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

The enchanted carriage stood waiting, its sleek silver frame shimmered with the faint blue glow of magical energy that hummed through its structure. The vehicle was reserved exclusively for nobility, a privilege that came with being the sister of the Prime Minister and daughter of Arthion and Elaria.

Eiravelle had always felt a small thrill of wonder whenever she used it.

She had spent the night in Arielle’s bedchamber, curled against her sister’s side like she had done countless times as a child. The warmth of Arielle’s embrace had chased away the shadows of the previous day, and the sound of her sister’s steady breathing had lulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep. But morning had come too quickly, and with it was the weight of her purpose.

She needed to see Master Ragnar.

The carriage doors opened soundlessly as she approached, revealing a plush interior lined with silk cushions and enchanted lanterns that cast a soft, warm glow. Eiravelle stepped inside, clutching the small jar of wine she had brought as a gift.

The wine was from the Arthion family’s private cellar, a vintage aged for over a century that she knew Master Ragnar would appreciate.

The doors closed behind her with a soft click, and the carriage began to rise, lifting gracefully into the air. Through the windows, Eiravelle watched the Arthion manor shrink beneath her, the sprawling estate becoming smaller and smaller until it was nothing more than a speck in the distance.

The city of Solkanaia spread out below her, its streets and buildings were glowing in the morning light.

She had always loved this view, the perspective it gave her on the world she inhabited. From up here, the problems that weighed on her heart seemed smaller and more manageable. The whispers of the maids, the cruelty of the gossips, the weight of her guilt—all of it faded into insignificance against the vastness of the divine realm.

But she could not escape it forever.

The carriage descended as it approached the Peach Blossom Valley, the landscape was transforming from urban sprawl to rolling hills covered in lush greenery. The valley was a protected area, a sacred space that had been tended by Master Ragnar for millennia. Its trees were ancient, their branches were heavy with blossoms that shimmered with a faint magical aura.

The carriage came to a gentle stop at the base of the mountain, and Eiravelle stepped out onto the soft grass. The vehicle shimmered once, twice, and then vanished into thin air like it had never existed, returning to wherever enchanted carriages went when they were not needed.

Eiravelle stood for a moment, taking in the familiar surroundings. The air here was different—cleaner, sweeter, carrying the delicate scent of peach blossoms and the faint hum of ancient magic. It was the kind of place that made you forget the troubles of the outside world, if only for a little while.

She adjusted her pink cloak, making sure it was settled properly on her shoulders, and clutched the jar of wine a little tighter. The path ahead was steep, a series of stairs carved into the mountain that wound upward through banks of clouds and fog. The stairs were ancient, worn smooth by countless footsteps over the centuries.

Eiravelle began her ascent, her steps were measured and careful. The stairs were long—so long that she had lost count of the steps the first time she had visited. But she had learned that the journey was part of the experience, a way of preparing oneself for the wisdom that awaited at the top.

As she climbed, the clouds began to form around her, swirling and dancing in patterns that seemed almost alive. They recognized her, she knew. The clouds of the Peach Blossom Valley were sentient in their own way, attuned to the magic that permeated the land. They had seen her before, had carried her before, and they were eager to help once more.

Eiravelle paused and smiled, a soft giggle escaping her lips. The clouds swirled closer, forming a fluffy platform that hovered just above the stairs. It was an invitation, a kind gesture from the ancient spirits of the valley.

”You are too kind,” Eiravelle said, her voice was light with affection. ”Hehe. Thank you.”

She sat down on the cloud with practiced elegance, her cloak pooled around her like a pink halo. The cloud lifted her gently, rising through the mist and fog with a smoothness that made her feel as though she were floating on air. The wind whispered past her ears, carrying the scent of peach blossoms and the distant sound of birdsong.

The clouds transported her to the top of the mountain in what felt like moments, bypassing the remaining stairs with effortless grace. The moment she arrived, the cloud dissipated beneath her, dissolving into the mist that surrounded the summit. Eiravelle’s feet touched solid ground, and she found herself standing before the entrance to the manor.

The Manor in the Clouds.

It was a breathtaking structure, built from pale stone that seemed to glow from within. The walls were covered in climbing ivy, and peach blossom trees surrounded the building, their branches were heavy with blossoms that swayed gently in the breeze.

The manor had a timeless quality, as though it had always been there and would always remain.

Eiravelle’s heart swelled with affection as she looked upon the manor. This place had been a refuge for her during the darkest moments of her life, a sanctuary where she could escape the judgment and cruelty of the outside world.

She walked toward the entrance, her steps were light and eager. The door was open, as it always was, and she could hear the soft murmur of Master Ragnar’s voice from within.

”Master Ragnar!” Eiravelle called out happily, her voice was carrying through the entrance hall. She spotted him in the courtyard beyond, standing beneath one of the peach blossom trees with his hands clasped behind his back.

She ran toward him, her cloak billowing behind her, and stopped just short of colliding with him. He was wearing robes of pale blue, the color of the sky on a clear day, and his silver-streaked hair was tied back in a simple knot at the nape of his neck.

”Oh, slow down, child,” Master Ragnar said, his voice was gentle but carrying a note of concern. ”Do not rush it. You are holding a fragile jar.”

Eiravelle looked down at the jar of wine in her hands and laughed softly. ”I am sorry, Master. I was just so excited to see you.”

Ragnar smiled, his weathered face crinkled at the corners. He was an ancient immortal, having lived for over five hundred thousand years, and his wisdom was matched only by his kindness. Though he looked old, there was a vitality in his eyes that spoke of a spirit still young.

”Master Ragnar, it hasn’t been a long time since I saw you but it felt like it,” Eiravelle said, her voice softened with genuine affection.

Ragnar nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping over her with a fondness that made Eiravelle’s heart ache. ”I agree, child. And you have grown into the adult omega you are now. How time passes when we are not looking.”

He sighed and looked up at the peach blossom trees that surrounded them. The blossoms were in full bloom, their petals were a delicate shade of pink that seemed to glow in the morning light. The peaches themselves were beginning to ripen, their skins were a deep golden color that promised sweetness.

”You arrived on time,” Ragnar continued, his voice was carrying a note of satisfaction. ”The peaches have been growing healthily. Why not take some on your way home?”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. ”I would rather you have some than let some of my students pluck the fruits without telling me. Haha. I even scolded some of them for selling the peaches at a cheaper price, hahaha.”

Eiravelle giggled along with him, the sound carried through the courtyard. ”I remember that. You were so angry at them. I thought you would chase them all the way to the city.”

”Haha, I was tempted,” Ragnar admitted, his eyes were twinkling with amusement. ”But they learned their lesson. And the peaches are all the better for it.”

He paused, his gaze settled on Eiravelle with a knowing look. ”But you did not come all this way just to chat with an old immortal, did you, child?”

Eiravelle’s smile faded slightly, her fingers tightening around the jar of wine she still held. ”Actually, I am here to ask you, Master, if I can get even one magical peach?”

Ragnar’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes sharpened with curiosity. He studied her for a long moment, his gaze penetrated, as though he could see past her words to the heart of her request. ”You may have the peach,” he said slowly.

Eiravelle’s breath hitched, her eyes widened with excitement. She had been so afraid that he would refuse, that she would have to find another way to help Arielle. But he had agreed, and her heart soared with gratitude.

But then Ragnar continued, and her excitement faded as quickly as it had come.

”But answer my question.”

Eiravelle’s smile wavered. She had known, somewhere deep in her heart, that Master Ragnar would not let her leave without asking the question that had been hanging between them for months. The question she had been dreading.

”Tell me, child,” Ragnar said, his voice was gentle but insistent. ”Do you have any plan on returning to the top student mages?”

Eiravelle frowned and looked away, her gaze fell to the jar of wine in her hands. Her fingers fidgeted with the cloth that covered the jar, twisting and pulling at the fabric as she searched for the right words. The question had caught her off guard, and she was not prepared to answer it.

”I... Uhm...” She began, her voice was faltering. ”I cannot, Master. Maybe not yet.”

She tried to force a smile, but she knew it did not reach her eyes. The smile was a mask, a shield she had learned to wear over the years to hide the pain that lay beneath the surface. But Master Ragnar had always been able to see through her masks.

Ragnar noticed almost immediately. His expression softened with understanding, and he clasped his hands from behind his back and sauntered away, gesturing for her to follow.

”Walk with me,” he said, his voice was carrying a note of invitation. ”I want to tell you something.”

Eiravelle obeyed immediately, falling into step beside him as they walked through the courtyard. The path wound between the peach blossom trees, their branches arching overhead to form a canopy of pink and green. The air was warm and fragrant, and the soft hum of magic vibrated through the ground beneath their feet.

They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds are being the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Eiravelle kept her gaze fixed on the ground, her mind was churning with thoughts she could not quite articulate.