Page 45 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

Then everything changes.

The temperature drops so suddenly that the air itself seems to crack. Sound dies, swallowed by a silence deeper than mere absence of noise. Through the gathering dark, shapes begin to coalesce—forms that hurt the eyes to look at directly. They drift between the trees like liquid moonlight, their features constantly shifting between dragon and storm and something older than either.

The soldiers falter, their weapons lowering as ancient magic floods the clearing. Even Arvoren goes still, steam rising from his bloodied mouth as he stares at the impossible beings surrounding us. Blood drips from his claws, freezing before it hits the ground.

One of the spirits flows closer, its form rippling like smoke on water. When it speaks, its voice carries notes of avalanche and aurora lights:"The old blood stirs. The child grows strong."

More spirits press in, their presence making my teeth ache with cold. But rather than fear, I feel something else—a connection that runs deeper than bone, older than kingdoms or crowns. Recognition floods through me: these are the true children of Kaldoria, the powers that walked these lands before the first dragons flew. Before the gods themselves turned their eyes to mortal affairs.

They reach for me with fingers like icicles, their touch promising an impossible cold. But they don't hurt me. Through that contact, I feel them recognize what grows within me—dragon and Windwaker blood combined into something that hasn't existed for centuries. Their interest feels like lightning in my veins, terrible and beautiful at once.

"Protect them," I whisper, though speaking feels like swallowing shards of ice. "Please."

The spirits turn as one, their forms solidifying into something almost human. Almost dragon. Almost storm. The temperature plummets further as ancient magic fills the air, making it difficult to breathe.

"You dare threaten what is ours?"Their voices blend together into a sound like breaking glaciers."You who have forgotten the old ways, forgotten what it means to carry sacred blood?"

The soldiers try to fight. They're brave, I'll give them that. But their weapons pass through spectral forms like smoke, and where the spirits' touch lands, flesh blackens with frost. Screams echo off ancient pines as the attackers fall one by one, their bodies frozen from within.

"No, please—" The leader drops his sword, backing away. "We didn't know—"

But there's no mercy in these ancient beings. They flow around him like living darkness, and his plea cuts off in a strangled cry. When they pull back, he stands frozen in a pose of terror, ice crystals forming in his eyes.

Arvoren takes advantage of the distraction, tearing through the remaining attackers with ruthless efficiency. Blood steams where it hits snow, and the copper-sharp scent of it fills the air. In moments, it's over.

He's at my side instantly, gathering me into his arms. His skin burns fever-hot against mine, chasing away the bone-deep cold left by the spirits' touch. Through our bond, I feel his fear warring with awe at what we've witnessed.

"I've got you," he murmurs into my hair, his voice rough with emotion. "I've got you both. You're safe now."

The spirits linger at the edges of the clearing, their forms growing less distinct as true night falls. Snow begins to drift down, already erasing signs of the battle. Soon there will be nothing left but memories and questions.

"Why?" I ask them, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Why help us?"

One spirit drifts closer, its form settling briefly into something almost feminine."The child you carry bridges ancient magics, Windwaker,"it says in a voice like wind through ice caves."What was sundered might be made whole again. What was broken might be reformed."

"The gods will not all be pleased,"another adds, its shape suggesting wings and frost.“But they will be watching.”

"Let them fear us, then." Arvoren's arms tighten around me, scales still rippling beneath his skin. "They won't touch either of them."

The spirits seem to smile—terrible, beautiful expressions that speak of avalanches and aurora lights."Brave words, dragon-king. But you will need more than courage in the days ahead."They begin to fade like morning frost in sunlight.

"Wait—" I reach for them, but my hand passes through mist. "What do you mean? What's coming?"

But they're already gone, leaving only whispers behind:"A new day dawns for Kaldoria."

Silence falls with the snow, broken only by our breathing and the soft crackle of ice forming on dead flesh. Arvoren shifts me in his arms, his transformation slowly receding as the immediate danger passes. Blood still seeps from the cut on his shoulder, but he seems not to notice.

"Are you hurt?" His hands move over me with infinite care, checking for injuries. "The baby—"

"We're alright." I cover his hand with mine where it rests on my swollen belly. Our child's magic pulses between us, stronger now than before the spirits' intervention. "Just tired. So tired…"

He presses his lips to my temple, and I feel him trembling slightly. Whether from battle-fury or fear or both, I can't tell. "I should have protected you better. Should have sensed them coming—"

"Shh." I turn my face into his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of smoke and winter air. "You did protect us. We're still here."

Around us, snow continues to fall, already covering the frozen bodies of our attackers. Soon there will be nothing left to mark this place as anything special—just another clearing in an endless forest. But we'll remember. The land will remember.

Arvoren gathers me closer, his fever-warmth chasing away the last of the spirits' cold. Through our bond, I feel his fierce protectiveness warring with lingering awe at what we witnessed. What it might mean for our future.