Rejected by My Fiancé, I Accidentally Carried His Mother's Heir (GL)

The Solkanaia palace had never felt so suffocating.

Eiravelle stood in the corner of the sovereign’s private chambers, her hands are clasped tightly before her, her fingers interlaced in a grip so firm that her knuckles had gone pale.

The room was vast—far vaster than any space she had ever occupied in her modest life—with ceilings that soared upward into shadow and walls adorned with pictures depicting the great battles and triumphs of the divine realm’s former rulers.

Candelabras of pure gold lined the perimeter, their flames were casting dancing shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own.

But Eiravelle saw none of it.

Her gaze was fixed on the massive silk curtain that divided the room, its fabric was a deep crimson embroidered with threads of gold that caught the light and shimmered like captured sunlight. Behind that curtain, the sovereign of Solkanaia lay recovering from a near-fatal poisoning, and Eiravelle could do nothing but wait.

The healers had been summoned immediately after the incident—a dozen of them, each one was a master of their craft, each one was bearing the weight of centuries of knowledge. They had descended upon the sovereign’s chambers like a flock of anxious birds, their robes swirled around them as they hurried to administer antidotes and counter-poisons.

Eiravelle had been ordered to stay.

She was not certain why, at first. Perhaps it was because she had been the one to identify the poison, to recognize the telltale signs that had saved the sovereign’s life in those critical first moments. Perhaps it was because the guards had not known what else to do with her, this humble omega who had stumbled into a conspiracy far larger than herself.

Whatever the reason, she remained, her heart was pounding with a mixture of anxiety and hope as she listened to the healers’ hushed voices beyond the curtain.

”The poison was potent,” one of them was saying, his voice was carrying the weight of age and experience. ”If the elixir had not been administered when it was, I fear we would have lost you.” The healer talked to Qazaethel.

Eiravelle’s breath caught in her throat. She had known, of course, that the situation had been dire, she had seen the pale cast of the sovereign’s skin, the labored rise and fall of her chest but hearing the healer confirm it made the danger feel all too real.

”Your majesty,” a different voice said, this one older, more weathered. ”If the poison was not stopped by the elixir, I feared that it would have ended your life.”

Eiravelle pressed herself closer to the wall, trying to make herself as small and unobtrusive as possible. She could hear the sovereign’s voice in response, low and strained but still carrying that unmistakable authority that came from centuries of rule.

”You should thank Lady Eiravelle, then.”

The words made Eiravelle’s heart stutter in her chest. She had not expected to be mentioned, had not expected the sovereign to acknowledge her role in what had happened. She was just a simple omega who sold egg sandwiches in the market—what was she compared to the ruler of an entire divine realm?

”Yes, of course,” the old healer replied. ”She will have the recognition, your majesty.”

Recognition.

The word echoed in Eiravelle’s mind, and something shifted within her. Recognition—that was what she would receive, what the sovereign would grant her for saving her life. A title, perhaps, or a modest reward. Something that would acknowledge her service and then allow her to return to her simple life with great honor.

But Eiravelle did not want recognition.

There was something else she desired, something she had dreamed of for months, something that seemed impossibly out of reach until this very moment.

”Recognition? Uhm... Excuse me?”

Her voice escaped her before she could stop it, sharp and surprised, cutting through the murmurs of the healers. She gasped as she realized what she had done, her hand flew to her mouth in a belated attempt to contain her outburst.

The room fell silent and Eiravelle could feel the weight of attention pressing down on her, she could sense the healers’ eyes turning toward her through the curtain. She could imagine their expressions—shock or disapproval.

An omega speaking out of turn in the sovereign’s chambers was unheard of, an act of such audacity that it bordered on sacrilege.

But it was too late to take it back.

”Speak, child.”

The sovereign’s voice came through the curtain, strained but clear, granting permission where none had been given. Eiravelle felt her legs give way beneath her, and she dropped to her knees in a rush, her head bow in low posture until her forehead nearly touched the cold marble floor.

”Your majesty,” she said, her voice was trembling despite her best efforts to steady it. ”May I wish for something else instead of recognition?”

A pause. Eiravelle could hear the sovereign shifting behind the curtain, could hear the soft rustle of silk as she moved. The healers were silent, waiting, their presence was a silent judgment that pressed against Eiravelle’s conscience.

”What is it that you desire more than being recognized as my savior?”

The question was simple, but there was something in the sovereign’s tone that made Eiravelle’s heart race. Curiosity or maybe something else, something that Eiravelle could not identify.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say. The words had been locked inside her for so long, a secret she had guarded with fierce possessiveness. But now, in this moment, she had the chance to speak them aloud, to ask for what she truly wanted.

”Can you please grant my wish of marrying Prince Kariv?” The words hung in the air like a physical weight.

Eiravelle could hear the sharp intake of breath from one of the healers, could feel the shock that rippled through the room like a wave. She kept her head bowed, her eyes were fixed on the floor, too afraid to look up and see the reactions on the faces around her.

Behind the curtain, there was silence. Qazaethel’s entire world stopped moving.

The words had hit her like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs and the thoughts from her mind. For a long moment, she could do nothing but stare at the crimson curtain before her.

Prince Kariv. Her third son.

The one who had always been something of a disappointment—not in any dramatic way, but in the accumulation of small failures and unmet expectations.

He was not as brilliant as his eldest Alpha siblings, not as ambitious as his sister, not as dutiful as his younger siblings. He was simply... There. A presence in the palace that was more often ignored than acknowledged.

And this omega, this humble omega who had saved her life, wanted to marry him.

Qazaethel’s mind raced, her thoughts tumbled over each other in a chaotic whirlwind. She had believed, for one brief moment, that Eiravelle might be the answer to the prayer she had sent skyward on that floating paper. She had looked at the omega and felt something stir within her, something that felt dangerously close to hope.

But it was not Qazaethel that Eiravelle wanted. It was Kariv.

The realization was a dull ache in her chest, a wound that she would not allow herself to acknowledge. She had been foolish to hope, foolish to believe that the Gods would answer her wish so quickly, so directly. She was the Sovereign of Solkanaia—love was not something she was meant to possess.

”How dare you ask for such a bold request!” The healer’s voice cut through Qazaethel’s reverie, sharp with outrage and disbelief. She could hear the traditionalist condemnation in his tone, the old-fashioned belief that omegas should wait for alphas to ask for their hand and not the other way around.

”You are talking to the omega who saved me,” Qazaethel said, her voice was carrying a warning edge. ”Enough, Harold.”

The healer fell silent immediately, his protest immediately die on his lips. Harold was old—a thousand years old, at least—and he had seen Qazaethel grow from being a child into the formidable ruler she had become. He knew better than to argue when her tone carried that particular sharpness.

Qazaethel took a breath, steadying herself. The bowl of medicinal liquid sat on the table beside her, its surface was steaming gently, but she made no move to drink it. Her focus was entirely on the omega beyond the curtain.

”Why is that?” She asked, forcing her voice to remain calm and composed. ”Why among all my children do you desire Kariv?”

She could hear Eiravelle’s voice, trembling but earnest, as she answered. ”Because I have fallen for the third prince, your majesty. I... I like him because he is funny and he is kind to me.”

Qazaethel could not help herself and laughed at Eiravelle’s words.

It was not a mocking laugh, not exactly. There was something about the simplicity of Eiravelle’s answer that struck her as achingly genuine, a reminder that love, at its core, was often built on the smallest of foundations.

”How gullible,” she murmured, the words are carrying more affection than she had intended. She shook her head slowly, her gaze was fixed on the blurry shape of the omega through the curtain. ”Whatever. You may have my useless son. Even if you do not return him, I care not.”

She heard the sharp intake of breath from beyond the curtain, the barely suppressed excitement that radiated from Eiravelle. The omega was about to speak, about to express her gratitude, when Qazaethel held up a hand.

”One condition.”

”Yes?” Eiravelle’s voice was breathless and eager.

Qazaethel paused, her fingers curled into a fist at her side. The arrow had been removed from her wound, but she could still feel its phantom presence, a reminder of the attempt on her life that had nearly succeeded. ”You will find the one who shot me that arrow.”

Qazaethel could almost feel Eiravelle’s confusion through the curtain, could almost see the omega’s brow furrowing as she processed the request. She waited, giving the girl time to understand the weight of what she was being asked.

”Your majesty,” Eiravelle said slowly, ”what do you mean? I am no investigator, no—”

”You seem very knowledgeable of poisons,” Qazaethel interrupted, her voice was hardening a little. ”You identified the poison in me immediately. That is not a skill that comes without experience.”

The door to the chamber opened, and Liv entered, her footsteps were silent on the marble floor. In her hands, she carried a clean white towel, carefully folded, with the arrow resting on top. She had been careful not to touch it, knowing that the poison still clung to its tip.

”Your majesty,” Liv said, bowing briefly. ”I have retrieved the weapon as you commanded.”

Qazaethel gestured for Liv to approach, then turned her attention back to the curtain. ”I want you to find me the one who did this to me,” she said, her voice was carrying the full weight of her authority. ”Not unless you have something to do with it yourself, Eiravelle.”

The accusation hung in the air like smoke but Eiravelle did not answer immediately. Her gaze was fixed on the arrow in Liv’s hands, her eyes traced its length, the fletching, the distinctive markings that adorned its shaft.

Then she gasped. ”I know now.”

Qazaethel’s eyes narrowed. ”Speak.”

”This arrow belongs to a friend of mine,” Eiravelle said, her voice was hurried, as though she was trying to get the words out before she lost her nerve. ”They call him Cezar. He is known for hunting demons with the highest bounties. I call him friend because he often buys egg sandwiches from me. We have had a few interactions, but that is all.”

”Friend,” Qazaethel repeated, her voice dropped low. ”You consider a demon hunter who attempted to assassinate me a friend?”

”I did not know!” Eiravelle’s voice was pleading. ”I swear it, your majesty. I only knew him as a customer, a regular who always paid well and never caused trouble. I had no idea—”

”Fine.” Qazaethel cut her off, her hand tightened into a fist at her side. ”Where can we find this Cezar?”

Eiravelle swallowed hard, her throat felt dry all of a sudden. ”We often meet in front of the meat vendors in the food marketplace. The one with the sign of Jigg’s Fresh Meat.”

Qazaethel’s lips curved into a cold smile. ”Since you have satisfied my question, I shall grant you what you wish for. Your marriage to Prince Kariv will be arranged.”

”Thank you so much, your majesty!” Eiravelle’s voice was bright with joy, almost giddy. She was on her feet in an instant, her hands were clasped together and her face lit with an expression of pure happiness.

Qazaethel felt the ache in her chest deepen. ”You are dismissed,” she said, her voice was carefully neutral. ”Guards, escort Lady Eiravelle from the chamber.”

Two guards appeared immediately, their armored forms materializing from the shadows of the doorway. They took Eiravelle by the arms—gently, but firmly—and guided her from the room. The omega went willingly, her steps were light and her smile was radiant, utterly unaware of the storm she had left behind in the sovereign’s chambers.

When the door had closed behind her, Qazaethel let out a long, shuddering breath. She pressed her hand to her chest, where the wound from the arrow still throbbed with a dull ache.

”Your majesty,” Liv said softly, approaching the bed with cautious steps. ”What should I do next?” Qazaethel’s eyes snapped open, and there was fire in them now—a cold, burning determination that Liv recognized all too well.

”Find me Cezar,” she ordered, her voice sounded like ice. ”I have to know why he shot me with that arrow. I have to know who sent him, and I have to know why they want me dead.”

Liv bowed deeply. ”Yes, your majesty. It will be done.”

She turned to leave, but Qazaethel’s voice stopped her.

”Liv.”

”Yes?”

Qazaethel was silent for a long moment, her gaze was fixed on the curtain that now hung still and empty. ”When you find him... Bring him to me alive. I have questions that demand answers.”

Liv nodded once and departed, her footsteps faded into the distance. Then Qazaethel dismissed the healers.

As the healers left with a bow, Qazaethel was alone once more.

She lay back against her pillows, her body was aching with the lingering effects of the poison, her mind was churning with thoughts she could not contain. The bowl of medicinal liquid sat untouched beside her, its surface was now cool and still. She thought of the floating paper she had sent skyward earlier, the wish she had written with such desperate hope.

Love.

She had believed, for one brief moment, that the Gods had answered her prayer. That Eiravelle was the one she had been waiting for, the person who would fill the emptiness that had grown in her heart over centuries of duty and sacrifice.

But Eiravelle loved someone else and she loved Kariv.

And now Qazaethel was left with nothing but the cold reality of her situation—a conspiracy threatening her realm, an assassin who had nearly succeeded in ending her life, and a heart that had been foolish enough to hope.

She closed her eyes, letting out a long, slow breath. The Gods had not answered her prayer. But perhaps, in their infinite wisdom, they had given her something else instead. A purpose, a mission, or a reason to keep fighting.

She would find Cezar, uncover the conspiracy, and protect her realm from those who sought to destroy it.

And perhaps, in the process, she would find the answers she had been seeking all along.

[END OF FLASHBACK]