Page 27 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate
My gaze snaps back to the scout crumpled in the snow. His gasping breaths fog in the air as he scrambles back, hand going to his throat where my claws drew blood.
"She's his prisoner," I growl, and this time I know it's true. The certainty burns in my blood like dragon-fire. "Whatever game he's playing, whatever lies he's spinning, she's not there by choice."
As the hours pass, more of my soldiers-turned-scouts filter in from the storm, each with their own conflicting reports. Some bleed, chased by hounds out of the ravine. None can seem to decide the circumstances of her residence in that accursed place. Soon, I can no longer bear to listen.
"Windows sealed with iron," I hear one telling Darian urgently, standing in the swirling snow. "Runes carved in the frames. Old magic, by the look of it."
"Enough!"
The word comes out as a roar that shakes snow from the trees. The scant few men around our makeshift camp fall silent, watching me with wary eyes. They've seen what happens when my control slips, when the dragon rises too close to the surface.
I force myself to breathe, to pull back the scales that have begun to spread across my skin.
"We attack at dawn," I tell Darian, cutting through the confusion of reports. "Prepare a plan of assault with our current intelligence, prioritising stealth. I want every warrior ready to—"
The world disappears.
One moment I'm standing on the ridge, snow swirling around me. The next, I'm somewhere else entirely: a dark corridor lit by guttering torches, the air thick with the taste of ancient stone and strange magic.
And there, running through the shadows ahead of me, is Calliope.
She stumbles as she runs, one hand pressed against the wall for support. Her face is too pale, drawn with exhaustion, but her eyes burn with desperate determination. She's thinner than I remember, more fragile, though somehow her presence fills the space like smoke. Even in this vision, the sight of her makes something twist painfully in my chest.
The stones around her seem to pulse with an inner light, responding to her passage. Frost spreads from her fingertips where they brush the wall, delicate patterns that glow with an eerie blue radiance. The tower itself seems to recognize her, to reach for her magic.
"Please," she whispers, though I don't know if she's speaking to me or to whatever pursues her through the dark. Her breath frosts in the air, tiny crystals that catch the torchlight like stars. "Please, I can't—"
Footsteps echo behind her, heavy boots on ancient stone. A voice that sounds horribly familiar calls out, dripping false concern:
"Little bird? Where are you flying to?"
Ulric. My brother's voice sends rage burning through me like dragon-fire, but I can't move, can't reach her. Can only watch as Calliope presses herself against the wall, one hand clutching her midsection as if in pain.
"No," she breathes, and the word carries more than fear. There's something else there, something protective and fierce that I don't understand. Something that makes her magic flare wildly, causing the torches to gutter and ice to spread across the ceiling in crackling sheets. "No, you can't have—"
The vision cuts off abruptly, leaving me gasping in the snow. The world spins lazily around me as I struggle to orient myself, to separate reality from whatever I just witnessed.
Darian steadies me as I stagger, but I barely feel his touch. All I can think about is the terror in Calliope's eyes, the way she curled around herself as if protecting something precious. Something vital.
My men gather around me, their faces lined with concern, but I wave them away. How can I explain what I've seen? How can I make them understand the urgency burning in my blood?
The wind howls across the ridge, driving snow like daggers, but I barely feel the cold. My focus has narrowed to that window high in the tower, where candlelight still flickers behind frosted glass. Something is happening up there, something that makes my blood roar in my ears with protective fury.
“Now,” I hear myself rasp. “Men. We attack…now.”
Chapter 13 - Calliope
Of course, I should have known I wouldn’t have a chance to get far. Still, stupidly, I tried rifling through the cupboards and drawers of Ulric’s study, desperate for any kind of intelligence, consumed with a suffocating and frantic desire to know. To understand.
And as the door creaks open behind me, my hands full of useless papers I can barely decipher, I know I have made a dire mistake.
"Find anything interesting?"
My blood turns to ice at his voice. I turn slowly, letting the parchment fall from nerveless fingers.
Ulric stands in the doorway, golden hair catching the firelight. His smile is knife-sharp, but his eyes are cold as midwinter frost. He looks more than ever like a twisted reflection of his brother—all of Arvoren's predatory grace but none of his fire, none of his heart.
"I was looking for a book," I lie, though we both know better. My voice sounds weak even to my own ears, slurred slightly from whatever poison still lingers in my blood. "One of the histories you mentioned—"