Page 73 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

"Quiet,” Calliope observes, bumping her hip against mine.

"Reflecting," I correct, pulling her closer. She comes willingly, fitting herself against my side as if she was made to be there. Her skin holds lingering warmth from the morning sun, and frost patterns dance where my fingers brush her arm.

"On what?"

I consider my answer carefully, watching dust motes dance in rays of sunlight. "How far we still have to go."

She hums thoughtfully, one hand drifting to her swollen belly. Through our bond, I feel her own contemplation—not just of the past, but of the future we're building together. The kingdom our child will inherit.

"We'll get there," she says simply. "Not quickly, maybe. Not easily. But we will."

I press my lips to her hair, breathing in that crisp sweetness that always clings to her skin. "If I could live a life without such endless menial meetings, just us in the tower, some days I find myself thinking I might just do it.”

Calliope gives a mock gasp, laughing in the back of her throat. “How would you keep me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed?” And she twirls in her skirt, giggling.

Before I can respond, another knock sounds at the door.

More messengers, more preparations, more steps toward the future we're trying to build. Still now, Calliope squeezes my hand once before stepping away, already settling into her role as queen.

"Shall we?" she asks, and there's something in her voice that makes my dragon blood sing with pride and possessiveness and love.

"Together," I agree, and seal the promise with a kiss that tastes of herbs and sunlight and endless possibility.

Lord Sturmsen arrives like a storm front, his massive form casting shadows across the courtyard as guards scramble to attention. Even in human form, his draconic nature bleeds through—scales rippling beneath skin that holds the blue-white sheen of glacial ice, steam rising where his boots touch stone still warm from morning sun. His daughter follows in his wake, all arctic grace and careful poise.

I meet them at the castle steps, deliberately without crown or ceremony. Let them see that things truly have changed in Millrath. That their king can welcome them as equals rather than subjects.

"My Lord Sturmsen." I incline my head just enough to show respect without subservience. "Welcome to a warmer Millrath than has been typical of late."

His laugh holds notes of breaking ice. "Indeed, Your Majesty. Though some of us prefer the cold." His pale eyes track to where Calliope approaches, her simple green gown a stark contrast to the formal attire of our guests. "Your Queen has brought interesting changes to our realm."

Through our bond, I feel Calliope's amusement at his choice of words. She dips into a perfect curtsey, though we both know she'd rather not bow to anyone. "The seasons change as they will, my lord. We merely adapt."

Young Lady Sturmsen steps forward then, all of sixteen years but carrying herself with the gravity of ancient ice.

"Your Majesty." Her curtsey puts Calliope's to shame. I can feel that Calliope already likes her, though they couldn’t have been raised more differently. "I've heard such tales of your healing gardens. Might I…?"

"Of course." Calliope's smile holds genuine warmth. "Though I'm afraid you'll find them rather humble compared to Fjordmarse's famous glass houses."

They withdraw together, already deep in discussion of herbs and tinctures. Through our bond, I feel Calliope's quiet satisfaction—she's been planning this since we received word of the girl's interests. Trust her to forge alliances through shared knowledge rather than political maneuvering.

"Clever woman, your queen." Sturmsen watches them go, steam curling from his nostrils. "She understands what so many forget.”

We walk together through corridors that seem to remember their ancient purpose, gold light streaming through windows that once stayed shuttered against endless storms. Servants bow and withdraw, though I notice they no longer scramble away in terror. Another change I owe to Calliope's influence.

In my private study, where dragon skulls watch from shadowed walls, Sturmsen settles his bulk into a chair that creaks ominously. I pour wine without asking his preference—some courtesies are remembered in the blood.

"You've surprised us all," he says finally, studying the dark liquid in his glass. "When word reached Fjordmarse that you'd married a witch…well. We expected fire and chaos. The end of days, perhaps." His smile shows teeth sharp as icicles. "Instead, we find peace. Growth. Peace talks with the Caddells have been going well for the first time in…well. Centuries. They seem to believe she signals a real future for their people. They no longer anticipate cruelty at all junctions."

Steam rises from my own glass as I consider his words. "I was that king once," I admit, because we both know it's true. "The one who would have crushed her, claimed her power for my own. A king that would have burned Fort Caddell to the ground should they have angered me. Sometimes I still am. But change comes, and we must grow. Or the world will leave us behind."

Sturmsen sets his wine aside, leaning forward. He looks at me with a plain, unembellished smile, seeming to mean it. "That's what matters, in the end. The choice to be better than what we were made to be."

Through our bond, I catch glimpses of Calliope in the gardens with young Lady Sturmsen. They kneel together beside a bed of newly sprouted herbs, the girl's eyes wide as Calliope demonstrates some simple magic, teaching her that power can heal as easily as harm.

"The other Houses will need more convincing," I say, turning back to Sturmsen. "Bellrose especially—they've always wanted the throne."

"They've always wanted what comes with the throne," he corrects. "Power, security, control. Give them that through peace and commerce, they'll sing a different song." His expression grows shrewd. "Especially once word spreads about the child."