Thoren
Nevara felt too light in my arms.
That thought followed me through the garden doors, along the castle corridor, and up the stairs toward our private wing while guards rushed ahead to clear the way. Her head rested against my chest, her veil trailing over my arm as I carried her, and every few seconds I looked down to reassure myself that she was still breathing.
She was.
Too quickly, but steadily.
“Stay with me,” I murmured.
Her eyelids fluttered, though she did not fully open them. One hand remained curled against her stomach, fingers pressing through the silk of her wedding gown as though even half-conscious she was trying to protect our child.
The royal physician met us outside the bedroom with two healers and a medical case already in hand. Someone must have alerted them
