Page 48 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate
But when I blink, the shadows are gone, and I can't be sure they were ever there. I suspect I may have dreamt it. Nothing feels real.
Now I wake to silence.
The first thing I notice is the absence of wind. After weeks of endless howling between peaks, the quiet feels almost holy. I'm lying on something softer than frozen ground, my head pillowed in Arvoren's lap. The air smells of old leather and wood polish, with an underlying sweetness I can't quite place.
When I open my eyes, I find myself in what appears to be an abandoned carriage. Moonlight filters through gaps in boarded-up windows, casting strange patterns across worn velvet seats. The space is small but well-crafted, though years of exposure have left the wood warped and the upholstery faded. Still, it offers real shelter—the first we've had in many hours.
"How long was I asleep?" My voice comes out rough from disuse.
Arvoren's hand strokes my hair, a gesture so gentle it makes my chest ache. "Most of the day. You needed it."
"Where are we?"
"An old trade route, I think. This carriage has been here years." His fingers continue their gentle motion. "The wheels are shot, but the body's solid enough. Good shelter."
I start to sit up, but he places a hand on my shoulder, keeping me still.
"Rest. We're safe for the moment."
Through our bond, I feel his exhaustion warring with alertness. He hasn't slept, of course. Never does when there might be threats lurking in the dark. But there's something else in his posture, a tension I can't quite read.
"What is it?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want the answer.
Before he can respond, sound breaks the silence: boot-steps crunching on snow, the soft clink of weapons against armor. Many sets of feet, moving with military precision.
Before I can think, before I can even move to grasp his hand, we’re surrounded.
Arvoren moves with liquid grace, helping me to my feet while positioning himself between me and the carriage door. Smoke curls from between his teeth as scales ripple beneath his skin. Ready to fight. Ready to kill.
"Stay behind me," he growls.
"I can help—" But even as I say it, my knees buckle. The child's magic pulses erratically, responding to my fear. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
Arvoren catches me with one arm, his other hand already reaching for the door. "Just stay close. I’ll keep you safe.”
We step out into knife-sharp air. The carriage sits in a natural hollow, surrounded by towering pines whose branches bend under the weight of fresh snow. Moonlight turns the world to silver and shadow, bright enough to see the armed figures emerging from the trees.
Their armor catches my eye first—the distinctive, blue-tinted steel of Fjordmarse craftsmanship, elegant yet practical. The soldiers move with the fluid grace of dragonborn warriors. I can practically smell their draconic nature. But behind them…
"Hold!" A voice rings out, clear and commanding. "We mean you no harm, Your Majesties."
Two figures step forward, and I have to blink to make sure I'm seeing correctly. The messengers wear the earth-toned leathers of Fort Caddell rangers, their faces bearing the weather-beaten look of humans who spend their lives in the northern wilderness. One carries a white flag of parlay.
"Impossible," Arvoren snarls, pushing me further behind him. "The forces of Fjordmarse and Fort Caddell work together about as well as fire and ice. This is a trap."
"Times change, my king." The taller messenger bows deeply. His accent marks him as northern, indeed a human settler—the hard consonants of the accent Ulric once used to fool me into believing he was Linus. "When word reached us of your presence here—"
"Word?" Arvoren's laugh is sharp as breaking glass. "And how exactly did you come by this intelligence?"
The female ranger steps forward, her silver-streaked hair catching moonlight. "We've had scouts watching the passes since reports came of the attack on Ulric's fortress. We’ve been trying to intercept you.”
"You're avoiding my question." Smoke pours thicker from Arvoren's mouth. "Why are you really here? Why work together now, after centuries of border wars? I want a straight answer. I am your king.”
The Fjordmarse commander removes his helm, revealing features carved from ice and shadow. Steam curls from his nostrils as he speaks: "Because we remember, my king. When the coalition moved against you, both our Houses stayed loyal. We know the cost of chaos. Here in the north, we cannot afford a coup. We deal in loyalty."
"Pretty words," Arvoren growls. "But Lord Sturmsen has never been one for poetry. What does Fjordmarse gain from this alliance?"
"Survival." The commander's voice carries the weight of mountains. "The winter grows worse by the day. Trade routes are frozen. The undead mass at our borders while we waste strength fighting each other. We need a strong throne—and a queen who might actually unite human and dragon blood. Our cities can take no more war.”