Page 61 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

"Liar!" The second stick catches my hip, but I don't flinch. "My father would never deal with witches. Everyone knows what you are.”

His friends snicker, and I resist the urge to scowl. It’ll only make it worse.

They're closer now, circling me. I count six of them—Thomás and his usual followers, plus two I don't recognize. Probably visiting from the next village over. News of the witch-child spreads, after all. Everyone wants their chance to prove their bravery against the monster.

But I am not a monster. And I am very, very tired of being afraid.

"You know what my father says?" Thomás takes another step forward, stone raised. "Says we should have drowned you when you were born. Says you'll bring nothing but trouble, you and that crazy old—"

"Careful." The word comes out soft, but something in my tone makes him falter. "You wouldn't want to catch it, would you?"

"Catch what?"

I smile, slow and secret. "Haven't you noticed? The way it spreads?" I gesture to his arm, where angry red welts have begun to appear—poison oak I recognize from the forest edge where they were hiding. Of course they didn’t notice it. Fools like them don’t know danger until it’s upon them. "First the rash. Then the fever. Then…well. I'm sure you've heard the stories."

Thomás looks down at his arm, eyes widening. Two of his friends back away, scratching unconsciously at their own reddening skin. I rise slowly, brushing dirt from my skirts.

"Don't worry," I say, careful to keep my voice gentle. Concerned, even. "I'm sure it won't affect you too badly. Not like the last boy. The one who went mad from the pain. Unless…" I tap my chin thoughtfully. "Did any of you eat blackberries from the woods? The ones growing near the old oak?" I know they did; I can see it around their mouths, the dark stains.

Theyare the monsters. Not me.

More scratching now. One of the smaller boys looks ready to cry.

"You're lying." But Thomás's voice shakes. "You're just trying to—"

"Am I?" I meet his eyes steadily. "Look at your hands, Thomás. See how the veins are darkening? That's how it starts. But I'm sure you'll be fine. Probably. And if not…" I shrug, gathering my basket. "Well. You know where to find me. If you want the cure."

I walk away slowly, keeping my steps measured. Behind me, I hear urgent whispers, the sound of bodies crashing through undergrowth in their haste to reach the stream. To wash away the phantom poison they imagine coursing through their veins.

Only when I'm safely hidden behind my grandmother's garden wall do I allow myself to laugh. Allow the fear to drain away, replaced by fierce pride. I didn't need magic or strength to defeat them. Only wit, and their own ignorance, and the power of fear turned back on itself.

"Well done, little one." Grandmother's voice makes me start. She stands in the doorway, eyes bright with approval. "You're learning."

"They'll only come back angrier next time."

"Perhaps." She takes my basket, examining the scattered herbs with practiced hands. "But they'll come back warier too. And that's its own kind of power."

"I wish I really could curse them.” It’s the first time in my memory I have said such a thing aloud. “I wish we really were witches.”

"No." My grandmother’s voice turns sharp. "That's not our way. Real power isn't about hurting others. It's about knowing yourself. About turning their fear into your strength."

I nod, though I don't fully understand. Not yet. That lesson will take years to truly sink in—years of being hunted, years of being feared, years of learning that true strength often looks nothing like power at all.

But the seed is planted that day, taking root alongside the herbs in my grandmother's garden. A truth I'll carry with me through all the dark days ahead:

Sometimes the greatest victory is simply refusing to break.

***

The cold wakes me first—a deep, bone-cracking cold that even my winter magic can't quite shield me from. Then pain, radiating from the back of my skull where something struck me. The world swims into focus slowly, fragments of memory piecing themselves together like shards of broken ice: walking in the lower gardens, a shadow moving where it shouldn't, a familiar voice carrying an edge of madness, speaking one word.

Speaking my name.

When I open my eyes, I know exactly where I am.

These peaks tower above Millrath like the teeth of some ancient beast, their jagged faces permanently wreathed in storm clouds. Arvoren brought me here once, in those early days when he was still trying to break my spirit. I remember how terrified I was. The fear brings a sour taste into my mouth. The drops are just as terrifying now as they were then, the winds just as bitter.

But this time, I am not here with Arvoren. I am not here with the man who would come to love me.