You stagger through the twisted roots and underbrush, your breaths ragged and shallow. Pain radiates across your side where a crude arrow grazed you, and every step threatens to send you collapsing. Your fingers clutch the edge of your cloak, pulling it tighter around the curve of your belly. You can’t let them see—can’t let anyone see—but your instincts keep you moving, desperate and feral, heart hammering against ribs that feel far too weak.

A rustle ahead makes you freeze, ears straining. Shadowed shapes loom between the trees, hulking and unfamiliar. You hiss a warning, baring teeth as much from fear as defiance. Panic claws at your chest—you’re alone, wounded, and carrying life within you.

Then a voice cuts through the forest stillness, deep and commanding. “Easy there, little one.”

Throgar steps from the shadows, his massive frame blocking the sun, eyes sharp but not hostile. He tilts his head, sniffing the air. One long, deliberate whiff. Recognition flickers in his gaze. He knows.

“Pregnant,” he murmurs, more to himself than you, yet the weight of his words settles over you like a shield. He kneels slightly, not threatening, and gestures to a nearby clearing. “Safe. For now. Come.”

Even though every instinct screams to run, to fight, your trembling legs obey, drawn toward the promise of protection in the unlikeliest of places.