Page 81 of King of Flames and Shadows

The first merchant wagon I encounter nearly runs me down. I barely manage to throw myself into the ditch as it thunders past, the driver shouting about refugees from Millrath clogging the roads. When I peek out, I see he's right—the road ahead is thick with people fleeing the city, carrying what little they could save.

I join them, keeping my head down, my torn dress covered by a cloak I took from a dead soldier. No one lookstoo closely at another refugee. We're all running from the same nightmare.

By nightfall, my legs are shaking too badly to continue. I collapse in an abandoned roadside barn, huddling in the hay as wind howls through the cracks in the walls. Sleep comes in fits and starts, broken by dreams of fire and chains and Arvoren's face as I left him.

I love you.The words echo in my mind. When I hear myself saying them, I want to cry. But I know I made the right choice. Better to be hunted than caged, better to be free than …

A wave of nausea hits me without warning. I barely make it outside before losing what little I've eaten. As I kneel in the mud, retching, I wonder whether the Gods are sending plagues now that their beasts have failed to kill me.

I rejoin the slog of refugees north. In the dim light, three white dragons swoop low overhead, coming from the east. Reinforcements for the king from Fjordmarse. They must know who won the day.

Dawn brings the sound of horns from the south, and word among the survivors of soldiers coming. Arvoren's forces, already mobilizing. Already hunting.

I force myself to move, though every muscle screams in protest.

I spend the second day hiding in the back of a human farmer's horse-drawn cart, buried between sacks of grain. The farmer's wife took pity on me, though she doesn't know who I am.

"Poor thing," I heard her whisper to her husband, sitting atop the wooden slats nailed to the front of the cart. "Another one running from the dragons’ wrath."

If only she knew.

Through gaps in the canvas, I watch soldiers pass on horseback, their armor gleaming in the weak winter sun. They carry Arvoren's banner—the black dragon on crimson—and stop every cart they pass, searching for any sign of their queen.

Their queen. The thought almost makes me laugh. Instead, I press my face into the rough burlap, willing myself to be small, to be nothing. The nausea comes again, stronger this time, but I force it down. I cannot afford weakness now.

When night falls, the farmers arrive back to their land, and they kindly let me sleep in their barn. By morning, the wife brings me bread and dried meat, her eyes full of questions she's too afraid to ask.

I eat quickly, mechanically, though my stomach rebels against every bite. My body feels strange, different somehow—as if the power that broke free in Millrath has changed me in ways I'm only beginning to understand. At one point, I have to stop eating just to sit and breathe, brow furrowed, trying to keep from vomiting.

The wave of nausea passes slowly, leaving me slumped against the rough barn wall, eyes closed, willing my stomach to settle.

The farmer's wife watches me from the doorway, her face softened by the lantern light.

"Here," she says. She offers me a cup of water. "Small sips."

I take it gratefully, though my hands shake. The water is cool and clean, so different from the wine I was served in Millrath's halls.

"How far along are you, dear?" she asks softly, settling beside me on a bale of hay.

"I'm not—" The denial comes automatically, but something in her kind eyes stops me. "I mean, I can't be. It’s not—I’m not.”

She makes a gentle sound, almost like a laugh. "Unless you've got the winter fever—which you don't, I've seen enough of that to know—there's really only one thing that makes a woman sick like this in the mornings."

The world seems to tilt beneath me.

"But I haven't … I mean, I'm not …" My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach. "Oh, Gods."

"When did you last bleed?"

I try to think back, counting days, weeks. Long before the battle. Before Ulric's betrayal. Before …

"A month," I whisper. "Maybe longer. I didn't notice. There was so much happening, I didn't …"

"Ah, love." Her weathered hand covers mine. "The world doesn't stop turning just because we're not watching it."

Tears spring to my eyes unbidden. "I can't be. I can't … not now. Not when I'm finally …"

"Free?" she finishes gently.

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