Some days it's mild—just a queasy undercurrent I can push past. Other days it hits hard enough that I can't keep anything down, spending half the morning hunched over the washbasin.
On the bad days, Rhystan appears with plain bread and weak broth. Sits with me while I force myself to eat. Holds my hair back while I retch. Rubs slow circles on my back until the heaving stops.
Being gentle in a way that makes something in my chest crack open.
I'm not a crier. Never have been—not when my father left, not when my grandmother died, not when I walked into the sacred grove expecting to die. But lately everything makes me emotional. Yesterday I cried because a bird flew into a window and lay stunned before flying away. The day before I cried watching Rhystan train with his guards, something about the way he moved bringing tears to my eyes. This morning I woke with tears already drying on my cheeks from dreams I couldn't remember.
And I keep daydreaming about things I've never wanted.
I'm in the training yard, sparring with Carter, when my mind wanders—to what it would be like to teach a child to fight. To pass on the skills my grandmother taught me. To watch a littlegirl with wild hair learn to move like a predator, or a boy with golden eyes learn to track prey through the forest.
Carter lands a hit I should have blocked easily.
I shake my head, force myself to focus. What the fuck is wrong with me? I don't want children. Never have. The idea of being pregnant, of giving birth, of being responsible for something small and helpless—it's never appealed to me. I've always been too wild for that, too dangerous, too much my grandmother's feral grandchild.
But lately the thoughts keep intruding.
I keep imagining Rhystan holding a baby, his massive hands cradling something fragile. Keep picturing myself teaching a child to hunt. Keep wondering what our child would look like—his golden eyes or my amber ones? His dark hair or my darker?
Would they inherit the curse?
The thought jolts me back to the present. I win the sparring match, but my body feels wrong. Off-balance in ways I can't explain. My center of gravity has shifted, throwing off movements that should be automatic.
Two weeks after the nausea starts, exhaustion crashes over me without warning.
I'm in our chambers, reading by the window, when my eyes refuse to focus. The words blur together. My head grows heavy.
I set down the book and rest my forehead on my knees. Just for a minute.
I wake to Rhystan's hand on my shoulder.
"Kess. It's past dinner. You've been asleep for hours."
I sit up slowly, wincing at the ache in my neck. The windows are dark, candles lit around the room.
"Hours?" My voice comes out rough.
"Three." He's kneeling beside me, close enough that I can smell him—smoke and stone and something underneath that makes me want to press my face into his throat. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Breakfast. Maybe."
"Come on." He helps me stand, his hand warm on my elbow. "Let's get some food in you."
"Not hungry."
"You need to eat anyway." His hand moves to my lower back, guiding me toward the small table where he's already laid out soup and bread. "You've lost weight. I can see your ribs."
Have I? I haven't been paying attention—too focused on not vomiting to notice whether my body is shrinking around me.
He settles me into a chair and sits across from me, watching while I force myself to eat.
"You're staring," I observe between reluctant spoonfuls.
"You're worrying me."
"It's just a bug."
"It's been two weeks. That's not normal." His hands clench on the table. "Please see the mystic again. Let her examine you."
