Chapter 29
Kess
The mystic's chambers smell exactly as I remember—dried herbs hanging from smoke-darkened rafters, incense curling from brass braziers, the particular mustiness of old books and older magic layered beneath like sediment. Nothing has changed in the weeks I've been gone.
She's waiting when I arrive, standing beside her examination table with her hands folded and her ancient eyes already tracking my movements. Like she knew I was coming before anyone told her.
Probably did. Mystics are like that.
"Sit." She points to the same low stool where I sat months ago, back when I didn't know I was pregnant, back when I still trusted him. "Let me examine you properly this time."
This time. The words land like small stones dropped into still water. Because last time she examined me at his request, confirmed my pregnancy, and told him instead of me.
I sit anyway. Need answers more than I need to hold grudges.
My hand goes automatically to my belly—protective, possessive, a gesture that's become habit.
The twins have been restless since the dragon flight, rolling and kicking like they're as unsettled by this return as I am.
I can feel them both distinctly now, two separate presences sharing the same cramped space.
The mystic places her hands on my shoulders first, her touch surprisingly warm.
Her fingers press into the tension knotted there, and something shifts—not physical exactly, more like she's reading something written in my muscles.
Then she circles around and reaches for my belly without asking permission.
I let her. Her palms press against the swell, feeling, sensing, doing whatever mystics do when they look beyond the physical world. Her eyes drift half-closed. Her breathing slows.
When her eyes snap open, they're sharp with something that might be concern.
"The boy carries his father's curse." Not a question. A statement delivered with clinical detachment.
My breath catches even though I already knew. Read it in fragmentary texts at Yaern's cottage. Dreamed it in nightmares that felt more like prophecy.
"I know," I manage. "The village texts had references. Cursed bloodlines passing through male heirs. Feral instincts activating in the womb."
"Then you know what happens." Her hands pull back from my belly. "Month six. Maybe sooner. That's when the dragon nature fully emerges in male heirs. His instincts will see his sister as competition. A threat to his claim on the bloodline."
"He'll try to kill her."
"He won't try." Flat. Clinical. Utterly without comfort.
"He'll succeed. Unless something changes, unless the curse is broken or transferred before it activates, he will eliminate her before birth.
He won't mean to—won't even know he's doing it.
But the curse doesn't care about intention. It only cares about survival."
The room tilts. I grip the edges of the stool, feeling rough wood bite into my palms, using the small pain to anchor myself.
"How long exactly?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "How long do I have?"
"You're just past three months along now." She studies me with those too-knowing eyes. "That gives you perhaps twelve weeks. Maybe a bit less if the curse activates early, if your daughter is unlucky." A pause. "The curse doesn't follow a precise calendar. It wakes when it wakes."
Twelve weeks.
Maybe less.
"There has to be a way to stop it." I force the words out. "A way to break the curse before it activates. Before he—"
"There is." She moves to a cabinet against the far wall and pulls out an old leather-bound book that looks like it might crumble.
She sets it on the table with a heavy thud.
"Blood transfer. The curse can be moved from one host to another—drawn out of the child and placed in someone willing to receive it.
But it requires the right ritual. The right words spoken at precisely the right moment. "
"What words?"
"Lost." She opens the book, pages crackling like dry leaves.
"When the War God's priests burned the old temples, destroyed the warrior omega texts, tried to erase any knowledge that might break their curses.
They were thorough." She taps a page covered in faded script, half obscured by water damage.
"But the restricted archives here contain texts from before the curse was placed.
Texts the priests didn't know existed. The words we need might still be there. "
His library. His knowledge. His help.
Everything I need to save our daughter requires working alongside the man who shattered my trust.
"And if we find the words?" I lean forward. "If we have the complete ritual?"
"You'd need to be the host." Her eyes meet mine, steady and serious. "The curse would transfer to you—all of it at once. Three hundred years of divine rage channeled into your body in a matter of moments."
"I can handle it." The words come out immediately. "Warrior omega bloodline. I survived his claiming bite when it should have killed me. I survived contamination that's fatal to normal omegas."
As if to remind me, I feel the changes in my own body—the hardened ridges of my scars, the purple tint beneath my nails that's darkened since I left the village. The contamination isn't killing me. It's changing me. Making me stronger, maybe. More able to metabolize what should be poison.
Maybe that's why I can do this. Why I'm the one who has to.
"The contamination," I say slowly. "It's making me more like them. More able to process cursed blood. Wouldn't that help with the transfer?"
The mystic's eyes narrow, considering. "Perhaps.
The contamination has been... unusual in you.
Instead of destroying, it's been transforming.
Building something new." She tilts her head.
"It's possible your changed blood could metabolize the curse more effectively than a normal warrior omega.
It's also possible it could make the reaction more volatile.
There's no precedent for what you are, child.
No texts that describe an omega this far contaminated who's still alive and thriving. "
"So it might help. Or it might kill me faster."
"Yes."
I file that away. Another variable. Another unknown.
"I'll take the risk," I say. "Whatever it takes."
"Maybe." She doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe the transfer fails and kills all three of you. This ritual has never been performed successfully. Not in any record I've found."
"But it's possible."
"Possible." She closes the book. "You'll need his blood for the ritual. Fresh, freely given. His full cooperation throughout the process. And days—probably weeks—of research to find the right texts, identify the right components, determine the right timing."
Days. Weeks. Working with him. Being near him. Feeling the bond pull while our daughter runs out of time.
"I'll inform him what you require," she continues.
"Library access. The restricted archives.
Whatever ritual components we identify." She pauses, something shifting in her weathered face.
"He hasn't left the library since he learned you were returning.
Hasn't slept properly in days. Just searching through texts, tearing apart the archives looking for anything that might help. "
I don't let myself feel anything about that.
"Fine. We start tomorrow."
"Tonight, rest." Her expression brooks no argument. "You're exhausted from the journey, and you'll need every ounce of strength for what's ahead. The research alone will be grueling. The ritual itself..." She trails off. "Rest while you can."
I nod and leave before she can say anything else.
The corridors feel like walking through a dream of a place I used to know. Every stone is familiar, every tapestry, every torch—but it all feels different now. Tainted by knowledge of what happened here.
Servants bow as I pass. They know who I am. Know I left bleeding and broken. Know I've come back despite everything.
I make it three turns toward my chambers before I feel him through the bond.
Close. Getting closer.
Then he's there—rounding the corner ahead of me, stopping dead when he sees me. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. Dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. Hair less kempt than usual, falling across his forehead. Clothes rumpled, worn with hours of hunching over books.
But he still holds himself like a king. Like a predator. The exhaustion doesn't diminish his presence—if anything, it sharpens him, strips away the civilized veneer until what's left is all hard edges and coiled power.
My body responds before my mind can stop it. Heat flickering low in my belly, my pulse quickening, the bond singing with proximity after weeks of distance. I hate it—hate that I can still want him after everything—but my treacherous flesh doesn't care about betrayal.
"Kess." My name comes out rough but controlled. "The mystic sent word. About the timeline. What you're planning."
"Not here." I glance at the servants pretending not to listen, grateful for the excuse to look away from him. "My chambers."
He falls into step beside me. Not behind—beside.
Close enough that I can smell him—smoke and stone and something wild underneath that my contaminated blood recognizes even when my mind wants to reject it.
Close enough that his arm nearly brushes mine with every step, the almost-contact somehow worse than actual touch.
I'd almost prefer if he cowered. Followed three steps back like a dog that knows it's in trouble. It would be easier to hate him if he'd just collapse.
My chambers are exactly as I left them—clean, aired out, prepared for my return. Fresh flowers by the window. Candles ready. A tray of food on the table: bread still warm, aged cheese, sliced meat, ripe fruit. Things a pregnant omega needs.
His doing. Obviously.
I close the door behind us. Turn to face him.