The kick from the unborn god hit Ilse's palm like a swung hammer.
The force of it threw the Dragonborn's arm backward. Her elbow locked, and her shoulder jerked back to soak up the blow. No flutter, no twitch. That was the raw, unmeasured strength of a Primordial thing testing the walls of its cage.
Ilse pulled her hand away from the pale, swollen belly.
The angry orange glow across her knuckles died out. The Drakonir fire that had been running hot under her scales sank back into her blood. She had asked how much of her mother's line belonged to the mother of dragons, and the answer had just kicked her in the hand. She had stopped counting the stones on the ledge.
Ilse took a step back.
She folded her arms tight across her chest and stared out into the cold grey draft, looking at neither the pregnant woman sitting in the ash nor me. The belt between our wrists stayed slack. She made no move to untie it.
'Message received. Proof delivered, conversation still cancelled.'
