth and food, or neither of us will survive another night in this wilderness.

As if in answer to my desperate thoughts, a glimmer of gold catches my eye through the trees, far in the distance, set against a far-away hill—warm and steady, unlike the harsh white of snow-reflected sunlight.

Lamplight. Or firelight. Somehow, my fury did not snuff it out.

My breath catches in my throat. After so many days of endless forest, the sight of that gentle glow feels impossible, like a mirage or a fever dream. But as I squint through the falling snow, I can make out more details: the dark bulk of a building, smoke rising from a chimney to disappear into the white sky.

Every instinct screams that this is dangerous. Any shelter could be a trap, any warmth a lure to draw me into the open. But what choice do I have? My body is failing, the child sapping what little strength remains. I won't survive another night exposed to this cold, especially not with my magic so volatile, so hungry for release.

I take a hesitant step toward the light, then another. The glow seems to beckon, promising warmth and safety, though I know better than to trust such promises. Still, I move forward, drawn like a moth to flame.

The storm eases slightly as I trek toward the distant glow, as if my magic recognizes the possibility of sanctuary. Through the thinning snowfall, I can see eventually that it's a house—large and well-built, with thick stone walls and heavy shutters drawn against the cold. Smoke curls from two chimneys, and lamplight spills from gaps in those shutters, painting the snow in stripes of amber.

Beyond it, a handful of other tiny golden lights glimmer through the night. A village, albeit a tiny one. Perhaps close enough to Fort Caddell that it may be a human village. Wishful thinking on my part, I know. Yet I wish fiercely for an ally.

I pause at the edge of the clearing, my hand resting protectively over my stomach. Everything in me yearns to rush forward, to pound on that solid wooden door and beg for shelter. But I force myself to wait, to watch. To be sure.

No soldiers' horses in the yard. No tracks in the fresh snow save those of wildlife. No sign that anyone has passed this way recently. Just a house, isolated and somehow untouched by the chaos that's consumed the rest of Kaldoria.

I take a deep breath of knife-sharp air, steeling myself for whatever comes next. Then I step out of the forest's shadows and into the light, knowing that this choice—like so many before it—could mean either salvation or doom.

But I'm out of options, out of time, out of strength. Whatever waits behind that door, it has to be better than freezing to death in the endless dark of the forest. Not even the storm that has, for reasons beyond my comprehension, shielded me from harm will shield me from that fate.

Holding fast to my faltering bravery, I move forward into the light.

Chapter 2 - Arvoren

Dawn creeps over Millrath like a thief, pale light filtering through clouds thick with endless snow. I stand at the window of my private chambers, watching as the city below stirs reluctantly to life. The streets are muffled in white, the usual clamor of morning commerce dulled to whispers. Even the forges of the Iron Quarter across the water burn lower these days, their smoke thin and hesitant against the grey sky.

This weather is killing my kingdom’s trade, its industry. I have not yet been successful in bringing myself to care. There is a sorrow upon the wind that has settled upon my city, the single jewel of my crown. I can feel it in my bones, in the way the cold seems to seek out every crack in the castle walls, every gap in ancient mortar. Some nights, in my most desperate and shameful moments, I find it carries her scent somehow—a crisp, sharp sweetness that makes my blood sing with recognition.

Then, it’s gone again.