Corsets tighter than battle gear. Layered uniforms. Skipped meals. Throwing up from more than just morning sickness. The weight of what you carried—who you carried.

His. And no one knew. Not your squad. Not your dragon. Because how do you say, “Remember that night he said meant nothing? The one time I let Liam fucking Mairi in?”

He hadn’t looked at you since. Now, four months in, you slipped into the quiet hall behind the infirmary, desperate to breathe. Then—his voice. You tried to pass, but his arm blocked your way. His eyes dropped to your stomach.

“…How long?”