"I'm pregnant."
The words echoed in the steam.
Soft. Uneven. Almost shy.
And then they detonated inside Malvoria's head like a spell released from the core of her soul.
I'm pregnant.
I'm… pregnant.
I'm… pre—gnant…
I'm-preg-nant.
She heard it again.
And again.
And again.
As if the phrase had peeled itself from Elysia's lips and stitched itself into her thoughts, her heartbeat, the space behind her ribs.
I'm pregnant?
I'm pregnant!
I'm pregnant.
She blinked once. Twice.
The steam curled around her. The warm water lapped softly at her waist. Her arms were still wrapped around Elysia's middle. Her skin still felt like silk beneath her fingertips.
And yet her mind was falling through the air.
Not with panic.
Not with confusion.
But with awe.
Absolute, unfiltered, soul-striking awe.
Her objective from the beginning had been simple: an heir.
A child to secure the throne, to protect the lineage, to hold the future in place. A cold, calculated political necessity.
