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At night, the Dag always lies with Furiosa, looking out over one of the great outcroppings of the Citadel. The land rests peaceful now, every night, and Dag spends that time alone with her savior and her unborn child.

“Pain today?” Furiosa’s fingers dance gently along Dag’s taut stomach, bringing attention to the small bulge.

“None at all,” Dag says, catching Furiosa’s fingers in her own and kissing them, one by one. “The seeds are growing. Still growing. Such a lovely word.”

Furiosa smiles into the dark. “Are we talking about the baby or the garden?”

“Both,” Dag says with a smile. Her hand wanders until her fingers rest above Furiosa’s own flat stomach, bare and free from her wrappings in the warm night. Her skin is starkly pale against her companion’s. “Have you ever grown something? Inside of you?”

Furiosa seems unfazed by the question. “Once. When I was too young to know any better.” She breathes deeply, her belly moving beneath Dag’s hand. “But my body wasn’t made for it.”

“Splendid said mine wasn’t either,” Dag says. “But I think I’m adapting. Like the trees in the wetlands.” She sucks on her teeth, seeming deep in thought. “An eco-system of my own.”

Furiosa glances at her. “I don’t know that term.”

“The Keeper of the Seeds said it,” Dag says sadly, bowing her head for the fallen Vuvalini. “But she never told me what it meant.”

Furiosa nods and curls her arm around Dag’s waist. “It sounds right.”