Page 50 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

"Many do." This from one of the Fort Caddell scouts, his weathered face lined with concern. "But many care not, so long as aid is promised. The winter grows worse by the day. Trade routes are frozen. The people are desperate for stability, even if it means accepting a usurper's claim."

"He's convinced them the king died trying to reclaim his runaway queen." The general's voice carries centuries of ceremonial gravity. "That the storm that follows you, my queen, claimed them both. He speaks of building a new Kaldoria, one free from the 'tyranny' of the old ways."

"While our armies watched the northern borders," another officer adds, "he gathered support in the south. The Iron Lords have already sworn fealty to him. Others will follow."

Arvoren's growl fills the tent, smoke pouring thick from his mouth. The temperature spikes as his dragon nature surfaces. "How long to ready an escort south?"

"We can have you on the road by dawn," the Fjordmarse commander says quickly. "A small force, moving fast. The bulk of our armies will follow."

"Not fast enough." Arvoren's claws score deep marks in the wooden table. "Every day he sits that throne—"

"My king." The general's voice cuts through Arvoren's fury. "There's more. He speaks of…continuation. Of securing the future of the realm through a proper heir. He’s claiming…claiming to have a child of his own.”

I feel Arvoren's rage through our bond, hot enough to scorch. Smoke rises where his hands grip the table's edge.

He means to take my child.

"He will not touch them." The words emerge in a snarl."Eitherof them."

"No," the general agrees simply. "He will not. Both our cities stand ready to march. The armies of Fjordmarse and Fort Caddell united for the first time in centuries—all to see the true king restored."

"And your lords?" I ask. "They support this alliance?"

The commander and general exchange looks. "Lord Sturmsen and Lord Caddell understand what's at stake," the commander says carefully. "A child of both bloodlines…the significance cannot be ignored. For our cities, it signifies a break in a long, long war that has cost us innumerably.”

I feel Arvoren's protective fury surge again at the mention of our baby, but before he can speak, the general continues.

"More importantly, they know Ulric of old. Know his instability, his hunger for power. They will not see him destroy everything your line has built, my king."

"Then ready your fastest horses," Arvoren orders. "We ride at first light."

The tent erupts into activity as officers hurry to carry out his command. I stay where I am, one hand pressed to my middle. Whatever comes next, whatever battles await us in Millrath, at least I know they're safe. Know that despite everything, we haven't lost what matters most.

Arvoren's hand finds mine in the chaos, fever-hot against my frozen fingers. Through our bond, I feel his struggle—the need to reclaim his throne warring with his desperate desire to keep us protected. To keep us close.

For the first time, I believe they could be one and the same. If we’re smart, they could be.

"They're alright," I whisper, just for him. "The baby. The healer confirmed it. They're growing perfectly."

His other hand comes up to cup my cheek, and for a moment I glimpse the man beneath the fury—the father beneath the king. The man I’ve been searching for, tracking down, teasing out into the light.

Then he straightens, scales rippling beneath his skin as he turns back to his commanders.

"Whatever it takes," he tells them, smoke curling from between his teeth. "Whatever armies you can muster. My brother will not keep my throne. Will not threaten my family."

The officers bow, and I feel the weight of ancient oaths in the gesture. These unlikely allies—dragon and human united—will follow him south. Will help us reclaim what's ours.

The question is: will we be in time?

Chapter 24 - Arvoren

The carriage cuts through snow like a blade through flesh, its enchanted wheels never quite touching the ground. Fjordmarse craftwork—ancient magic bound in steel and silver, designed to bear their nobility across treacherous mountain passes. The vehicle remembers its purpose even after centuries of disuse, responding to my blood as if it knows its duty to the crown. The well-oiled mechanisms whisper secrets in a language I half-remember from childhood lessons, speaking of roads long buried and kingdoms long fallen.

We make better time than I dared hope. What took weeks on foot passes in mere days as we race south, the landscape blurring past enchanted windows. Calliope sleeps more easily now, curled against my side as mountains give way to foothills, then to the great dark forests that surround my city. The steady motion seems to soothe her, and for the first time in weeks, her skin holds real warmth.

The healer's confirmation of our child's health has lifted something from her shoulders, though I still catch her hand drifting to her belly when she thinks I'm not watching.

Each dawn brings us closer to Millrath, each dusk reveals new signs of my brother's influence spreading through the land. We pass abandoned villages where every door bears his proclamation, the parchment crackling with frost. Trading posts stand empty, their usual winter stores depleted by desperate refugees heading south. Occasionally we glimpse other travelers—merchants' caravans moving in armed convoys, families with their possessions piled on sledges, the occasional patrol of soldiers bearing unfamiliar sigils.