Valka
"She cannot take another dose, Your Grace," the physician says, his voice trembling. "Her body is failing. Her pulse is a ghost of itself. We've already administered enough to kill two women--"
"Then administer enough for three." Rafe's tone is smooth, almost lazy, but beneath it coils something cold and certain. "If the spawn refuses to die, perhaps its mother should accompany it."
Something shifts in the dark. I try to open my eyes. They're too heavy, stuck halfway between waking and the void. My stomach lurches, sour bile in my throat, my body shaking so hard the chains rattle against the post.
We've been at this for weeks. Day after day of of tonics, of needles and warm, bitter draughts, poisons have hollowed me out. It's been fruitless, the baby absolutely refusing to die, and all it's done is make me weak and aggravated the morning sickness, extending it far beyond normal and gifting me a terrible fever that never quite leaves.
