Page 59 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

A gust of wind sweeps through the garden, carrying the crisp scent of coming snow. Dead leaves skitter across frozen ground, and the bare branches above us creak and sway. For a moment—just a moment—I think I catch another scent beneath the winter-clean air, something I can’t place.

Arvoren feels my sudden tension through our bond. "What is it?"

"Nothing." I try to smile, but the unease lingers. "Just the wind."

His eyes narrow as he scans the garden, scales rippling beneath his skin. He knows me too well, knows my every tell. Knows what I refuse to say out loud.

"You're worried about Ulric."

"Aren't you?" I press closer to his warmth, though the chill I feel now has nothing to do with the weather. "He's still out there somewhere. Nursing his wounds, plotting his revenge. I know your brother, Arvoren. He won't simply vanish into exile."

"Let him plot." Smoke curls thicker from my husband's mouth, and the air around us grows noticeably warmer. "Let him gather whatever broken forces still follow him. He'll never touch you again. Either of you. I made a promise. I intend to keep it."

I want to believe him. Want to trust that we're truly safe, that the future stretching before us holds nothing but peace and healing and the joy of watching our child grow. But I remember the madness in Ulric's eyes during that last battle. Remember his obsession with power, his need to possess what was never his to take.

"We'll be ready," Arvoren says, reading my thoughts through our bond. "Whatever comes next, we face it together. No more secrets. No more running."

"No more cages," I add quietly. "For any of us."

He nods, understanding all I leave unsaid. Together we look out over the winter-quiet garden, where tiny green shoots promise renewal beneath the snow. A weak ray of sunlight breaks through the clouds, turning frost to diamonds on bare branches.

So much has changed since I first walked these paths in chains. The woman I was then feels like a stranger now—afraid and angry and so desperately alone. I touch my belly, feeling our child move beneath my palm. They carry both our magics, winter storm and dragon-fire combined. Something that could reshape this kingdom, if we raise them with wisdom and love instead of fear and control.

"We should go in," Arvoren says reluctantly. "You'll freeze out here."

I laugh, letting my magic swirl playfully around us in a flurry of snowflakes. "I never freeze, my love. Or have you forgotten who you married?"

His smile shows teeth, sharp and bright in the winter light. "How could I forget? You remind me every day what a miracle it is that you chose to stay. That you're truly mine."

"Yours," I agree, taking his hand. "As you are mine. As we both belong to this land, to our people, to the future we'll build together."

We walk back toward the castle, our footprints mingling in the fresh snow. Above us, clouds gather for another storm—but a gentle one this time, promising renewal rather than destruction. Spring approaches, carrying with it the chance to grow something new from the ashes of what was lost.

I lean into my husband's warmth as we climb the steps, feeling our child move between us. There will be more battles ahead, more wounds to heal, more trust to build between not just us but all the broken pieces of this realm. But for now, in this quiet moment as weak sunlight gilds frost into diamonds and our magics dance together in the winter air, I let myself believe in our future.

The garden remembers winter. But it also remembers how to bloom.

It is a cruel irony that the next time I stand in that very garden, the worst comes to pass.

Chapter 28 - Arvoren

Maps spread across the war table like fallen leaves, their edges curling in the heat from my skin. Steam rises where my fingers trace trade routes and border lines—old habits die hard, and my dragon nature still bleeds through when I'm agitated. House Morwen's latest missive lies open before me, its careful script outlining terms and conditions, promises and platitudes. The Lords arrive within days, and every word must be weighed, every concession measured against generations of mistrust.

My father's voice echoes in memory:Never let them see weakness. Never let them think they have the upper hand.

But my father died believing in people. He believed in a world where we could be different. I wonder what he would make of me now, seeking peace instead of submission.

On happier days, I think he might have been proud.

Candles gutter in their holders as I pace the length of the chamber. Dawn paints the eastern windows gold, but I've been here since midnight, reviewing proposals and counterproposals until the words blur together. The Houses want guarantees—of autonomy, of protection, of respect for their ancient rights. They want proof that the Dragon King has changed, that his witch-queen has tempered his fury into something they can trust.

A bitter laugh escapes me, smoking in the cool air. Trust. Such a simple word for something that feels impossible after everything that's happened. But Calliope believes in it—in the possibility of building something new from the ashes of the old ways. And these days, I find myself believing in her more than in my father's ghost.

A knock interrupts my brooding. "Enter."

Darian slips through the door, and immediately my scales ripple beneath my skin. My oldest friend's expression carries that careful neutrality that always means trouble.

"Report." Smoke curls from my mouth despite my efforts at control.