Page 52 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate
The moat stretches before us, its surface frozen for the first time in living memory. Our boots ring against black ice as we cross—king and queen returning to claim their throne. Above, archers line the walls like carrion birds, their arrows nocked but undrawn. They make no move to stop us. Make no sound at all. Only watch with eyes that gleam in the wan winter light.
We pass beneath the gatehouse arch, and suddenly we're inside—back in the city that was once my prison, that became my escape route, that might now become my true home. The streets look different in morning light, the cobblestones dusted with frost, the buildings hunched against endless winter. Faces peer from windows and doorways as word of our arrival spreads like wildfire through the narrow lanes.
"The king lives," someone whispers.
"The queen returns," breathes another.
"But the storm follows still…"
People begin to line the streets, emerging from shops and homes to watch our procession. Some bow deeply. Others make signs against evil. Most simply stare, unsure what to believe after months of Ulric's lies.
I recognize the fear in their eyes—the same fear I once felt in this place. A part of me still feels it.
I will stop this winter,I wish I could promise them.The moment I’m safe here. I can feel it. The storm will end.
A child darts forward, only to be yanked back by their mother. But not before I catch their wonder-filled gaze, their small hand reaching toward the frost that sparkles in my wake. I realize suddenly that to these people, I am something out of legend—the Witch Queen who fled north, who commands winter itself, who returns now with armies at her back.
"You're trembling," Arvoren murmurs, his thumb stroking my knuckles.
"Last time I walked these streets, I was bound in rope," I remind him, chin held high. "Dragged here in a wagon like chattel to be sold.”
His grip tightens fractionally. "And now you return as queen."
"I do." The words feel different now—not a chain anymore. My gut knows the difference. I’m not sure how it does, but I cling to the feeling.
The castle rises before us, perched above Lake Shale like a crown of black stone. As we approach the final bridge, the great gates begin to open, grinding against ice that has formed on ancient hinges. No guards challenge us. No horns sound. Only that watching silence, that held breath, that sense of destiny balanced on a knife's edge.
Movement catches my eye—a flash of steel, a hand reaching for a blade. One of Ulric's supporters, perhaps, thinking to earn favor through violence. But before the weapon can clear its sheath, the Fjordmarse commander steps forward. Steam rises from his armor as his dragon nature surfaces, scales rippling beneath his skin.
"Choose carefully," he growls, voice carrying clearly in the quiet street. "Your king returns."
The would-be attacker's hand falls away from his weapon. Others like him shrink back into the crowd, their resolve wavering as they realize the strength of our escort. These are not common soldiers, but elite warriors of the north—dragon and human united in common cause.
We ascend the final steps toward the castle proper, toward the throne room where everything began. Where everything will end, one way or another. Arvoren's posture shifts subtly, becoming more regal, more controlled. The bearing of a king.
But his hand never leaves mine as we approach the final door. Whatever comes next, we face it together.
The guards at the door step aside, and darkness yawns before us like the maw of destiny itself.
The underchamber doors groan open on ancient hinges, and my heart clenches at the sight of the near-black interior. This room—this vast, dark space where Arvoren first claimed me as his—has changed. Black banners bearing Ulric's personal sigil drape the walls, covering the ancient dragon skulls that once watched over the throne. Braziers burn with unnatural blue flame, casting strange shadows that seem to move of their own accord. The air tastes of copper and ozone, thick with a magic that makes my teeth ache.
And there, upon my husband's throne, sits Ulric.
He lounges across the ornate seat as if born to it, one leg thrown casually over the armrest. His golden hair catches the eerie light, forming a mockery of the crown he hasn't dared to claim. Courtiers and lesser lords cluster around him like moths to flame, though I notice they keep their distance—close enough to show support, far enough to flee if needed. I don’t spot any of the major lords, but some must be here, I know. Perhaps waiting out the day to see who wins this battle.
"Brother." Ulric's smile is sharp as broken glass. "I must say, you're looking rather…alive for a dead man."
"And you're looking rather comfortable in a seat that isn't yours." Smoke curls from Arvoren's mouth with each word, the temperature around us rising as his dragon nature surfaces.
"Isn't it?" Ulric straightens, his casual pose dropping away like a shed skin. "The people seem to think otherwise. They've grown tired of the old ways, brother. Tired of kings who let winter freeze their children.”
His eyes find mine, and something hungry enters his expression.
"Welcome home, Calliope. I trust your little northern adventure was…illuminating? I’ve missed you."
The spike of fury I feel from Arvoren would have, on any other day, taken me to my knees with its force. But I stand tall.
"Enough games." Arvoren takes a step forward, slightly in front of me, scales rippling visibly beneath his skin. "Stand down, brother. While you still can."