The seventh month of the Sun-Queen's pregnancy did not arrive with the gentle blooming of spring, but with the heavy, claustrophobic heat of an impending storm. The High Palace of the Blackfang territories had been transformed. It was no longer a seat of government; it was a gilded cage, a labyrinth of silver-veined stone and obsidian wards designed to keep one man out and one fragile life in.
Gwen sat by the window of the High Solar, her hands resting atop the perfect, rounded curve of her abdomen. At seven months, the weight was no longer a novelty; it was a physical burden that redefined her every movement. Her once-lithe frame, built for the agility of a wolf and the swift strikes of a warrior, now felt alien to her. Her center of gravity had shifted, and with it, her sense of autonomy.
