Page 72 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate
Outside our window, Millrath wakes to another day of gentle thaw. Soon I'll need to be King again, need to face the challenges that come with rebuilding a broken kingdom. But for now, I hold my wife close and watch sunlight paint our city gold, knowing that whatever comes next, we face it as one.
The rest of forever stretches out before us, bright as morning.
My study echoes with memory as I review the latest messages from the Houses. Sunlight streams through windows that haven't known clarity in months, catching on ancient tapestries in ways that make the thread-of-gold dragons seem to move. The throne that once felt like an extension of my power now sits empty more often than not—I prefer the war table these days, where maps and missives spread like fallen leaves across scarred wood.
They’re still crafting Calliope’s matching throne down in Brittletale. It wouldn’t feel right to take mine without her at my side.
Darian sorts through reports at my side, his armor gleaming in the morning light. Steam rises where our hands touch parchment, dragon-warmth meeting cool air. Neither of us has quite adjusted to the thaw; our blood still runs hot against the lingering chill.
"House Morwen sends terms," he says, passing me a scroll sealed with white wax. "Lord Morwen writes that he’ll represent his son's interests personally, given his youth, but that he intends to ascend soon. He seems…cautiously optimistic."
I have learned to exercise endless caution with the hardy people of Whiteraid—sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous, but fair in their own way. Now, they’re crippled by the famine the winter brought.
But they’re going to recover. We’re going to send help. Calliope insisted, and I know she’s right for a lot of reasons.
"And Bellrose?"
"Still demanding reparations for losses during the freeze." Darian's voice carries his careful neutrality, ever-present. "Though they've softened their stance somewhat. The latest letter mentions possible trade agreements rather than gold."
Progress, however small. I scan the documents before me, noting the subtle shifts in tone from each House. Where once they wrote with barely concealed hostility, now their words carry notes of genuine desire for change. Perhaps they learned from Houses Caddell and Sturmsen. Perhaps they're merely being pragmatic—better to ally with a strong throne than risk another civil war. But something tells me it's more than that.
The sound of laughter drifts through open windows—clear, bright notes that make my scales ripple beneath my skin. In the gardens below, Calliope works with her new apprentices, teaching them the properties of herbs that have somehow survived the endless winter. Through our bond, I feel her contentment, her quiet joy at passing on her grandmother's knowledge.
I find myself drawn to the window, watching as she guides a young woman's hands in harvesting hardy winter herbs. Her guards maintain a respectful distance, alert but unobtrusive. They've learned to read her moods almost as well as I have, to recognize when she needs space and when she welcomes protection.
"She's good with them," Darian observes, coming to stand beside me. "The common folk trust her. Even the ones who once feared her magic."
"She understands them," I say quietly. "She knows what it means to be powerless. To need hope."
Memory rises unbidden—Calliope in chains, defiant and terrified all at once. The man I was then seems like a stranger now, though I know better. Know that the capacity for cruelty still lives in my blood, held in check only by choice and love and endless vigilance.
A knock at the chamber door draws me from darker thoughts. One of the younger guards enters, bowing deeply.
"My king. The advance riders from House Sturmsen approach the city gates."
Of course they're early. The Lord of Fjordmarse has always been punctual to the point of aggression. I nod, already reaching for the formal mantle I've barely worn since retaking the throne.
"Have rooms prepared in the east wing," I tell him. "And inform the kitchens—Lord Sturmsen prefers his meat barely cooked. It should practically still have a pulse if he’s to eat it."
The guard withdraws, and I turn back to Darian. "Send word to Calliope? She'll want to prepare for—"
"Already here." Her voice carries amusement as she enters the room, bringing with it the scent of crushed herbs and morning dew. Despite the dirt under her fingernails and the simple cut of her dress, she moves like the Queen she truly is—graceful and assured, power held in perfect check.
Through our bond, I feel her quiet excitement. She enjoys these diplomatic dances more than I ever have, seeing the subtle ways people reveal themselves through word and gesture. Where I was taught to rule through force, she understands the power of gentle persuasion.
"Lord Sturmsen brings his daughter," she says, joining us at the table. "The message mentioned she's interested in healing arts. Perhaps while you discuss borders and trade routes, she and I can speak of more practical matters."
I catch her meaning immediately. The young lady's interest provides a perfect cover for building less formal relationships between our Houses. Personal connections that might outlast political convenience.
"Clever," I murmur, and feel her pleasure at the compliment through our bond.
"I try." Her hand finds mine beneath the table, fingers twining with mine. Through the touch, I feel our child's magic pulse in time with her heartbeat—dragon-fire and winter storm in perfect harmony.
Darian clears his throat discreetly.
"I'll see to the guard rotations," he says, gathering scrolls with practiced efficiency. "Make sure everything's in place for our guests."
We watch him go, and I'm struck again by how much has changed. Months ago, my commander would never have left us alone together, fearing what I might do to my unwilling bride. Now he trusts us both—trusts me to be better than I was, trusts her to handle me when I'm not.