Page 49 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

I feel Arvoren's surge of protective fury through our bond.

"Careful," he snarls. "Choose your next words with extreme care."

"Peace, my king." The human female ranger raises her hands. "We want to help you. We want to bring you back to Millrath, protect you on your journey, ensure your survival. You won’t live long enough to make it in this cold without help. We are loyal to the throne.”

"My lord," the Fjordmarse commander cuts in smoothly, "we have supplies. Food, medicine, warm clothing. A proper camp not far from here. Let us help you both."

As if on cue, more soldiers emerge from the trees, bearing packs and bundles, tents and wagons. The scent of bread and dried meat makes my stomach clench. How long since we've eaten real food?

"Arvoren." I touch his arm gently. Through our bond, I feel his struggle—the need to protect me warring with the reality of our situation. "We need help."

He glances at me, and something in his expression softens fractionally. After a long moment, he nods once, sharply.

"Any false move," he tells the soldiers, "any hint of treachery, and I'll burn this forest to ash, and your cities with it."

"Understood, my king." The commander bows. "Shall we escort you to camp? Our healer is waiting."

Arvoren's arm tightens around my waist as we follow them through the trees. The soldiers give us a wide berth, though I catch several of them exchanging knowing looks. Whether they're reacting to my obvious weakness or my condition, I can't tell.

The camp appears through the darkness like a dream—proper tents made of thick canvas, cooking fires burning cheerfully, the smell of food and medicine andsafety. My knees buckle again, but this time strong hands catch me before I can fall.

"Easy there, my queen." The female ranger steadies me. "Let's get you to the healer's tent."

"Be gentle with her," Arvoren growls, but he releases me carefully into the ranger's care. I feel his reluctance through our bond, his need to keep me close warring with the knowledge that I need proper medical attention.

"I'll be fine," I tell him, though we both know it's at least partly a lie. "Go. Talk to the commanders. Learn what's really happening out there."

Arvoren touches my cheek briefly, a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. Then he turns to the waiting officers, his posture shifting into something more regal, more controlled. The King reasserting himself after weeks of being simply a man protecting his wife.

The ranger helps me toward a large tent that smells of herbs and clean linen. A woman waits in the doorway, tall and lean, with the sharp features common to Fjordmarse dragonborn, though her eyes hold a healer's gentleness.

"Welcome, my queen," she says softly. "Let's see what we can do about making you more comfortable."

***

After I have been assured by the medic that, miraculously, my baby appears to be developing at a perfectly normal rate and is in good health, I stagger back into the snow like something revived, as if this body is new to me. I feel made anew. Something tightly knotted and furiously worried inside me has loosened. I didn't hurt them, not with the stress and starvation and fighting. They're alright. The draconic magic confirmed it.

For once I barely notice the cold. Our child's magic pulses within me, strong and steady, no longer paired with the erratic surge of anxiety that's plagued me for weeks. The medic's touch—dragon-warm and ancient with knowing—showed me what I couldn't see before: our baby grows perfectly. I protected them.

I only have to protect them a while longer. Millrath, city of my downfall, will protect us.

Sounds of the military camp drift through the darkness—soldiers talking in low voices, weapons being sharpened, the crackle of fires burning against the bitter night. Steam rises from cookfires where massive pots simmer with something that smells rich and hearty. The scent makes my mouth water, but I need to find Arvoren first. Need to share this precious certainty with him.

I find him in the commander's tent, bent over a spread of maps with several officers. Their voices carry into the night, tense with carefully contained urgency. Even before I enter, I catch fragments that make my blood run cold:

"—proclamation sent to all the major cities—"

"—claiming the king died in the northern reaches—"

Arvoren's head snaps up as I push through the tent flaps. His eyes find mine instantly, and through our bond I feel his fierce surge of protectiveness mixed with mounting fury at whatever news he's receiving. Steam curls from between his teeth, and scales ripple beneath his skin in the lamplight.

"My queen." The Fjordmarse commander bows deeply. His armor gleams blue-black in the dim light, and his breath frosts despite the warmth of the tent. "We were just discussing—"

"Ulric." Arvoren's voice is deadly quiet. "Tell her what you just told me."

A new figure steps forward—a draconic man wearing the elaborate insignia of a high-ranking General. His face bears the sharp, angular features common to their people, but his expression is grave. "Word reached us three days ago. Your brother sits upon the throne in Millrath. He has declared the king dead—fallen in battle in the northern reaches. He claims the throne by right of succession, as the last of your line."

The words hit like physical blows. "But surely no one believes—"