The dawn that broke over the scorched remains of the Blackwood Forest was not the golden, triumphant sunrise Gwen had hoped for. Instead, the sky was a bruised purple, clogged with the lingering soot of the previous night's inferno. Inside the royal recovery tent—now reinforced with heavy silks and protective runes—the air was thick with the scent of ozone. It was a sharp, metallic smell that bit at the back of the throat, the unmistakable signature of high-intensity magical discharge.
Gwen sat upright on the straw-matted dais, her back pressed against a mountain of furs. Her face was pale, beads of cold sweat dotting her forehead. She looked down at her abdomen, which was shrouded beneath a thin linen tunic. Every few seconds, the fabric would ripple violently, accompanied by a faint, crackling hum that sounded like a downed power line sparking in the rain.
