Page 22 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

The forest bleeds silver in the midnight hour.

Moonlight filters through ice-crusted branches, casting strange shadows across the snow. My platoon moves like ghosts through this ethereal landscape, their armor dulled to prevent reflection. Only the occasional stamp of a horse's hoof or clink of steel breaks the unnatural silence.

Something has changed in the air since our encounter with the gods. The very woods feel watchful, as if the ancient pines have awakened from centuries of slumber to observe our passage. Even my men sense it—I see it in the way they grip their weapons, in how their eyes dart between the trees.

But it's the other change that truly unnerves me.

I feel her.

Not constantly, not clearly, but in fragments that cut through my consciousness like shards of ice. Fear. Exhaustion. A bone-deep weariness that makes my dragon blood howl with protective fury. The sensations come without warning, lasting only moments before fading like smoke.

"It wasn't like this before," I murmur, more to myself than to Darian who rides beside me. "When we were first married, when she was in the castle..."

"What wasn't, my king?"

"This…connection." I press a hand to my chest where that foreign warmth pulses like a second heartbeat. "I could sense her magic, yes. But not her emotions. Not her pain."

Darian's silence speaks volumes. We both remember how it was in those early days—my obsession with her, my need to possess and control. But this is different. Deeper. As if something fundamental has shifted between us, though I can't begin to guess what.

A scout materializes from the shadows ahead, interrupting my brooding. "My king. Travelers on the road, half a league north."

My pulse quickens. "Numbers?"

"Eight, maybe ten. Mercenaries by the look of their gear. They've made camp in a clearing."

"Armed?"

"Heavily." The scout hesitates. "They're…celebrating something. Talking about a reward for information about a 'witch queen' they claim to have spotted."

The dragon in me surges forward, claws emerging before I can stop them. Smoke curls from between my teeth as I snarl, "Show me."

We leave the horses with two guards and proceed on foot. The mercenaries' camp comes into view through the trees—a handful of crude tents arranged around a low fire. They're a rough-looking bunch, their armor mismatched and bearing no House insignia. Sellswords, then, probably hired by one of my enemies to track Calliope.

"…swear it was her," one is saying as we creep closer. "Dark hair, fancy clothes. Running from something fierce by the look of it."

"And the storm?" another asks. "They say weather follows her like a loyal hound."

"Aye, never seen anything like it. Wind came out of nowhere, turned the whole world white—"

I've heard enough. Standing from my crouch, I step into the firelight.

The mercenaries scramble for weapons, but they're slow from drink and cold. My men emerge from the shadows like demons, steel gleaming in the firelight. What follows isn't really a battle—it's a slaughter.

I take the leader myself, catching his sword with one clawed hand and yanking him close.

"When?" I demand, smoke pouring from my mouth. "When did you see her?"

"Weeks ago!" He tries to pull away, eyes wide with terror. "Heading north, toward the mountains! Please, we didn't hurt her, we didn’t catch her, we don’t know where she went but she’sgone—"

His words end in a gurgle as I crush his windpipe in my hand. The others fall just as quickly to my warriors' blades. In moments, the only sound is the crackle of their abandoned fire and the endless howl of wind through the trees.

"Search the bodies," I order, wiping blood from my claws. "Any letters, maps, anything that might—"

Pain lances through my chest, sharp and foreign. I stagger, catching myself against a tree as a wave of fear that isn't mine floods my senses. For a moment—just a moment—I smell that sickly-sweet scent that's been haunting my dreams.

"My king?" Darian steadies me, concern etched on his face. "What is it?"

"She's afraid." The words come out in a growl. "Something's wrong. She's—"