Page 70 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

Something breaks in his expression then—grief or gratitude or both, I can't tell. Steam curls thicker from between his teeth as he presses his forehead to mine.

"I didn't know how to be worthy of either of you."

The words come out rough, barely more than a whisper against my skin. Through our bond, I feel his uncertainty warring with hope, his desperate desire to be better than what he was. To be worthy of the trust I'm slowly learning to place in him again.

I shift closer, seeking his warmth as much as trying to offer comfort. The ancient runes beneath us pulse gently now, their light soft as starshine. Where before they hummed with judgment, now they seem almost to sing—a melody of acceptance, of balance restored.

"You're learning," I tell him simply. "We both are."

Our child moves between us, their magic reaching for us both equally now. No longer just seeking Arvoren across distance, but embracing us as one. Tears spring to my eyes at the simple rightness of it—this moment of perfect harmony I never thought possible when I first fled this kingdom of ice and iron.

Arvoren's arms tighten fractionally around me, and through our bond I feel everything he can't put into words—love and grief and desperate gratitude all tangled together. Steam still rises where snowflakes touch his skin, but his eyes hold none of their usual fire. Only bone-deep relief and something softer, something that makes my heart catch.

We stay like that as snow continues to fall, each flake catching strange light in ways that make them look like falling stars. Whatever comes next, whatever battles still lie ahead, we face them together. The mountain remembers, and so do we.

The gods whisper in the wind, and for once, their voices hold no malice. Only the weight of prophecy, of destiny slowly unfurling like frost across glass. Our child moves again, magic pulsing in time with the ancient power that fills this sacred place.

A new day dawns for Kaldoria.

***

Later, they come to me in dreams, pale as moonlight on new snow.

I find myself standing in a grove I half-remember from childhood—the kind of place my grandmother would have called magical, where frost forms patterns that speak of older magics than any mortal knowing. The winter spirits gather like mist between ancient trees, their forms shifting between woman and wind, between ice and memory.

"The thaw comes," they whisper, their voices carrying notes of breaking ice and midwinter winds. "We feel it in our bones, in the very air. Spring approaches, and with it, change."

Their grief catches in my throat like the last bitter wind of winter. These ancient beings who have watched over Kaldoria since before the first dragon kings, who have danced through countless storms and sung to the frozen stars—they fear becoming nothing more than legend, mere whispers in the warming wind.

"We are the cold’s children," one says, her form rippling like snow devils in moonlight. "What becomes of us when the ice melts and green things wake?"

I reach out, not certain whether I'm truly here or lost in some strange dream where reality blurs at the edges. Frost spreads from my fingers in delicate patterns, catching starlight like diamonds.

"Winter always returns," I tell them softly. "The wheel turns, the seasons change, but the cold will come again. It's the way of things."

"But you were ours," another whispers, her voice like icicles in darkness. "Now your magic gentles, your child grows warm with dragon-fire…"

"I'm still yours." The words emerge as mist in the bitter air. "But Kaldoria needs spring now. Needs warmth to heal what winter has frozen. I’ll see you again."

They drift closer, these beings of frost and starlight. Through them I glimpse the endless cycle of seasons, the dance of warm and cold that keeps the world in balance. I feel my child stir within me, their magic a perfect harmony of ice and flame.

"We will sleep then," they say, their forms beginning to fade like morning frost in sunlight. "Dream in the deep places, in the shadows of mountains. And when winter comes again..."

"I'll dance with you beneath the frozen stars," I promise. "Teach my child the old songs, the ancient ways. Some magics never truly fade."

They smile then—terrible, beautiful smiles that speak of avalanches and aurora lights. One by one they dissolve into silver mist, sinking into earth that has already begun to dream of spring.

The last one pauses, her form barely more than moonlight and memory. "The land remembers," she whispers. "And so shall we."

I wake to find frost patterns on my pillows, already melting in the pre-dawn light. Through our bond, I feel Arvoren's warmth beside me, and our child's magic pulses steady as a heartbeat.

Outside, the world thaws.

Chapter 34 - Arvoren

Spring comes to Millrath like a fever breaking. Time stretches strangely around us in the following weeks. I watch it happen gradually, then all at once: frost retreating from windowpanes that haven't known clarity in months, black ice dissolving from the moat in sheets that catch sunlight like dragon scales, ancient stone remembering warmth it had forgotten. The city wakens slowly, cautiously, as if unsure whether to trust this gentle thaw.

The changes within the castle mirror those without. Servants who once scurried through shadows now linger in patches of sunlight streaming through tall windows. The endless fires that kept us from freezing burn lower, their smoke no longer a constant presence in every room. Even the dragon skulls that watch over my throne seem less fearsome, their empty eyes catching new light in ways that make them look almost alive again.