In the evening, Leon took a shower, washing away the exhaustion of the day.

As he dried his damp hair and walked out of the bathroom, Roswitha had already nestled into the bed.

Earlier during the day at the training grounds, the mother dragon had been caught red-handed by her own maid. Afterward, she was locked in the Castle for the entire day.

She had declared at the time, "Leon, if you have the guts, just don't get into bed tonight."

Ha, Leon thought, he wasn't someone who could be easily intimidated.

"I didn't report you, nor did I provoke you into anger. So why wouldn't I get into bed?"

Leon finished drying his hair, moved to the other side of the large bed, and slipped under the covers as he usually did.

Roswitha showed no reaction; she simply lay there quietly, her arms outside the blanket, her hands resting on her stomach. Her beautiful eyes stared up at the ceiling, looking as though she was completely lost in thought.

Leon glanced briefly at her, then reached out to turn off the bedside lamp.

"Good night," he said.

"I'm not sleepy," Roswitha replied.

"Alright, then I'll sleep first."

"No, you're not allowed to sleep."

Leon turned his head. "Why not?"

"A pregnant queen stays awake, so how can a captive sleep soundly?" Roswitha reasoned confidently.

Leon sighed helplessly, "Alright then, what do you want, pregnant queen?"

After thinking for a moment, Roswitha said, "I want to hear a story. Tell me a story."

Leon rolled his eyes. "How old are you?"

"Didn't we just celebrate my birthday recently? You forgot already?" Roswitha said. "Two hundred and eighteen."

"You know you're over two hundred, right? You're not exactly a child anymore, so what stories are you even asking for?"

"I don't care. I want to hear a story."

"Stop it. Go to sleep."

"I want to hear, I want to hear, I want to hear!"

Roswitha acted like a child—or rather, like a baby dragon. Whatever, it hardly mattered. She started kicking her legs under the blanket in a tantrum reminiscent of a child demanding candy on Halloween.

And whether intentional or not, she managed to kick Leon multiple times in the process.

Leon retreated to the edge of the large bed, but even his backside couldn't escape her random leg attacks.

The Creator gave you those long legs so you'd flaunt them in bunny girl stockings for your husband, not so you could kick your husband's butt on the bed, you little menace.

Completely exasperated, Leon finally spoke up. "Roswitha."

Roswitha's foot paused at Leon's waist. "What? Are you going to start telling the story now?"

"I'm giving you six months," Leon gritted his teeth.

Roswitha squinted her eyes and smirked. "Then wait until six months have passed to vent your anger. For now, I'm a pregnant woman. My emotions are unstable, and you promised to tolerate me during this time. Don't forget."

One single slip brings eternal regret.

Leon’s understanding of "unstable emotions" quite evidently differed from Roswitha’s interpretation.

He agreed to her request, thinking she might lose control occasionally during pregnancy, lashing out at him or venting two hundred years of accumulated grievances.

Of course, Leon had mentally and emotionally prepared himself for that. For the sake of their second child, he was willing to endure.

But he could never have imagined that things would turn out so differently from his expectations.

Recently, Roswitha had been using the excuse "I'm pregnant, my emotions are unstable" to make all sorts of strange demands of Leon.

Including, but not limited to:

"I want to see you propose to a carrot, with an eggplant as the officiant."

"Silver dragon captive Leon, step forward! Five hundred sit-ups now, start!"

"Play rock-paper-scissors with me—loser washes the winner's feet. Oh, and you're only allowed to pick 'rock.'"

"I don't feel like eating dinner anymore."

Five minutes later.

"I want a midnight snack."

"..."

Leon had heard the saying 'pregnancy brain,' but he didn't know that this forgetfulness had a latent period.

What silver dragon queen? She's practically turned into a silver dragon ‘giant baby’ by now.

If giving her all my trophies would stop her, I'd gladly hand them over. Please, spare me.

Leon sighed quietly to himself.

When he thought about it, the request to "hear a story" was actually rather mild compared to her other odd demands.

"What story do you want to hear?" Leon asked.

"I don't mind; I'll listen to anything you tell me."

Aww, sweet.

Leon felt surprisingly uplifted by her words, his frustrations fading quite a bit in the process.

He gave it some thought and soon came up with a story to tell.

Truth be told, Leon had plenty of stories stored up—being capable of storytelling was a fundamental skill for any father raising young kids.

"Alright, I'll tell you the story of 'The Little Dragon Crosses the River.'"

"Okay."

"So, once upon a time, there was a young baby dragon who was trying to cross a river. But the water was turbulent, and she feared she might be swept away. She asked a passing adult dragon, who told her the river was shallow and easy to cross. Then she asked a nearby squirrel, who said the river was deep and treacherous. The baby dragon hesitated—"

Suddenly, Roswitha interrupted, "Wait a second, I have a question."

"What?"

"Why can squirrels talk?"

"..."

"Also, why doesn’t the baby dragon just use a bridge instead of crossing the river?"

"This..."

"Why doesn’t the adult dragon simply carry her across? This story feels so heartless. Change to another one."

Clearly, adults fail to appreciate the whimsy of a child's imagination.

Leon thought for a moment and decided to switch to another story.

"Alright, the next story is called 'The Crow Drinking Water.'"

"Okay."

"So, there was once a crow who was terribly thirsty. Luckily, it spotted a bottle of water. But the bottle's neck was too narrow, and the water level inside was too low for the crow to reach with its beak. After thinking for a while, the crow came up with an idea. It flew to a nearby river, picked up some small stones, and dropped them into the bottle. As the stones sank, the water level rose, and the crow was finally able to quench its thirst. This story tells—"

"Hold on, I have another question."

"...What now?"

Roswitha turned to him, her beautiful silver eyes looking incredibly serious as she asked,

"If the crow can fly to a river, why doesn’t it just drink from the river instead of bothering with the bottle?"

"Uh... Maybe it had... a cleanliness obsession?" Leon's explanation felt weak.

"Why? Was the river water dirty because the baby dragon crossed through earlier?"

Such unexpected cross-story connections—a completely unexpected direction.

Leon sighed again. "Roswitha, is it so hard to hold on to a bit of childlike wonder?"

"Hmph, if you don’t want to tell me a proper story, then just forget about it. And now you’re accusing me of having no childlike wonder."

Is it because I refused to tell a proper story? No, clearly the issue lies with your failure to listen properly!

Telling stories to Roswitha—who was obviously determined to torment him—felt like willingly walking into a trap.

As Leon was lamenting his fate, Roswitha suddenly shifted under the covers, turning her back to him.

Ah, Leon secretly sighed in relief. Perhaps tonight’s games were finally over.

The bedroom fell silent, save for the ticking of the clock.

Leon turned over, adjusting himself into a more comfortable sleeping position and slowly closing his eyes.

Sleepiness began washing over him, and Leon yawned.

He was just at the point where dreams started blending with reality—he could already see his master’s old donkey in his dream—

When suddenly, her voice came from behind him again.

"I want an apple."

Leon let out a vague, sleepy grunt, pretending not to hear.

The next second, however, a delicate foot pressed against his waist, and the voice came again, this time crystal-clear: "I want an apple."

Her soft foot firmly pressed against his back, as her nimble toes playfully wiggled, completely robbing Leon of any remaining drowsiness.

He let out yet another heavy sigh—the number of times he’d sighed tonight rivaled the entirety of the past week—and slowly turned around, extending a hand to pinch Roswitha’s cheek. Gently, he turned her face toward the wall clock.

"Tell me, Melkevi, what time is it now?"

"Three twenty in the morning," Roswitha replied with her lips pursed into an "O" shape from his grip, speaking obediently nonetheless.

"Then at three twenty in the morning, what kind of apple are you eating exactly?" Leon was thoroughly defeated.

It all became clear why Roswitha had said earlier, "You should sleep somewhere else tonight if you have the guts."

It wasn’t meant as a threat—it was a warning.

Look at him now, worn out and tormented past three in the morning, without even getting any proper rest.

"If you don’t give me an apple, then I’ll make trouble," she declared, this time as a threat.

Damn it, what does marriage even bring for men?

Leon had no choice but to lift the quilt, get out of bed, and fetch an apple and a fruit knife. Returning to the bedside, he turned on the lamp and began peeling.

The peel came off in one long, unbroken strip, thin and flawless.

Roswitha raised her eyebrows. "Well, aren’t you skilled with a knife?"

"Thanks for the compliment. I used to peel apples for my master’s donkey—"

"Shut up," Roswitha snapped, glaring at him as she took the apple from his hand, biting into it.

It was crisp and sweet—delicious.

She leaned back against the headboard, both hands cradling the apple as she took small, meticulous bites with undeniable focus.

Though he didn’t understand why eating an apple would require such seriousness, Leon had come to realize one thing over the past few days:

Don’t question a pregnant woman.

"I'm full. You can finish the rest," Roswitha said, handing the half-eaten apple to Leon.

Leon glanced down. She had indeed left exactly half of the apple behind in perfect proportion.

Wow, so she was eating with that much concentration just to ensure she left precisely half for him?

What’s the point of that—

Forget it. Don’t question a pregnant woman.

Leon took the apple and bit into it.

The fruit was fragrant and sweet—he couldn’t quite tell if it came from the apple itself or the lingering scent of Roswitha’s lips.

Actually, this wasn’t the first time Leon had eaten leftovers from Roswitha over the last few weeks.

Pregnant women seemed to have peculiar appetites—often sudden and fleeting. Tossing unfinished food felt like a waste, so the two of them ended up sharing instead.

Leon held the apple in his mouth, freeing his hands to tidy up the peel and knife.

After the pregnant lady had eaten and drunk her fill, she was now contentedly lying back under the covers.

Leon cast her a glance. This time, it seemed like tonight’s commotion was finally coming to an end, wasn’t it?

Unintentionally, his eyes landed on the bedside cabinet drawer.

The drawer was half-open, and inside appeared to be a form.

Leon reached in and pulled it out, discovering it was a registration form for a prenatal yoga class.

His thoughts drifted back to two months ago, when he and Roswitha had gone to Sky City to shop for nutritional supplements and bumped into his sister, Isa. It was Isa who had helped Roswitha sign up for the class.

Apparently, the yoga was suitable for pregnant women in their third month and beyond.

But Roswitha had never mentioned it since.

Looking at the yoga registration form in his hand, Leon’s thoughts started to swirl.

“Not sleeping at night—you must have been too idle during the day. Hmph, mother dragon, you’ve been tormenting me for so long; now it’s time for some reciprocation.”