The dust hung in the air long after the palace gates had disappeared behind them, a pale gold haze that settled on Esme's shoulders and in the creases of her riding habit. She kept her spine straight in the saddle, the way she'd been trained since childhood, but the posture cost her. Every muscle in her back ached with the effort of pretending this was an ordinary morning ride, a queen surveying her lands, a brief escape from the weight of the crown.

Adil rode beside her, close enough that their knees almost brushed when the horses drifted together on the packed earth. He hadn't spoken in nearly an hour, and she'd stopped trying to fill the silence. There was something in the set of his shoulders that told her words would only splinter against it.

The sun climbed higher, pressing down on the back of her neck with a heat that felt personal. She shifted in the saddle, and the leather creaked beneath her, a sound that seemed too loud in the stillness. Behind them, the supply carriage ground along at a steady distance, its wheels cutting grooves into the dust that would be gone by nightfall.

"We should reach the river by midday," Adil said, his voice low and rough, cutting through the quiet. He didn't look at her when he spoke, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, scanning the empty fields on either side. "We can water the horses there."

"And the lodge?"

"Tomorrow evening, if the weather holds."

Esme nodded, though the movement made her neck ache. A day and a half of this, of dust and heat and the weight of what they were running from pressing down on her chest. She'd left a letter on her desk, sealed with the royal signet, explaining that she needed time away, that the weight of the coronation had unsettled her, that she would return when she was ready. It was a lie wrapped in enough truth to hold, and she'd written it with a steady hand while Adil packed the saddlebags in silence.

Her stomach twisted, a low, dull ache that she tried to ignore. Probably just the movement of the horse, the unfamiliar rhythm of a long ride after weeks of palace stillness. She pressed her palm against her lower belly, feeling the warmth of her own hand through the thin fabric of her riding habit.

Adil's eyes flicked to the movement, and she saw his jaw tighten.

"You're in pain."

It wasn't a question. She shook her head anyway. "Just the saddle. I'm not used to long rides."

He didn't answer, but she felt his gaze on her for a long moment before he turned back to the road. The silence settled between them again, heavier than before, and she found herself studying the line of his profile—the sharp cut of his jaw, the shadow of stubble that darkened his skin, the way his hand rested on the reins with a stillness that was anything but calm.

He was afraid. She could see it in the set of his shoulders, in the way his eyes kept moving, scanning for threats that weren't there. Adil, who had faced down assassins and battle lines without flinching, was afraid of what was growing inside her. Afraid of the one thing he couldn't fight with a sword.

The thought made her chest ache, and she looked away, fixing her eyes on the road ahead. The fields stretched out on either side, dry grass bending in the heat, the occasional tree offering a sliver of shade that was gone almost before they reached it. The world felt too bright, too indifferent to the enormity of what they carried with them.

"Mistress Elara said—" she started, then stopped, the words catching in her throat.

Adil's head turned toward her, and she felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing. "What did she say?"

"She said the first months are the most fragile." Esme kept her eyes on the road, afraid that if she looked at him, she'd lose the thread of her composure. "She said there's a chance—"

"I know what she said."

The words were sharp, cutting through her sentence like a blade, and she flinched. Adil's hand moved, reaching for her, then stopped, hovering in the air between them before he pulled it back and gripped the reins again.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice rougher now, stripped of its usual control. "I didn't mean—"

"You don't have to apologize." She forced herself to meet his eyes, and what she saw there made her breath catch. He looked raw, exposed, the mask of the perfect soldier cracked at the edges. "I'm afraid too."

He held her gaze for a long moment, and something passed between them that she couldn't name. Then he turned back to the road, and the silence settled around them again, but it was different now. Softer. Like they were both holding the same breath.

The horses walked on, their hooves beating a steady rhythm against the packed earth. Esme let herself sink into the motion, the sway of the saddle, the warmth of the sun on her shoulders. Her hand stayed pressed against her stomach, a silent promise she wasn't sure she had the power to keep.

"Do you think we'll make it?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Adil didn't answer at first. He rode in silence for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the horizon, and she thought he wasn't going to speak at all. Then he said, "We have to."

It wasn't the answer she wanted, but it was the one he had to give. She understood that. Adil dealt in certainties—in orders, in tactics, in the clean line of a blade. He couldn't give her a promise he didn't know he could keep, and that honesty hurt more than a lie would have.

The ache in her belly pulsed again, sharper this time, and she sucked in a breath through her teeth. She straightened in the saddle, willing it to pass, but it lingered, a dull, insistent pressure that made her want to double over.

"Esme."

His voice was sharp, alert, and she realized she'd let her reins go slack. She gripped them again, forcing her hands to steady.

"I'm fine," she said, but the words came out thin, and she saw his eyes narrow.

"You're pale."

"It's the heat."

"It's not the heat."

She didn't answer. The ache was settling now, fading to a dull throb that she could almost ignore, but she felt the ghost of it still, a warning that wouldn't quite leave. She pressed her hand harder against her stomach, feeling the warmth of her own palm through the fabric, and tried to remember how to breathe.

The road stretched ahead of them, empty and indifferent, and the lodge was still a day and a half away.

Adil had stopped scanning the fields. His eyes were on her now, fixed and unblinking, and she saw the tension in his shoulders ratchet up another notch. He looked like a man bracing for a blow.

"We should stop," he said. "Rest the horses."

"We can't afford to lose time."

"We can't afford to lose you."

The words hit her like a blow, and she looked at him, really looked, and saw the fear he'd been trying to hide. It was there in the set of his jaw, in the white-knuckled grip on his reins, in the way his eyes kept dropping to her stomach as if he could see through the fabric to the fragile life growing inside her.

"I'm all right," she said, and she made herself believe it. "It was just a cramp. It's passing."

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue. He turned back to the road, and she saw him force his shoulders to relax, a visible effort that made her chest ache in a different way.

The horses walked on, and the silence stretched between them, but this time it wasn't heavy. It was the silence of two people holding onto each other across the distance of a few feet, afraid to break the spell with words.

Esme let her hand fall from her stomach, flexing her fingers to work out the stiffness. She could still feel the ache, a low, distant throb that reminded her of Mistress Elara's measured tone, the careful way she'd chosen her words. There is a risk, Your Majesty. The child may not survive. The words had hung in the air like a sentence, and Esme had felt the floor drop out from under her.

She shook the memory away, focusing on the road ahead. The sun was higher now, the heat pressing down with more force, and she could see the faint shimmer of the river in the distance, a ribbon of silver that promised shade and cool water.

"There," she said, pointing. "We're almost there."

Adil followed her gaze, and she saw the tension in his shoulders ease, just slightly. "We'll stop there," he said. "Let the horses drink."

"And then we press on."

It was a promise, of sorts, and she held onto it as the horses carried them toward the river. The ache in her belly had faded to almost nothing now, a memory of pain rather than pain itself, but she didn't trust it. She didn't trust anything anymore, not her body, not the road ahead, not the fragile hope that had taken root in her chest.

But she trusted Adil. That was the one thing she was sure of, the one fixed point in a world that seemed to be shifting beneath her feet. She trusted him to carry her through this, to keep her safe, to stay by her side when everything else fell apart.

The river appeared slowly, a thread of silver that widened as they drew closer, until Esme could hear the water moving over stones, a sound that cut through the heat like a reprieve. The horses picked up their pace without being urged, their ears pricked forward, and she felt her own body ease in response. The ache in her belly had settled into a dull memory, something she could almost forget, and she let herself believe, for a moment, that the worst had passed.

Adil dismounted first, his boots hitting the packed earth with a soft thud, and he turned to help her down before she could swing her leg over the saddle herself. His hands found her waist, warm through the fabric of her riding habit, and he held her for a beat longer than necessary as her feet touched the ground.

"Steady," he said, his voice low, and she felt the word vibrate through his chest where her shoulder pressed against him.

"I'm steady."

"You're pale." He didn't let go of her waist. His thumbs traced the curve of her hips through the wool, a gesture that was almost unconscious, and she saw his eyes drop to her mouth before he caught himself and looked away.

"I'm fine," she said, and this time she almost meant it. The river was cool and close, the shade of the willows reaching toward them, and she could feel the tension in her shoulders begin to unknot.

He released her slowly, his hands lingering for a moment before he turned to lead the horses to the water. She watched him move, the easy confidence of his stride, the way his hand rested on the neck of his stallion as it drank, and she felt something loosen in her chest that she hadn't realized was clenched.

The carriage had pulled up behind them, and the driver—a man she'd known since childhood, trusted with her life—busied himself with the wheels, checking the axles, giving them the privacy they couldn't ask for in words. Esme walked to the riverbank, crouching to cup the cold water in her hands, and she drank, the chill of it shocking against her dry throat.

"We should eat something," Adil said, and she heard the careful neutrality in his voice, the way he was trying to sound like a captain addressing his queen rather than a man desperate to keep her safe.

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat." He was already moving toward the carriage, where the supplies were packed, and she felt a flicker of irritation that he was right. She hadn't eaten since the night before, and the toast she'd forced down before dawn had sat heavy in her stomach.

He returned with a cloth bundle, unwrapping it to reveal bread and cheese and a small pouch of dried fruit. He sat on a flat stone near the water, patting the space beside him, and she lowered herself down with a care that she hated. Every movement felt loaded now, every step a calculation, and she saw Adil's eyes track her as she settled, cataloguing her movements for signs of weakness.

"You're watching me like I'm going to shatter," she said, and the words came out sharper than she'd intended.

He didn't flinch. "Aren't you?"

The question landed in the space between them, and she had no answer for it. She broke off a piece of bread, forcing herself to chew, and the taste was ash in her mouth. But she swallowed, and she took another bite, and she saw the tension in his shoulders ease by a fraction.

"Mistress Elara said rest helps," she said, the words coming out around a mouthful of bread. "She said stress—"

"Then we rest." He said it simply, like it was an order he was giving himself, and she felt the weight of it settle over her. "We'll stay here until the heat breaks. The horses need it anyway."

"And if someone comes looking for us?"

"No one knows which road we took." He tore off a piece of bread for himself, but she noticed he didn't eat it. He just held it, turning it over in his fingers. "The letter says you're resting. The council will assume you're in the east wing, taking time to recover from the coronation."

"And Tomas?"

"Tomas is loyal. He'll cover for us." There was a certainty in his voice that she wanted to believe, and she did, mostly. The boy had been easy to bind with a promotion and a promise, but she'd seen the way his eyes had flickered when Adil had laid out the terms. There was ambition there, a hunger that could turn either way.

"He's a risk," she said, and she felt the words heavy on her tongue. "We should have—"

"We did what we had to do." Adil's voice was flat, final, and she let it drop. He was right, she knew. Killing a boy for overhearing a moment of weakness would have been a stain on her reign before it had even properly begun. Binding him with favor was the only clean option, even if it left a thread loose that could unravel later.

She finished the bread, and he handed her a piece of dried fruit, and she took it without argument. The sun was high now, the heat pressing down with a weight that made her want to lie down in the shade and sleep for a year. She could feel the exhaustion pulling at her, a deep bone-tiredness that had nothing to do with the ride.

"I'm going to check the horses," Adil said, rising, and she watched him walk to where the animals stood at the water's edge, their tails flicking at flies. He moved with the same controlled grace he always did, but she saw the way his hand lingered on his stallion's neck, a gesture of comfort that he couldn't give her with words.

She closed her eyes, letting the sound of the river fill her ears, and for a moment she let herself imagine a different life. A small house in the north, a garden, the sound of a child's laughter. It was a fantasy she hadn't allowed herself to entertain, a dream that felt too fragile to hold, and she opened her eyes again before it could take root.

Adil was standing at the water's edge, his back to her, and she saw the set of his shoulders change. He was looking at something in the distance, his body gone still in that way that meant he was assessing a threat. She pushed herself to her feet, her hand going to her stomach out of habit, and walked toward him.

"What is it?"

He didn't answer at first, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Then he turned, and she saw the tension in his jaw, the careful control he was exerting over his expression.

"Riders," he said. "Coming from the north."

Esme turned, following his gaze. On the horizon, a plume of dust rose against the pale sky, three dark shapes moving fast beneath it. Her hand went to her stomach before she could stop it.

"How many?" she asked.

"Three. Maybe four." Adil's voice was flat, controlled, but she saw his hand drop to the hilt of his sword. "Riding hard."

The horses at the water's edge lifted their heads, ears pricked toward the sound. Even the carriage driver had stopped his work, one hand shading his eyes as he stared north.

"Could be travelers," Esme said, but the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.

"Could be." Adil didn't sound like he believed it. He was already moving, striding toward the carriage with a purpose that made her chest tighten. "Get in."

"Adil—"

"Get in the carriage. Now."

She wanted to argue, to remind him that she was his queen, that she did not take orders from her captain. But the look on his face stopped her—not the cold discipline of a soldier, but something rawer underneath. Fear, she realized. He was afraid, and he was hiding it behind the only language he knew: command.

She walked to the carriage, and he was there before she reached it, his hand at her elbow, helping her up with a gentleness that belied the tension in his shoulders. The interior was dim and close, smelling of leather and dust, and she settled onto the bench with her hands folded in her lap.

"Stay down," he said, and the door closed before she could answer.

The nausea hit her without warning. It rose from her stomach in a hot wave, and she pressed her hand to her mouth, breathing through it the way Mistress Elara had shown her. The carriage swayed as Adil mounted his horse, and she heard him call something to the driver, too low to make out the words.

She closed her eyes, counting her breaths the way she'd learned as a girl when the weight of court protocol threatened to crush her. One. Two. Three. The nausea subsided, leaving her shaky and cold, and she opened her eyes to find the carriage in motion, the river already falling behind them.

She pressed her palm against her belly, feeling the warmth through the fabric of her habit. The ache had returned, a low, persistent throb that she couldn't quite ignore, and she thought of Mistress Elara's careful words, the way the midwife had chosen each phrase like a surgeon choosing a blade.

There is a risk, Your Majesty. The child may not survive.

She pushed the thought away, focusing on the rhythm of the wheels, the jolt of the carriage as it hit a rut in the road. Through the small window, she could see Adil riding ahead, his back straight, his head turning as he scanned the fields on either side. The riders had disappeared from view, but she knew they were still there, somewhere behind them, gaining ground.

The carriage shuddered, and she grabbed the edge of the bench to steady herself. The movement was too much, too rough, and she felt her stomach lurch again.

"Stop," she called, her voice thin. "Please, stop."

The driver must have heard her, because the carriage slowed, the wheels grinding to a halt on the packed earth. She pushed the door open before the driver could reach it, stumbling out into the sunlight, and fell to her knees in the dry grass at the side of the road.

She was sick. The bread she'd eaten came up in a bitter rush, and she braced herself on her hands, her shoulders heaving as she emptied her stomach onto the ground. Her eyes watered, and she spat, trying to clear the taste from her mouth.

Adil was there before she'd finished, his hand on her back, steady and warm.

"I'm fine," she said, but the words came out ragged, and she felt his hand tighten.

"You're not fine." His voice was low, rough, stripped of its usual control. "You haven't been fine since we left."

She didn't answer. She couldn't. She knelt in the grass, her forehead resting on her hands, and tried to remember how to breathe. The nausea was passing now, leaving her weak and trembling, and she felt the ache in her belly pulse once, twice, then settle into a dull weight.

"We need to find somewhere to rest," Adil said. "A village, an inn. Somewhere you can lie down."

"We can't—"

"We can't keep going like this." He cut her off, his voice hard. "You're sick. You're pale. And we have riders behind us that I can't identify." He paused, and she heard him take a breath. "There's a town about two hours east. We can reach it before dark."

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. He looked exhausted, she realized—the lines around his mouth deeper than she remembered, the shadows under his eyes darker. He'd been carrying this alone, she thought. The fear, the planning, the weight of keeping her safe. And he was breaking under it.

"All right," she said. "We'll go to the town."

He helped her to her feet, his hand firm on her elbow, and she let him guide her back to the carriage. This time, she didn't argue when he climbed in beside her, settling onto the bench across from her with his sword across his knees.

"You don't need to—"

"I do." He said it simply, like a fact. "You're not riding alone."

The carriage lurched into motion, and she leaned back against the bench, letting the rhythm of the wheels carry her. The nausea had faded to a dull queasiness, the ache in her belly a distant throb, and she let her eyes close, just for a moment.

When she opened them, the light had changed. The sun was lower in the sky, painting the fields gold, and she could see the outline of a town in the distance, a cluster of buildings gathered around a stone church.

"Almost there," Adil said. He hadn't moved, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but she felt his attention shift to her as she stirred.

"Did you see the riders again?"

"No." He said it without inflection. "They turned off before we reached the crossroads. Could have been anyone."

"But you don't believe that."

He didn't answer, and she let it drop.

The town was small, a single street lined with timber-framed houses and a market square that was mostly empty at this hour. The carriage pulled up outside an inn with a faded sign swinging in the breeze, and Adil climbed out first, his hand on his sword as he scanned the street.

"Stay close," he said, and she followed him inside.

The innkeeper was a woman with a weathered face and shrewd eyes, and she took in Esme's fine clothes and Adil's uniform with a single glance.

"Traveling?" she asked, her voice flat.

"We need a room for the night," Adil said. "And a physician, if there's one in the town."

The innkeeper's eyes flicked to Esme, and something in her expression softened. "There's a midwife in the village. Marta. She's delivered half the children in this town."

Esme felt Adil tense beside her, and she knew what he was thinking. A midwife meant questions. A midwife meant a stranger's hands on her body, a stranger's eyes on the swell of her belly. But the ache had returned, sharper now, and she knew they had no choice.

"Please," she said, and the word came out smaller than she'd intended. "Send for her."

The innkeeper nodded, already moving toward the back of the inn, and Adil led Esme up the narrow stairs to a room at the end of the hall. It was small, with a bed and a washstand and a window that looked out over the market square. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, and tried not to think about the distance they'd traveled, the distance still ahead.

Adil stood at the window, his back to her, and she watched the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

"She'll be here soon," he said, but he didn't turn around.

"Adil."

He turned, and she saw the fear in his eyes, barely hidden behind the mask of control.

"What if something's wrong?" she asked. "What if the baby—"

"Don't." The word was sharp, almost a command, and she flinched. He crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of her, his hands finding hers. "Don't say that. Don't even think it."

"I can't help it." Her voice cracked. "I can feel it. Something's not right."

"You're tired. You've been riding all day. It's—"

"It's not just the riding." She pulled her hands free, pressing them against her belly. "I know my body, Adil. I know when something's wrong."

He was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on her hands. Then he reached out, covering them with his own, and she felt the warmth of his palms through the fabric of her habit.

"We'll see what the midwife says," he said. "And whatever it is, we'll face it. Together."

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that they could face this, that they could reach the lodge, that the child growing inside her would survive. But the ache in her belly pulsed, a steady reminder of everything she couldn't control, and she felt the hope she'd been clinging to begin to slip.

The knock on the door made them both start. Adil rose, his hand going to his sword, and he crossed the room to open it.

The woman standing in the doorway was older than Mistress Elara, her hair streaked with gray, her hands gnarled with age. But her eyes were sharp, and they went straight to Esme, taking in the pallor of her face, the way she sat with her hands pressed against her belly.

"I'm Marta," she said, stepping into the room. "The innkeeper said you needed me."

Esme nodded, not trusting her voice.

Marta set down the leather bag she carried and closed the door behind her, shutting Adil out with a glance. "Give us a moment, Captain."

Adil hesitated, his eyes meeting Esme's, and she nodded. He left, the door clicking shut behind him, and Esme was alone with the midwife.

"Lie down," Marta said, her voice brisk but kind. "Let me see what we're dealing with."

Esme lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as Marta's hands moved over her belly, gentle but probing. The ache pulsed under the midwife's fingers, and Esme bit her lip, trying not to flinch.

"How far along are you?" Marta asked.

"Six weeks. Maybe a little more."

Marta's hands stilled. "And you've been having pain?"

"On and off. It started this morning."

"Cramping?"

"Yes."

Marta was silent for a long moment, her hands still pressed against Esme's belly. Then she straightened, her face carefully neutral.

"The child is positioned low," she said. "Lower than it should be at this stage. That's what's causing the pain." She paused, choosing her words with care. "It doesn't mean the child is lost. But it means you need to rest. No more riding, no more travel, not until the child settles."

"But we have to reach—"

"You have to rest." Marta's voice was firm. "If you don't, you risk losing the child. Do you understand?"

Esme felt the floor drop out from under her. She'd known, on some level, that the risk was real. Mistress Elara had warned her, had chosen her words with the same careful precision. But hearing it again, from a stranger in a strange town, made it feel final.

"How long?" she asked, and her voice came out thin, barely a whisper.

"A week. Maybe two. Until the bleeding stops and the child settles into a safer position." Marta's hand found hers, warm and rough. "I know it's not what you wanted to hear. But you have a choice to make."

Esme closed her eyes. The lodge was a day and a half away. They couldn't stay here—couldn't risk being found, couldn't risk the council discovering where she'd gone. But she couldn't keep riding, couldn't risk the child.

The door opened, and she heard Adil's footsteps cross the room. She opened her eyes to find him standing over her, his face pale beneath his bronze skin.

"What did she say?" he asked.

Esme looked at Marta, then back at Adil. The words sat heavy on her tongue, and she forced them out.

"We can't leave."

Adil stared at her, the words hanging between them like a stone dropped into still water. "What do you mean we can't leave?"

"Marta said I need rest. A week. Maybe two." Esme pushed herself up on her elbows, the ache in her belly flaring at the movement. "We can't stay here that long. The council will send riders. Tomas's ambition will curdle. Every day we stay in this town is a day someone recognizes me."

"And every day you spend on a horse is a day you risk losing the child." His voice was low, controlled, but she could hear the crack beneath it. "Marta said—"

"Marta said rest. She didn't say forever." Esme swung her legs off the bed, her boots hitting the floor with a thud that made her wince. "The lodge is a day and a half away. If we leave at dawn and take it slow, we can be there by tomorrow evening."

"Slow." Adil repeated the word like it was foreign to him. "You were sick on the road today. You were cramping. You could barely stand."

"I'm standing now."

"You're sitting on the edge of a bed, white as bone, trying to convince me to risk your life and the life of our child because you're afraid of something that hasn't happened yet."

The words hit her like a slap. She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came. He was right. She knew he was right. But the walls of this room felt like they were closing in, the town pressing down on her like a weight she couldn't shift.

"I can't stay here," she said, and her voice cracked on the last word. "I can't lie in this bed for two weeks waiting for the council to find us. Waiting for someone to recognize the queen who disappeared without a word. Waiting for—"

"For what?"

She looked at him, really looked, and saw the fear he was trying to hide behind the mask of command. His hands were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight, and there was something in his eyes that she'd never seen before. Not fear for her safety. Something rawer.

"For this to be over," she said quietly. "One way or another."

He crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of her. His hands found hers, warm and rough, and he held them like they were the only thing keeping him anchored.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice low and urgent. "I have watched you walk into throne rooms full of men who wanted your crown and your blood. I have seen you face down assassins with nothing but your words and your will. I have never once been afraid for you, because I knew you could handle it. But this—" His grip tightened. "This I cannot fight. This I cannot plan for. This is the one thing in the world I cannot protect you from, and it terrifies me."

Esme felt tears prick at her eyes, and she blinked them back. "I know."

"Then why are you asking me to risk it?"

"Because I'm terrified too." Her voice broke, and she let it. "I'm terrified of lying in this bed for two weeks while the world moves on without us. I'm terrified of the council sending riders to find me and dragging me back to a throne I never wanted. I'm terrified of Tomas's ambition turning into betrayal. But most of all—" She pulled one hand free, pressing it against her belly. "I'm terrified that if we stay here, if we wait, something will happen that we can't outrun. And I'd rather face that on the road, with you, than alone in a strange town where no one knows my name."

Adil was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on her hand where it rested against her stomach. Then he reached up, covering it with his own, and she felt the warmth of his palm seep through the thin fabric.

"If we go," he said slowly, "we go slow. We stop at the first sign of pain. We don't push."

"Agreed."

"And if Marta says you can't ride, we don't ride. We find a cart, a wagon, anything with wheels that won't jolt you."

"Agreed."

He looked up at her, and she saw the fear still there, but something else too. Something that looked almost like hope.

"You're the most stubborn woman I've ever met," he said, and there was a thread of wonder in his voice. "You know that?"

"I'm a queen. Stubbornness is a requirement."

He almost smiled. Almost. "We leave at dawn. I'll talk to Marta, see if she has anything that can help with the pain. And I'll find a cart."

"And the riders?"

"I'll keep watch tonight. If they come this way, we'll know before they reach the town." He rose, his hands lingering on hers for a moment before he let go. "Rest. I'll be back before dark."

She watched him cross the room, his stride purposeful, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. At the door, he paused, turning back to look at her.

"Esme."

"Yes?"

"I meant what I said. I cannot protect you from this. But I will be beside you for every step of it. Whatever happens."

He left before she could answer, the door clicking shut behind him. She sat alone in the dim room, her hand pressed against her belly, and let the tears fall.

She didn't know how long she sat there, the afternoon light fading to gray as the sun sank toward the horizon. The ache in her belly had settled into a dull weight, a constant reminder of the fragile life growing inside her. She thought of Mistress Elara's careful words, Marta's firm hands, Adil's voice cracking with fear. She thought of the lodge, a day and a half away, a place she'd never seen but had pinned all her hopes to.

The door opened, and she looked up to find Adil standing in the doorway, a cloth bundle in his hands.

"Marta sent this," he said, crossing to the bed. "Herbs for the pain. She said to steep them in hot water and drink it slowly."

"And the cart?"

"There's a farmer on the edge of town who'll sell us his wagon. It's rough, but it's got springs. Better than a horse." He set the bundle on the washstand, then turned to face her. "She also said something else."

"What?"

"She said the child is strong. She said she's seen this before—babies that settle low and then move up as they grow. She said it's not a death sentence."

Esme felt something loosen in her chest, a knot she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "She said that?"

"Word for word." He crossed to the bed, sitting on the edge beside her. "She also said you need to eat. And sleep. And stop trying to do everything at once."

"I'm not trying to do everything at once."

"You're trying to outrun the entire kingdom on horseback while pregnant and in pain." He raised an eyebrow. "That's doing everything at once."

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "When you put it that way."

"I'm putting it that way because it's true." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a gentleness that made her chest ache. "We'll leave at dawn. We'll take the wagon. We'll stop when you need to stop. And we'll reach the lodge, and we'll be safe there."

"And if we're not?"

"Then we'll face that too." His hand found hers, warm and steady. "Together."

She looked at him, at the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, at the stubble darkening his jaw, at the way his thumb traced small circles on the back of her hand. She thought of all the ways she'd imagined her life as queen—the councils, the treaties, the weight of the crown. She'd never imagined this. A small room in a strange town, a man she loved who couldn't say the words, a child growing inside her that might not survive.

"Adil," she said, and her voice came out quiet, almost shy. "What are we going to do if we make it? To the lodge, I mean. Once we're there."

He was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on their joined hands. "I don't know," he said finally. "I've been so focused on getting you there safely that I haven't thought about what comes after."

"I think about it." She pulled her hand free, pressing it against her belly. "I think about a small house. A garden. The sound of a child's laughter."

"That sounds like a dream."

"It is." She met his eyes. "But I'm afraid to dream it. Because if I dream it and it doesn't happen—"

"It will happen." His voice was firm, almost fierce. "We'll make it happen."

"You can't promise that."

"I know." He reached out, cupping her face in his hands, and she felt the rough warmth of his palms against her cheeks. "But I'm going to try. Every day, for the rest of my life, I'm going to try to make that dream real for you."

She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, and for a moment she let herself believe him. She let herself imagine the lodge, the garden, the child. She let herself imagine a life that wasn't built on secrets and fear.

When she opened her eyes, he was still there, his gaze steady on hers. She saw the fear still lurking in the depths of his eyes, but she saw something else too—a determination that matched her own.

"We should sleep," she said. "We have a long ride ahead of us."

"We do." He didn't move, his hands still cradling her face. "But first—"

He leaned in, pressing his lips to her forehead. The kiss was soft, almost reverent, and she felt something in her chest crack open.

"I'm going to keep you safe," he murmured against her skin. "Both of you. I swear it."

She reached up, her fingers curling around his wrist. "I know."

He pulled back, and she saw the raw emotion in his eyes before he masked it. "Sleep," he said. "I'll wake you at dawn."

She lay back on the bed, and he drew the thin blanket over her, tucking it around her shoulders with a care that made her throat tight. He sat on the floor beside the bed, his back against the frame, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"You don't have to stay," she said.

"I know." He didn't move. "But I'm going to."

She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing, the creak of the bed as she shifted, the distant murmur of the town settling into night. The ache in her belly pulsed once, twice, then faded to a dull throb. She pressed her hand against it, feeling the warmth of her own palm through the fabric.

"Adil?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

There was a long pause. Then, softly: "For what?"

"For staying."

He didn't answer, but she felt his hand find hers in the dark, warm and steady, and she held onto it as she drifted toward sleep.

She woke to the sound of horses in the street below.

Her eyes snapped open, her heart hammering in her chest. The room was dark, the window showing a sliver of gray light that meant dawn was approaching. Adil was already on his feet, his sword in his hand, his body tense as he stood at the window, peering through the gap in the curtains.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Riders." His voice was flat, controlled. "Three of them. Wearing palace colors."

The words hit her like a blow. She pushed herself up, ignoring the ache in her belly, and crossed to the window. Adil shifted aside, and she saw them—three horsemen in the gray and gold livery of the royal guard, their horses lathered and tired, pulling up outside the inn.

"They found us," she breathed.

"Not yet." Adil's hand found her shoulder, steadying her. "They're checking the inns. They don't know we're here."

"But they will." She watched the riders dismount, one of them handing his reins to a stable boy. "They'll ask questions. They'll describe us."

"We'll be gone before they reach the door." He was already moving, crossing to the washstand, stuffing Marta's herbs into his saddlebag. "The wagon's ready. I'll get the horses."

"Adil—"

"Stay here." He turned, his eyes meeting hers. "Do not move until I come back for you. Do you understand?"

She nodded, her throat too tight for words.

He crossed to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, take the back stairs. There's a stable behind the inn. Take the gray mare and ride north. Don't stop until you reach the lodge."

"I won't leave without you."

"Esme—"

"I won't." She met his eyes, and she saw the fear there, the same fear she felt coiling in her own chest. "We leave together or not at all."

He held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "Ten minutes."

The door clicked shut behind him, and she was alone.

She pressed her hand against her belly, feeling the ache pulse beneath her palm. The riders were downstairs. Adil was moving through the inn, trying to get them out before the trap closed. And somewhere in the distance, the lodge waited, a day and a half away, a dream she was afraid to believe in.

She crossed to the window, peering through the gap in the curtains. The riders had gone inside, their horses tied to the rail. The street was quiet, the dawn light painting the buildings gold.

She counted her breaths, the way she'd learned as a girl. One. Two. Three. The ache in her belly pulsed, a steady reminder of what she was fighting for.

And then she heard it—the creak of the stairs, the low murmur of voices. Adil's voice, answering a question she couldn't hear.

She held her breath, her hand pressed against her belly, and waited.

The stairs creaked once, twice, and then the murmur of voices resolved into footsteps—heavy, deliberate, the tread of men who had ridden hard and wanted answers. Esme pressed herself against the wall beside the window, her breath shallow, her hand still pressed to her belly where the ache pulsed like a second heartbeat. She could hear Adil's voice below, low and even, the voice he used when he was talking a man down from a fight.

"—no travelers matching that description. Just my wife and I, on our way north to visit her family."

"Your wife." The voice was flat, skeptical. "The innkeeper said you arrived with a woman. Fine clothes. Said she looked unwell."

"She's with child. The ride's been hard on her." A pause, and Esme could picture the way Adil would be standing—relaxed, easy, one hand resting on his belt within reach of his sword. "If you need to see her, she's resting. But I'd ask you to let her sleep. The physician ordered it."

There was a long silence. Esme counted her heartbeats—five, ten, fifteen—and then the flat voice spoke again.

"The queen has left the palace. Taken ill, they say. Gone to the eastern estates to recover." The man's voice dropped, confidential. "But there's talk she didn't go east at all. Talk that she went north. With a man."

The words hit Esme like a fist. She pressed her back harder against the wall, her fingers curling into the fabric of her riding habit.

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Adil said, and his voice hadn't changed at all. "I'm a soldier, not a court gossip. My wife needs rest, and I need to get her north before the baby comes. If you've no further questions—"

"One more." The voice was closer now, as if the man had stepped toward Adil. "Your wife. She wouldn't happen to be tall, dark-haired, with eyes like amber?"

Esme's blood went cold.

"My wife is from a farming family in the north," Adil said evenly. "She has her mother's brown eyes and her father's temper. I don't know anything about amber."

The silence stretched, and Esme felt the ache in her belly spike, a sharp twist that made her bite her lip to keep from crying out. She pressed both hands against her stomach, breathing through it the way Marta had shown her, and waited.

"Fine," the voice said finally. "We'll check further up the road. If you see anyone matching that description, send word to the garrison at Hartfield."

"I will."

Boots on the stairs. Esme's heart seized. She heard the door to the inn open, the jingle of harness, the murmur of horses being mounted. And then the sound of hooves on packed earth, fading, until the street was quiet again.

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and the ache in her belly eased by a fraction.

The door opened, and Adil slipped inside, closing it behind him. His face was pale beneath his bronze skin, and his hand was still on his sword.

"They're gone," he said. "But they'll be back. That one—the one who asked about your eyes—he wasn't convinced."

"He recognized the description." Esme's voice came out thin. "Someone told them what I look like. Someone who's seen me up close."

"Tomas." Adil's jaw tightened. "Or someone else. It doesn't matter now. We need to move."

He crossed to the bed, where his saddlebags sat packed and ready. He slung them over his shoulder, then turned to her, his eyes scanning her face.

"Can you walk?"

She pushed herself off the wall, testing her legs. The ache was still there, a dull weight low in her belly, but it was bearable. "Yes."

"Good. The wagon's behind the inn. I'll get the horses." He paused at the door, his hand on the latch. "If anything happens—if they come back—you take the wagon and you go. Don't wait for me."

"Adil—"

"Don't argue." His voice was hard, but his eyes were soft. "I can't protect you if you're dead, Esme. And I can't protect the child if you're dead. So if it comes to that, you go. You understand?"

She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that she wouldn't leave him, that they left together or not at all. But the words stuck in her throat, and she nodded.

"Good." He opened the door, checking the hallway, then gestured for her to follow.

The back stairs were narrow and dark, and Esme took them slowly, her hand on the wall for balance. The ache in her belly pulsed with each step, but she gritted her teeth and kept moving. The stable yard was quiet, the dawn light still gray and soft, and the wagon was where Adil had said it would be—a rough wooden cart with high sides and a bed of straw covered with blankets.

Adil helped her up, his hands warm on her waist, and she settled onto the blankets with a sigh that was half relief, half exhaustion. He tucked a blanket around her shoulders, then climbed onto the driver's seat, taking up the reins.

"We'll take the back roads," he said, his voice low. "Avoid the main highway. It'll add a few hours, but it'll be safer."

"Whatever you think is best." She lay back, letting the motion of the wagon rock her. The straw smelled of hay and dust, and the blanket was rough against her cheek, but it was warm, and it was safe, and for the first time since they'd left the palace, she felt her shoulders begin to unknot.

The wagon lurched forward, and she closed her eyes, listening to the creak of the wheels and the steady clip of the horses' hooves. The ache in her belly had settled into a dull throb, a constant companion she was learning to live with, and she pressed her hand against it, feeling the warmth of her own palm through the fabric.

"Adil?"

"Mm?"

"What happens when we reach the lodge?"

He was silent for a moment, and she heard him shift on the driver's seat. "We find a midwife. We find a place to stay. We wait."

"And then?"

"And then we figure out the rest." He paused. "One day at a time."

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "That's not much of a plan."

"It's the only plan I've got." He turned, just enough that she could see the profile of his face against the gray light. "But it's a plan. And I'm not going to let anything happen to you or the child. Not while I'm still breathing."

The words settled over her like a blanket, warm and heavy, and she felt her eyes grow heavy. The motion of the wagon was soothing, a steady rhythm that lulled her toward sleep, and she let herself drift.

She woke to the sound of water.

She blinked, disoriented, and pushed herself up on her elbows. The wagon had stopped, and Adil was standing at the edge of a stream, letting the horses drink. The sun was higher now, the light golden, and the air smelled of pine and damp earth.

"Where are we?" she asked, her voice rough with sleep.

"About halfway to the lodge." He turned, and she saw the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the stubble darkening his jaw. "We're making good time. We should reach it by nightfall."

She sat up, wincing at the stiffness in her back, and pressed her hand against her belly. The ache was still there, but it had faded to a distant throb, a reminder rather than a warning.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Better." She meant it, mostly. "The rest helped."

He nodded, turning back to the horses. "We should keep moving. There's a storm coming in from the west—I can smell it. I want to reach the lodge before it hits."

She climbed down from the wagon, her legs unsteady, and walked to the stream to splash water on her face. The cold shock of it cleared the fog from her head, and she straightened, looking around at the forest that pressed close on either side of the road.

It was beautiful here. The trees were tall and old, their branches interlacing overhead to form a canopy that filtered the light into green-gold patches. The air was cool and clean, and she could hear birds somewhere in the distance, their calls echoing through the woods.

For the first time since they'd left the palace, she felt something that might have been peace.

"We're close," Adil said, coming to stand beside her. "The lodge is about two hours north of here. It's remote—no neighbors for miles. We'll be safe there."

"Safe." She repeated the word, tasting it. "I'm not sure I remember what that feels like."

He was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the stream. Then he reached out, his hand finding hers, and she felt the rough warmth of his palm against her skin.

"You'll get used to it," he said. "I promise."

She looked at him, at the exhaustion in his face and the steel in his eyes, and she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that they could reach the lodge, that they could find a midwife, that the child growing inside her would survive. She wanted to believe that the dream she'd been afraid to dream could come true.

"All right," she said, and she squeezed his hand. "Let's go."

The storm hit as they reached the edge of the forest.

The sky, which had been golden and clear, turned gray in the space of an hour, the clouds rolling in from the west like a wall. The wind picked up, bending the trees, and the first drops of rain began to fall, fat and cold, drumming against the canvas cover of the wagon.

Esme pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, watching the rain streak down in silver lines. The ache in her belly had returned, a dull pulse that she tried to ignore, but it was persistent, a reminder that she couldn't outrun her body.

"There," Adil said, his voice cutting through the drum of the rain. "I can see it."

She pushed herself up, peering through the curtain of rain. The lodge was a dark shape against the gray sky, a low building of timber and stone with a steep roof and a chimney that was already smoking. It was smaller than she'd imagined, but it looked solid, sturdy, a place that could hold out against the world.

The wagon pulled up in front of the door, and Adil jumped down, helping her out with hands that were already wet with rain. They made a dash for the door, and he pushed it open, revealing a single room with a hearth, a bed, a table, and a window that looked out over the forest.

It was modest, but it was warm, and it was dry, and it was theirs.

Esme stood in the middle of the room, dripping onto the wooden floor, and let out a breath she felt she'd been holding for days. The ache in her belly pulsed once, twice, then settled, and she pressed her hand against it, feeling the warmth of her own palm through the wet fabric of her habit.

"We made it," she said, and her voice cracked on the words.

Adil crossed to her, his hands finding her shoulders. "We made it," he echoed, and there was something in his voice she hadn't heard before. Relief, maybe. Or hope.

He helped her out of her wet clothes, wrapping her in a dry blanket, and built a fire in the hearth with hands that were steady despite the cold. She sat on the bed, watching the flames catch, feeling the warmth seep into her bones, and for the first time since they'd left the palace, she let herself believe they might be safe.

Later, after he'd brought in the supplies and seen to the horses, he sat beside her on the bed, his arm around her shoulders, his hand resting on her belly.

"There's a village about an hour south of here," he said. "I saw it on the map. There's bound to be a midwife there. We can send word tomorrow."

"And the riders?"

"They're looking for a queen and a captain. They won't think to look for a farmer and his pregnant wife in a hunting lodge in the middle of nowhere." He pressed his palm against her belly, and she felt the warmth of his hand through the blanket. "We're safe here. At least for now."

She leaned into him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. The fire crackled, the rain drummed against the roof, and the ache in her belly had faded to a distant memory.

"Adil?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

He was silent for a moment. Then he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips warm against her hair.

"Get some rest," he said. "We've got a long road ahead of us."

She closed her eyes, and for the first time in days, she slept without dreaming.

Morning came gray and quiet, the rain reduced to a drizzle that pattered against the window. Esme woke to the smell of wood smoke and something cooking, and she pushed herself up on her elbows to find Adil standing at the hearth, tending a pot of porridge.

"You should have woken me," she said, her voice rough with sleep.

"You needed the rest." He didn't turn around. "Marta's herbs are in the saddlebag. There's a tin cup by the washstand—steep some in hot water."

She did as he said, the familiar ritual of it grounding her. The herbs were bitter, but they eased the ache in her belly, and she drank the tea slowly, watching him move around the small room.

"I'll ride to the village this morning," he said, setting a bowl of porridge on the table in front of her. "See if there's a midwife. And I'll send word to Marta, let her know we made it."

"And the riders?"

"They won't come this far north. They're looking for a queen, not a farmer's wife." He sat across from her, his own bowl untouched. "We're safe here. For now."

She ate the porridge without tasting it, her eyes fixed on the window. The forest stretched out in every direction, a wall of green that felt both protective and isolating. She thought of the palace, of the council, of Tomas and his untested loyalty. She thought of the riders in their gray and gold livery, searching for a queen who had vanished without a trace.

"What happens when they find us?" she asked, and the words came out smaller than she'd intended.

Adil was silent for a long moment. Then he reached across the table, his hand covering hers.

"They won't," he said. "I'll make sure of it."

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that they could stay here forever, hidden in the forest, safe from the world and its demands. But she knew better. The crown would not let her go so easily. The council would not stop searching. And somewhere, in a palace she'd left behind, the life she'd been meant to live was waiting for her to return.

"I'm going to the village," Adil said, rising. "I'll be back by midday."

She watched him go, the door closing behind him, and she was alone in the quiet of the lodge.

She sat at the table for a long time, her hands wrapped around the empty bowl, and tried to imagine what her life would look like now. A small house in the forest. A garden. The sound of a child's laughter. It was a dream she'd been afraid to dream, but here, in the quiet of the lodge, it felt almost possible.

She pressed her hand against her belly, feeling the warmth of her own palm through the fabric of her dress.

The fire had burned down to embers by the time she heard the wagon return. Esme had moved from the table to the bed, her legs tucked beneath her, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She'd spent the morning tracing the grain of the wooden walls with her eyes, counting the beams, memorizing the way the light fell across the floor in shifting patterns.

The door opened, and Adil stepped inside, shaking rain from his cloak. His eyes found her immediately, scanning her face for signs of pain, and she saw the tension in his shoulders ease when she met his gaze without flinching.

"The midwife will come tomorrow," he said, hanging his cloak on a peg by the door. "Her name is Sera. She's delivered half the children in the valley."

"And she didn't ask questions?"

"She asked if we were new to the area. I said we were. She asked how far along you were. I said two months." He crossed to the hearth, adding wood to the embers. "She said she'd come by in the morning, before the heat sets in."

Esme nodded, pulling the blanket tighter. "And the village? Did anyone—"

"No one recognized you." He turned, his face half in shadow. "I described you as my wife. No one blinked."

His wife. The words hung in the air between them, and she felt something shift in her chest. She'd been called many things in her life—Your Highness, Your Majesty, my queen—but never that. Never something so ordinary, so domestic, so full of quiet promise.

"I should have brought you something," he said, breaking the silence. "From the village. I didn't think—"

"You brought us here." She pushed herself off the bed, crossing to where he stood. "That's enough."

He looked at her, and she saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight he'd been carrying for days. She reached up, her fingers brushing the stubble on his jaw, and he closed his eyes, leaning into her touch.

"You need to rest," she said.

"So do you."

"Then we rest." She took his hand, leading him to the bed. He followed without argument, and she felt something loosen in her chest when he sat down beside her, his boots hitting the floor with a soft thud.

They lay side by side, the fire crackling in the hearth, the rain a steady drum against the roof. His arm wrapped around her, his hand finding her belly, and she felt the warmth of his palm seep through the fabric of her dress.

"Sera said the baby is fine," he murmured against her hair. "She said the position is low, but not dangerous. She said with rest, it'll settle."

"She said that before she even saw me?"

"She said it after I told her you'd been cramping. She said it's common this early. She said—" He paused, and she felt his hand tighten on her belly. "She said you're strong. Both of you."

Esme closed her eyes, letting the words settle over her. She'd been holding her breath for so long, waiting for the other shoe to drop, that she'd forgotten what it felt like to simply breathe.

"Adil?"

"Mm?"

"What are we going to do? When the baby comes?"

He was silent for a long moment. Then he pressed a kiss to her hair. "We figure it out. Together."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have." He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look at her. "I've spent my whole life following orders. Fighting battles. Protecting people I didn't know. And then you looked at me, and I realized I'd never fought for anything I actually wanted." His hand moved, cupping her face. "I want this. I want you. I want this child. And I will burn the world down before I let anyone take it from us."

She searched his eyes, looking for the lie, the hesitation, the crack in his armor. But there was nothing there but certainty, and she felt something break open in her chest.

"I love you," she said, and this time the words didn't feel like a confession. They felt like a fact, as simple and true as the rain falling outside.

He didn't say it back. But he kissed her, slow and deep, and she felt the words in the press of his lips, in the way his hand trembled against her cheek, in the breath he let out when she pulled away.

"I know," he said, and somehow, that was enough.

The midwife came with the morning light.

She was younger than Marta, with a round face and quick hands, and she moved through the lodge like she'd been there a hundred times before. She examined Esme on the bed, her fingers gentle but certain, and when she straightened, her face was calm.

"The baby is fine," she said. "Low, but fine. You need rest, and you need to eat well, and you need to stop worrying." She packed her bag with brisk efficiency. "I'll come back in a week. If there's any bleeding, any pain that doesn't pass, send for me immediately."

"How do I know if it's serious?" Esme asked, and she heard the fear in her own voice.

Sera paused, her hand on the door. "You'll know." She smiled, and it softened her face. "Mothers always know."

The door closed behind her, and Esme lay back on the bed, her hand pressed to her belly. The ache was gone, replaced by a warmth that felt almost like hope.

Adil was at the window, watching the midwife ride away. When he turned, his face was lighter than she'd seen it in days.

"She said fine," he said, as if he couldn't quite believe it.

"She said fine." Esme smiled, and it felt strange on her face, like a muscle she'd forgotten how to use. "We're going to be fine."

He crossed to the bed, sitting beside her, his hand finding hers. "I told you. I promised."

"You did." She squeezed his hand. "And you kept it."

The days settled into a rhythm. Mornings, she woke to the smell of wood smoke and the sound of Adil moving around the lodge. She'd drink her tea, steeped with Marta's herbs, and eat whatever he put in front of her, and she'd watch the light shift across the forest floor through the window. Afternoons, she'd walk the perimeter of the lodge, her hand on her belly, learning the names of the trees. Evenings, they'd sit by the fire, his arm around her, and she'd let herself imagine the life they were building.

It was small, and it was quiet, and it was the most peaceful she'd been since her father died.

The villagers kept their distance. A few came to the lodge—a farmer with a basket of eggs, a woman with a loaf of bread still warm from the oven. They asked no questions, and Esme was grateful for their discretion. She was just a farmer's wife now, a woman with a baby on the way, and the world she'd left behind was a world she was learning to forget.

But the world hadn't forgotten her.

It came on a grey afternoon, when the rain had turned to a steady drizzle and the forest was wrapped in mist. Adil was at the village, trading for supplies, and Esme was alone, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea, watching the fire.

The knock on the door made her start.

She set down the cup, her hand going to her belly, and crossed to the door. She opened it to find a man standing on the threshold, his cloak dark with rain, his face half-hidden by the hood.

"Can I help you?" she asked, and her voice was steady, though her heart was pounding.

The man pushed back his hood, and she saw the face beneath—young, sharp, familiar.

"Your Majesty," Tomas said, and his voice was low, urgent. "I've come to warn you. The council knows you're here."