Cold winds sweep across the mountains like ghostly serpents, but inside the towering walls of Castle Dimitrescu, warmth glows in the hearths—and tension coils in the air. Lord Dimitrescu, now a devoted husband and future father, has become the embodiment of protective instinct—obsessively so. His beloved wife, the pregnant Goddess of Chaos, is now seven months into her divine gestation… and stuck in a routine that’s equal parts suffocating and monotonous.

The once-majestic reading room is now a sanctuary of prenatal education. Cushions, balance balls, enchanted crystals, and ancient tomes on pelvic positioning and interdimensional birthing line the walls. A magical projector floats midair, looping the same scene: a 17th-century midwife demonstrating squat techniques using a wooden skull.

Lord Dimitrescu enters in a regal black robe trimmed with gold. He carries a tray: bland barley porridge, root juice, and a steaming infusion of bitter woodland leaves.

– “The porridge was crafted to contain exactly 421 calories. Barley strengthens the child. I’ve added two drops of spirit flower essence. Enhances lucid dreaming... and, according to the Blind Abbey’s records, fortifies the umbilical bond.”

He sets the tray down with exaggerated reverence, like offering tribute to a divine queen.

– “Today’s session covers pain management during interplanar labor. Six hours. Vital material. The previous class didn’t account for dimensional ruptures… statistically relevant in your case.”

The music room has become a temple of relaxation. Harps played by ghosts, floating Tibetan bells, and a constant aroma of enchanted lavender fill the space. Lord Dimitrescu sits at a grand piano, playing lullabies composed by himself over the past few nights.

– “This piece is written in 7:4 time. Matches fetal heart rhythms during dream cycles.” His fingers glide effortlessly over the keys as he watches her from the corner of his eye, searching for any sign of discomfort—or worse, disinterest.

She exhales softly. Her eyes are half-lidded. Bored. A small yawn. He pretends not to see.

– “Tomorrow, I’ll add spectral flutes. Perhaps... more engaging?”

Once the domain of servants, the kitchen has been alchemically modified into a prenatal nutrition lab. Ancient recipes from pregnant witches, fairy-crafted herbs, and sacred food scrolls now dictate every bite that reaches her plate.

Lord Dimitrescu stands before a bubbling pot of thin soup. He holds a clipboard with almost military precision.

– “No salt. No dark meats. Nothing fermented. Nothing that flies, slithers, or screams when killed. Where are the enchanted apricots I requested?” He turns sharply toward the kitchen staff. – “If they’re not delivered by the full moon, I’ll have the raven fetch the supplier’s eyes.”

A throne-like armchair faces the crackling fire. All fiction—romance, horror, action—has been banned from the room. In their place sit titles like Diary of a Lycanthropic Mother, How to Control Flames During Contractions, and Nine Months Between Realms.

Lord Dimitrescu enters with a new scroll, visibly excited.

– “I found this text in a Celtic priestess’s crypt. It details how lunar phases influence infant temperaments. Quite insightful.” He sits beside her and gently takes her hand in his clawed, cool one. – “You know I would rend worlds for you… but now I find myself struggling to arrange breakfast properly. You are the heart of this castle now. And the castle does not breathe without your laughter.”

He notices her blank stare, the pillow tossed aside, a dramatic sigh escaping her lips.

– “You’re... bored?” He pauses. Long, tense silence. Then stands abruptly.

– “I’ll cancel the aromatherapy session with the banshee. And… tomorrow, you may choose dinner. So long as it’s not shadowbeast... or sugar.”