T

The war room had changed in two years. The knife-gouged table still bore its scars, but now a child's wooden soldier sat among the maps, and the air smelled of beeswax and the herbs Elowen hung from the rafters. Sera paused at the threshold, her hand resting on the frame, watching Kaelen bent over a parchment with Thorne, his scarred brow furrowed in concentration.

He looked up as if she'd called his name. The stern mask cracked, and the smile that broke across his face was the same one that had undone her in a hundred quiet moments since. "Wife," he said, straightening. "You're meant to be resting."

"I was resting. Then I walked here." She crossed the room, her boots echoing on the stone, and Thorne stepped back with a knowing grunt, gathering the maps with deliberate slowness.

"Out," Kaelen said, not looking at him.

Thorne's scarred face split in something almost like a grin. "Two years married and still like newlyweds. I'll take the captains to the east wall." He paused at the door. "Congratulations, Princess."

The door clicked shut, and Sera was in his arms before the echo died. His hands found her waist, her hips, the small of her back, pulling her against the heat of his chest. She took his scarred hands in her blistered ones—the burns had faded to pale lines now—and pressed them to her belly.

"Kaelen." Her voice cracked with the joy she'd been swallowing all morning. "I'm pregnant."

His amber eyes went wide. Then molten, dark and burning, and his mouth found hers before she could draw another breath. He kissed her like the first time, like a claim, like a man who'd been handed the thing he'd been afraid to want. The soulmark on her collarbone blazed against his chest, and she felt his answer through the cloth—the twin brand burning in time with hers.

"You're certain?" he breathed against her lips, and the tremor in his voice undid her.

"The healer confirmed it this morning. I wanted to tell you myself." She laughed, a wet, unsteady sound. "I made Elowen swear she wouldn't say a word. She nearly burst."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, and she watched the warlord—the terror of the northern kingdoms—blink hard, once. "A child," he said, as if tasting the word. "Ours."

"Ours." She traced the scar that split his brow, the ridge she'd mapped with her fingertips a hundred times. "You're going to be a father."

"And you're going to be the death of me," he said, but his voice was rough with wonder. His palm pressed flat against her belly, warm through the silk of her gown. "How far along?"

"Three months. The healer says the worst of it is past." She bit her lip, the old habit surfacing. "I should have told you sooner. I wanted to be sure."

"Sera." His thumb traced her jaw, tilting her face up. "You gave me a kingdom. You pulled me back from death. You knelt for me in front of every soldier who doubted you." His voice dropped to that low rumble that still made her shiver. "You could have told me the sky was green and I'd have believed you."

"The sky is green," she said, deadpan.

"Wife."

"What? You said you'd believe me."

He laughed—a real, full sound that she'd learned to collect like treasure—and kissed her again, slower this time, his hands cradling her like she was made of something precious. "Three months," he murmured against her mouth. "You've been carrying our child while I've been drilling soldiers and arguing with Thorne about supply lines."

"You've been brooding. There's a difference." She wound her arms around his neck. "And I've been fine. Better than fine. The nausea passed weeks ago."

"And you didn't tell me because—"

"Because I wanted to see your face when I did." She grinned, unrepentant. "The great Warlord Draven, speechless."

"I'm not speechless. I'm calculating." His hands slid down to her hips, pulling her flush against him. "Three months of not touching you properly. That's a debt I intend to collect."

"You've touched me plenty."

"Not the way I want to." His voice went rough, and she felt the heat of him through her gown, the familiar hunger that two years had only sharpened. "Not with you round and glowing and carrying my heir."

"Your heir." She laughed, breathless. "You sound like a king already."

"I sound like a man who's going to spoil this child rotten and terrorize every suitor who comes near them." He pressed his forehead to hers. "And their mother is going to be the most indulged woman in the north."

"I'll hold you to that." She kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then the scar on his brow. "But first, you have a garrison to inspect and a war to finish."

"The war is over." He said it simply, like a fact. "The ogres haven't come back in two years. The treaty holds. The kingdom is fed." His hands tightened on her waist. "And I have a wife who's just given me a reason to burn the world down if anyone threatens it."

"Romantic." She smiled against his lips. "Also terrifying."

"You knew what you were marrying."

"I knew what I was choosing." She met his eyes, the amber gone soft with something he only ever showed her. "And I'd choose it again. Every time."

He kissed her then, deep and slow, and she felt the soulmark pulse against his chest, a steady, burning thread that had tied them together through blood and fire and two years of learning each other's silences. When he finally pulled back, his hand was still pressed to her belly, possessive and reverent all at once.

"We should tell the court," he said. "Announce it properly."

"Tomorrow." She took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "Tonight, I want you to put your ear to my stomach and tell me what you hear."

"Sera—"

"Humor me, Warlord." She tugged him toward the door. "It's the least you can do for the woman carrying your heir."

He followed, laughing, and the war room fell silent behind them, the wooden soldier still standing guard over maps of a kingdom that was finally, impossibly, at peace.