“Your Majesty.”
Voss’s voice. Outside the tent. The particular tone of a commander who didn’t care what his king was doing behind a closed flap.
Lucian pulled back. His forehead rested against mine. His breathing was ragged and his pupils were blown. His face wore the most unguarded expression I’d ever seen.
“Your Majesty, the perimeter assignments require your authorization before nightfall.”
“I will fucking kill him,” Lucian muttered.
“You literally just gave a speech about breaking cycles of violence.”
“I’m comfortable making an exception.”
I laughed. The sound surprised us both. It had been long since anything had pulled a real laugh out of me, and the way Lucian’s eyes softened when he heard it made my chest ache.
“Go,” I said. “Handle your commander before he comes inside and sees his king looking undone.”
“I am not undone.”
“Lucian. Your shirt is wrinkled, your hair is a mess, and you’re flushed. You are very much undone.”
He straightened. Ran a hand through his hair. The composure reassembled itself layer by layer, the king’s mask settling back into place, and watching the transformation was equal parts impressive and infuriating.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “Soon.”
“I’ll be here.”
He held my gaze for two more seconds. Then turned, pushed through the tent flap, and his voice shifted to the command register as he addressed Voss outside. The transition was seamless. The man gone, the king returned.
Alone in the tent, I let the three channels wash through me.
All three. Open, blazing, full. Percy’s joy is still radiating from somewhere in the forest. Solomon’s steady pulse moving back toward camp. Lucian’s warmth right outside, managing the logistics of an alliance while the taste of my mouth was still on his lips.
The babies responded. Heartbeats accelerating beneath my ribs, fed by a bond that was finally, completely intact.
The pregnancy glow that Farmon described as bond-dependent surged through me, warmth spreading from my chest to my fingertips. I finally felt whole.
Also, exhausted.
The compound rotations, the alliance negotiations, the confrontation with Annora and Giselle, the Voss deal, and now the emotional equivalent of a tidal wave from three restored bond channels.
My body was running on reserves that didn’t exist, held together by a supernatural connection and sheer stubbornness.
I sat on the bedroll in the command tent. Solomon’s den arrangement surrounded me, the blankets in their traditional pattern, the water within reach, the leveled ground. Safe. Warm.
The tea Farmon made was still at the supply station. I’d left it when Lucian called me into the tent.
Back through the flap, I grabbed it from the crate. Still warm. Farmon’s prenatal blend, the herbs Solomon ground and pretended he didn’t.
Settling back onto the bedroll, I sipped and let the exhaustion win.
The first swallow was fine. The second tasted slightly off, a bitter edge beneath the usual earthy flavor. The third hit my stomach and stayed there, settling into a warmth that didn’t feel right.
I looked at the cup. The color and scent was the same.
But the warmth in my stomach turned to heat.
Then the heat turned to burning.
