Page 31 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate
I know it with terrifying certainty.
Chapter 15 - Calliope
The world burns and freezes alike around us as we run.
Dragon-fire licks up ancient walls while frost spreads in delicate patterns across stone, the competing magics turning the air to steam. Through the shattered ceiling above, I catch glimpses of a storm unlike anything I've ever seen—snow and ice driving sideways with impossible force, as if the very sky is at war with itself.
I am only partially aware, as if my body is not fully under my own control. My head reels, pounding with pain and energy, fear and fury. Arvoren half-drags, half-carries me through the chaos, his grip on my arm tight enough to bruise. The clash of steel on steel rings off stone, punctuated by inhuman snarls and the wet sound of talons tearing flesh.
My legs can barely hold me. Whatever poison Ulric fed me still courses through my veins, making the world tilt and spin with each step. The child's presence pulses within me, lending what strength they can, but it's not enough. It's never enough.
"Stay with me," Arvoren growls as I stumble again. His voice is rough with smoke and fury, but there's fear there too. "We're almost out."
Almost out. The words echo strangely in my head. When was the last time I saw the sky? How long has it been since I breathed air that wasn't tainted with ancient magic and my brother-in-law's lies?
We round a corner and suddenly there it is—a ragged hole torn in the fortress wall, opening onto a world of swirling white. Snow and bitter wind howl through the gap, casting ice crystals that catch the torchlight like stars.
"Go!" Darian shouts from behind us, his sword a blur as he holds back three of Ulric's men. Blood runs down his arm from a nasty gash, freezing before it can drip from his fingers. "Get her out! We'll hold them!"
Arvoren hesitates for a fraction of a second, torn between duty to his men and the need to get me to safety. In that moment, I catch a glimpse of the king beneath the fury—the leader who inspires such loyalty that his warriors will die to buy us time.
Then he's moving again, practically lifting me as we sprint for the opening. Behind us, I hear Darian roar in pain, followed by the terrible sound of a blade finding flesh. I try to look back, but Arvoren's grip prevents it.
"Don't," he snarls. "Nothing we can do for them now."
The words are cold, practical. The voice of a king who's lost men before. But I feel him trembling with suppressed rage, with the need to turn and fight. To burn everything that threatens what's his.
We burst out into the storm, and the bitter wind steals my breath. The fortress rises behind us like a twisted shadow, its impossible geometry even more apparent from the outside. The walls seem to writhe when viewed directly, and strange lights flicker in windows that shouldn't exist. It is wounded. It is dying. I pray I will never set eyes upon it again.
A steep ridge of ice-covered rock stretches before us, dropping away into darkness on either side. The path—if it can be called that—is barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and the footing is treacherous with frost.
"There's a break in the cliffs ahead," Arvoren says, guiding me onto the narrow trail. "If we can reach it—"
An arrow hisses past my ear, close enough that I feel its passage. More follow, forcing us to press ourselves against the cliff face as Ulric's archers find their range.
"Keep moving!" Arvoren pushes me ahead of him, using his body to shield me from the barrage. I feel him flinch as an arrow finds its mark, but he doesn't slow. "Don't stop, no matter what!"
"I can help!" I try to reach for my magic, to call the storm to our aid, but the power slips away like smoke through my fingers. "If I could just—"
"Calliope, I can’t trust you right now!" The words crack like a whip, and theyhurt.“Justgo!”
The accusation in that statement has hit me harder than any arrow. "You don't understand, Arvoren—he was drugging me, keeping me weak—"
"And I'm supposed to—" Arvoren breaks off sharply, shoving me down as another volley of arrows whistles overhead. His body curves over mine, sheltering me from the onslaught. Through our pressed-together forms, I feel him trembling—with rage or fear or both, I can't tell. His breath comes in hot bursts against my neck, smelling of smoke and dragon-fire.
Despite myself, his scent is like coming home.
I want to scream at him, to make him understand what Ulric did to me. But the words tangle in my throat, choked by exhaustion and the lingering effects of whatever poison still dulls my senses. How can I explain the fog that's clouded my mind for weeks, the way my own magic slipped through my fingers like water? How do I tell him about the fear, the brutality, the endless confusion, the terror of being trapped in my own weakened body?
How do I explain all of that, and then still manage not to collapse right back into Arvoren’s clutches once I’ve said it all?
More arrows clatter against stone. One grazes Arvoren's shoulder, drawing a hiss of pain. Blood drips onto the snow between us, freezing instantly into crimson beads. The sight of it stirs something protective and worried in me, despite everything.
"We need to move." His voice is rough, tight with something I can't quite read. Not quite anger anymore, but nowhere near trust. "The cliff path narrows ahead. If we can reach the tree line—"
Movement in the swirling snow catches my eye. At first, I think it's more of Ulric's archers.
But no—these shapes are wrong, ethereal, drifting through the storm like fragments of moonlight given form. Their features shift and flow like water over ice, hauntingly beautiful but utterly inhuman. Ancient magic radiates from them in waves that make my teeth ache.