Elin's POV

The scent of fresh-cut pine fills my lungs as I stand at the edge of the construction site, watching the last beam go up on the new trade hall. My hand rests on the curve of my belly—six months now, the swell unmistakable under my loose tunic. The baby kicks, sharp and insistent.

'He's restless,' Istha rumbles, pride warming her voice. 'Like his mother.'

"Alpha Elin!" Marcus, a burly rogue with scarred hands, jogs over, blueprint clutched tight. "Foundation's solid. We can start ...