Page 23 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate
"My king!" A rider bursts into the clearing, his horse lathered with sweat despite the cold. One of the messenger ravens I ordered to follow us. "Urgent news from Millrath!"
I already know what he'll say. Can read it in the fear on his face, the desperation in his voice. But I force myself to take the letter he thrusts toward me, to read the words by firelight, in the frantic hand of one of my advisors:
The Lords gather their armies. House Bellrose moves against the capital. Without your presence, the throne stands undefended. Return immediately or risk losing everything.
The parchment crumples in my fist.
I should go back. Any sane ruler would. The kingdom I've spent my life defending teeters on the brink of continued civil war, and here I am chasing ghosts through the frozen north.
But then that alien fear spikes again, stronger this time. An image flashes through my mind: golden hair, a knife-edge smile, hands that burn like fever. My brother's face, but wrong somehow. Twisted.
The choice crystallizes like ice.
"Make for the mountains," I tell my men, already striding north. "We're close. I can feel it."
"My king." Darian's voice carries the weight of decades of faithful service. "The throne—"
"Will mean nothing if he finds her first." I don't need to specify who 'he' is. We all remember Ulric's madness, his obsession with power. "The Lords can plot all they want. But if my brother gets his hands on her…"
I let the sentence hang unfinished. We all know what Ulric is capable of. What he'd do to anything I hold dear, just to spite me.
The messenger shifts nervously in his saddle. "What…what should I tell them, sire?"
"Tell them their king hunts in the north." I bare my teeth in what might technically be called a smile. "Tell them to remember what happened when last the Lords moved against my throne. They’d do well to fear the cold.”
We push deeper into the wilderness, following the mercenaries' trail. That connection pulses stronger with each league we cover, tugging me ever-north, an impossible gravity. Sometimes I catch glimpses of her through it—a circular room, floating candles, the taste of poison sweet as honey.
The moon rides high above the ancient pines, turning the world to silver and shadow. And somewhere ahead in this endless night, my wife waits in a tower I've never seen, growing weaker by the hour.
Let the Lords plot. Let the kingdom burn. I'll tear apart heaven and earth to find her.
Nothing else matters now.
The mercenaries' trail leads us to an ancient road I've never seen before.
It winds between the pines like a black serpent, its stones worn smooth by centuries of use. No snow settles on its surface despite the endless storm. The men eye it warily, and with good reason—we've all heard tales of the old ways that still cut through these northern reaches. Roads that lead to places better left forgotten.
"This shouldn't be here," Darian mutters, his horse dancing nervously beneath him. "No maps show a paved road this far north."
"No current maps." I dismount to examine the strange stones. They're carved with runes that seem to shift when viewed directly, patterns that make my dragon blood sing with recognition. "This is older. Much older."
"From before the Dragon Kings?"
"From before everything." The certainty in my voice surprises even me. Something about this place resonates with magic that feels ancient and familiar at once. Like the power that exploded from Calliope that final night in Millrath.
The road winds on through the gathering dark, and somewhere ahead, my wife waits in a tower that shouldn't exist. I'll find her. Will tear apart anyone who stands between us. Will burn the world to ash if that's what it takes to bring her home.
The strange warmth pulses beneath my ribs like a second heartbeat, guiding me forward into the endless night.
Chapter 11 - Calliope
The first blow catches me off guard.
I stumble back against the cold stone wall as the larger of Ulric's guards grabs my throat, his calloused fingers digging into soft flesh. The second laughs, a sound like breaking glass, while the third circles behind me, boots scraping against ancient stone. Their eyes gleam with predatory interest in the guttering torchlight—inhuman and yet more vicious than most dragons I’ve known, something worse than both. In the flickering shadows, I catch glimpses of scales rippling beneath their skin, smoke curling from between sharp teeth with each breath like chilled winter sighs.
My head spins, still foggy from whatever Ulric gave me. The edges of my vision blur and swim, making the hallway seem to twist and stretch impossibly before me. Even the torches on the walls appear to float and dance, their flames casting strange patterns that hurt my eyes to look at directly.
"Look at her," the one holding me sneers, his breath hot against my face. "Somehereticyou turned out to be. Weak as a nestling. Can't even defend yourself without that storm of yours." His grip tightens, fingers pressing into the soft hollow beneath my jaw. "What's wrong, witch? Too weak to call the wind?"