Page 57 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

Darian studies me for a long moment, steam rising where his fingers touch ancient stone. "And if they resist? If they cling to old fears, old hatred of her kind?"

My laugh holds notes of my fire, my fury. "Then we win.”

He smiles then, a rare expression that transforms his battle-hardened features. "You sound like her."

"Good." I gather the most urgent reports, leaving the rest for later consideration. "Perhaps I'm finally learning the right lessons."

Morning light fills the underchamber now, turning shadow to gold and secrets to possibility. Through our bond, I feel Calliope beginning to wake, her magic reaching instinctively for mine even across the distance between us.

"Post extra guards in the garden," I tell Darian as I turn to leave. "She'll want to work there today, to see what survived the winter."

"Already done." His smile turns knowing. "I remember how she is with her herbs."

I pause at the door, looking back at this man who has served me through darkness and light, who has watched me become someone better than I was. "Thank you, old friend. For everything."

He bows, the gesture holding genuine respect rather than mere ceremony. "For the kingdom, my king. And for you."

I leave him to his duties, climbing through shadows toward morning light. Toward my wife, my child, my future. Toward everything that matters.

The rest will sort itself in time.

Chapter 27 - Calliope

The castle gardens remember winter differently than I do.

Frost crunches beneath my feet as I make my way through the maze of dormant beds, my boots leaving perfect prints in the thin layer of snow that still clings to shadowed corners. The air carries that peculiar silence of deep winter, though the brutal cold of recent months has begun to soften around the edges. Even my breath, frosting silver in the weak morning light, seems less substantial than it did just days ago.

I trace my fingers along frost-blackened stems, sensing the dormant life beneath frozen bark. It’s hard to believe that before all of this, plants were my very lifeblood—they were my day and night. My world began and ended at the border of the herb garden I maintained in Essenborn. Most of the plants have died back to their roots, waiting out the endless cold I brought upon them. The roses are mere thorny skeletons now, their summer glory reduced to black stems against graying snow. The great oak that once shaded the central courtyard stands naked against the pearl-gray sky, its mighty branches etched like ink strokes against clouds that promise more snow but never quite deliver.

But here and there, stubborn life persists. Winter jasmine climbs the garden walls in delicate sprays of yellow stars, each bloom perfect despite the killing frost. Hellebores nod their poison-bright heads in the weak sunlight, their colors ranging from deepest purple to the white of fresh snow. In sheltered corners, rosemary and thyme remain green and fragrant when crushed between my fingers, their hardy leaves carrying memories of summer kitchens and healing teas.

The survivors. Like me, I suppose.

A week has passed since we reclaimed the throne. Seven days of gradually strengthening sun, of snow melting from rooftops in crystalline drops that catch light like falling stars. Seven days of my storm finally beginning to loose its grip on Millrath. I can feel the change in my blood, in my bones, in the way my magic settles into new patterns. The wild power that protected me through months of running is gentling now, like a wolf learning to be a hound.

I rest my hand on the swell of my stomach, well visible now beneath the heavy wool of my dress. The fabric is finer than anything I wore during my months of flight—deep blue silk beneath black wool, embroidered with silver thread in patterns that echo frost on windows. A queen's garments, though I'm still learning to feel comfortable in them.

I am warm all the time now, though. I haven’t felt cold in days.

"Your Grace?"

I turn at the quiet voice, movements slower than they once were. The weight of the child and what I went through changes everything—my balance, my stride, the way I carry myself through these familiar-yet-strange spaces. A young woman hovers at the edge of the herb bed I've been examining, her rough hands twisted in her apron. She's human, judging by her height and build, with earth under her fingernails and worry in her eyes.

"The frost killed most of the medicinal herbs," she says, gesturing to the bare beds where neat rows of healing plants once grew. Her accent marks her as local—probably born and raised in Millrath's lower town, where the few humans in this city live. It’s an awful life. She’s likely experienced hardships I’ll never understand. I wish I could ask her, wish I could talk to her. "We tried to protect them when the storms came, covered them with straw and canvas, but…"

"But my winter was too strong." I finish for her, keeping my voice gentle. These are my people now, truly my people, and they need to learn not to fear me. The humans especially—they've lived so long under draconic rule, never quite sure of their place. "Don't worry. Plants are more resilient than we think."

I kneel carefully, one hand bracing against a stone planter for balance. Beneath dead leaves and the detritus of winter, tiny green shoots push through the frozen soil. Brave little soldiers declaring war on the cold. "See? Life finds a way. Even after the harshest winter."

The gardener—barely more than a girl, really—edges closer to look. Her eyes widen as she spots more signs of coming spring: swelling buds on bare branches, the first spears of bulbs pushing through snow, scattered patches of green where particularly stubborn herbs refuse to admit defeat.

"Those are mugwort," she says, pointing to a cluster of serrated leaves. "And there—that's yarrow. Mother used to say yarrow can survive anything. Wars and winters and worse."

"Your mother was wise." I straighten carefully, one hand still pressed to my lower back where the weight of the child pulls hardest. "What's your name?"

"Mari, Your Grace." She bobs a quick curtsey. "My mother was a healer in the lower town, before…" She trails off, but I can guess the rest.Before the winter. Before the storms. Before everything changed.

"Was she skilled with herbs?" When Mari nods, I feel something click into place—a piece of the future I've been trying to envision. "Would you be interested in helping restore these gardens? Not just clearing the dead growth, but planning what to plant come spring? Which medicines the city needs most?"