Page 54 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

Another explosion rocks the chamber as the brothers' flames meet again. Through the smoke, I see several of Ulric's remaining supporters draw weapons, preparing to intervene. Without thinking, I send a wave of killing frost in their direction. They stumble back, blades falling from frozen fingers as ice creeps up their arms.

"My queen!" The Fjordmarse commander appears at my side, steam rising from his armor. "We should get you to safety—"

"No." I straighten, frost dancing between my fingers. "I won't leave him."

Above us, Ulric lands a lucky strike that sends Arvoren crashing into a wall. Ancient stone cracks under the impact, and I feel Arvoren's pain lance through our bond. Before his brother can press the advantage, I act.

Power explodes from me in a wave of winter fury. Ice spreads across the floor like living crystal, climbing the walls in patterns that pulse with otherworldly light. The temperature plummets until even the dragons' breath frosts in the air. Every surface the frost touches begins to sing with strange harmonies—the music of deep winter, of magic older than kingdoms or crowns.

Ulric falters, his scales dusted with frost. His supporters cry out as the cold bites deeper, dropping their weapons and fleeing toward the doors.

Through the bitter chill, I hear them shouting to those beyond the chamber, frantic and vicious: "The heretic is here!"

But this is no mere storm. In that moment, I am no longer only myself. I am more. My magic rises like a tide, filling the chamber with swirling snow and crackling ice. The very air seems to crystallize, turning each breath into shards of frozen light.

Arvoren recovers, using my distraction to launch himself at his brother. This time when their flames meet, my ice joins the fray. The resulting explosion throws Ulric back, sending him crashing into his stolen throne. The ornate seat shatters beneath his weight.

"You see?" Ulric snarls, struggling to rise. "See what she's become? What that child will become? Too powerful to control—"

"She was never meant to be controlled." Arvoren's voice fills the chamber, dragon-deep and terrible. "She was meant to be queen."

An absurd, powerful, brilliant joy flowers inside my chest. It could melt me, I know. I could die right here.

As if to emphasize his words, our magics surge together—his dragon-fire and my winter storm combining into something new, something awesome and terrible. The remaining courtiers flee in terror as frost and flame dance through the air, turning the throne room into a place of legend, a spectacle of light and heat and cold.

"You're finished, brother." Arvoren advances, his massive form blocking any escape. "Yield, and I may yet show mercy."

For a moment, something like regret flashes in Ulric's golden eyes. Then his expression hardens, scales rippling as he gathers himself for one final attack. "Never."

He launches himself at Arvoren with desperate fury, claws extended for a killing blow. But this time, we're ready. My ice catches his wings, slowing him just enough. Arvoren meets his charge with terrible efficiency, centuries of training evident in every movement. Their flames collide one final time—brother against brother, pretender against true king.

The entire room shakes. I fall to one knee, gasping, as something high above our heads crashes, a massive, distant sound.

When the smoke clears, Ulric is gone.

A hole in the ceiling reveals his escape route, his dark form swirling away into the winter sky high above the city, vanishing into the quelling storm. Several of our soldiers start forward, human and looking desperate but determined, but Arvoren stops them with a growl.

"Let him run," he rumbles, scales rippling as he begins to transform back. "He won't get far. Not now."

Outside, there is a keening screech, answered by a number of others. I spot, through the entryway, half a dozen shifters from the army of Fjordmarse take to the skies, brilliant ice-blue scales flashing in the snowy white light, giving chase.

There is hubbub outside. Shouting, confusion, chaos. Soldiers roam, shouting orders, as civilians fight to see what’s happening.

None of it matters.

Arvoren approaches his throne. Steam still rises from his skin, and his eyes still burn with inner fire. But when he reaches for me, his touch is gentle as ever.

Neither of us sits. The throne is broken now, destroyed, and its remains are like a tomb in the center of the room. I know in my gut that when Arvoren orders for its replacement, they will have to construct or procure another, if I am to sit at my husband’s side in court. I’m eager for that day.

We stand before the throne. I take my place beside him, frost trailing in my wake. Through our bond, I feel his fierce satisfaction, his relief, his bone-deep need to keep me close. Our child's magic pulses between us, strong and steady, finally at peace.

"Your Majesties." Detaching himself from the chaos, a Fjordmarse commander kneels, a handful of other soldiers following suit. "The throne is yours."

Arvoren's hand finds mine as we face our subjects together, hearts beating as one. The air grows warmer as my winter storm slowly but surely subsides around us, leaving only a gentle snowfall that drifts through the broken ceiling like a blessing.

We have all changed since that first meeting in this chamber, I know. We will continue to. The fight isn’t over. There will be more battles ahead, more challenges to face. But for now, we stand united, stronger together than we ever were apart.

"Rise," Arvoren commands, his voice carrying all the authority of the Dragon Kings. "Your king and queen have returned."