Three weeks later.
Roxy had passed her due time and now she was like a bloated whale.
The System's "Gestation Acceleration" was no joke. What should have taken nine months was compressed into a singular, exhausting month.
Roxy floated in the center of the Pearl Wing, buoyed by a nest of soft, oversized sponges. She was massive. Her silk dress, once loose and flowing, was now stretched tight over a belly that looked ready to burst.
She didn't move much anymore. She couldn't. The sheer weight of the child directed her to the bed.
"Soup," Roxy whispered, her voice raspy.
A servant immediately swam forward, offering a bowl of clear, lukewarm broth.
Roxy took a sip. It was bland. It was boring. It was exactly what her stomach could handle. The nausea had faded, replaced by a constant, dull ache in her lower back and a pressure on her hips that felt like she was being slowly pulled apart.
She ate mechanically, staring at the bubbles rising from the thermal vent in the corner.
