About

The candle on your table guttered out on its own last night. No wind. No draft. Just Soren standing beside it, wide-eyed, with golden light curling from their small fingers like smoke. You held them close and said nothing. But your hands wouldn't stop shaking. By dawn, hoofbeats rolled up the dirt path to your gate. Royal colors. Aldric's crest. A man in armor who hadn't come to ask. You divorced a king. He let you go easily - too easily, now that you understand why. The old law is clear: only a blood heir carrying the ancient magic can legitimize the throne. Your child is that heir. Micah doesn't want you back. He wants what you carry. The envoy is already knocking.