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

”Why do you wish to go to Varnara, Arielle?” Qazaethel asked, her voice carried the weight of sovereign authority even in its softness.

Arielle raised her gaze slowly, her tear-streaked face betrayed the desperation she had tried so hard to conceal when she first entered the throne room.

The dim candlelight of the chamber caught the moisture on her cheeks, making them glisten like fractured glass.

”My sister.” The words came out broken, barely above a whisper. ”She fell ill... No one knew she was gravely allergic to Night Dazzling flowers. She had taken care of such flowers, cultivated them with such care, and I didn’t know it could be this fatal. I need to go to Varnara to save them, your majesty.”

Qazaethel’s brow furrowed deeply, the lines of concern etching themselves across her otherwise composed features. ”Them?” she repeated, her tone sharpened with curiosity. ”You speak as if you’re saving more than one person.”

She looked away, her gaze drifting toward the towering windows that lined the far wall of the throne room. Qazaethel allowed herself to contemplate the weight of what Arielle was asking.

Varnara was no simple destination—it was a territory fraught with political tension, and traveling there without proper preparation could ignite conflicts she had spent years trying to quell. This first request was already heavy enough.

”She is pregnant, your majesty.”

Arielle dropped the revelation like a stone into still water, and the ripples spread through the throne room with devastating speed.

Qazaethel’s breath hitched audibly. Her pupils became dilated, the deep crimson of her irises seeming to darken as shock washed over her. For a moment, the sovereign who commanded armies and nations looked utterly paralyzed, her carefully maintained composure cracked like ice under sudden weight.

”What?” The single word escaped her lips, and her voice had changed entirely—no longer the measured tone of a ruler, but something rawer, more vulnerable.

Arielle, misinterpreting the sovereign’s reaction as mere surprise at the news, fell to her knees with a heavy thud. The sound echoed through the chamber, and she pressed her forehead against the cold stone floor, her shoulders are shaking with barely contained sobs.

”Please help me save her. I don’t know who the alpha is but I don’t care...” Her voice cracked, splintering into fragments of grief. ”I just want to save my sister and my nibling. I don’t care about anything else—not about propriety, not about what people will say, not about the scandal of an unwed omega bearing a child. I just want them both to live.”

The words tumbled out in a desperate rush, each one was more pleading than the last. Arielle’s hands gripped the edge of Qazaethel’s robes, her knuckles turned white with tension, her entire body trembled as she prostrated herself before the sovereign. 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

Qazaethel froze.

The air in the throne room seemed to thicken, pressing in on her from all sides. The truth settled into her chest like a blade, cold and undeniable.

She already knew. She had known from the moment Arielle mentioned the pregnancy. That night—that one night of weakness, of longing, of surrendering to desires she had kept locked away for centuries—had created consequences she never anticipated.

The child is hers.

The realization struck her with the force of a physical blow, and she felt the color drain from her face. Her hands, which had been steady moments before, began to tremble almost imperceptibly.

The weight of her secret pressed down on her shoulders, heavier than any crown she had ever worn.

She had lain with Eiravelle and now Eiravelle carried her offspring, the heir she had never dared to hope for, and was dying because of it.

I planted my seed in her, and now she’s in danger because of the poison that was spreading through her veins, threatening to take not only her life but the life of our child. Qazaethel thought, her mind was racing.

The thought sent a jolt of something primal through her—a fierce, possessive protectiveness that she had never experienced before.

She had so many children but this was the first time she ever felt this, and she had never allowed herself to consider the possibility of feeling this emotions.

She had always been too focused on ruling, on protecting her kingdom, on maintaining the delicate balance of power that kept her people safe.

But now, faced with the potential loss of something she hadn’t even known she wanted, she found herself overwhelmed by a surge of desperate determination.

Arielle continued to plead at her feet, her voice was growing hoarse. ”Please, your majesty, I’m begging you. I know I have no right to ask for such a favor, I know I’m just a noble’s daughter, I know my family has done nothing to deserve your benevolence, but I have no one else to turn to. The healers in our territory have tried everything, and Dale—our trusted physician—has said the only cure lies in Varnara. Please, I’ll do anything, just please help me save them.”

Qazaethel looked down at the weeping Arielle at her feet, and something in her chest twisted painfully. Arielle had no idea. She had no concept of the true connection between her sister and the sovereign, no understanding of the bond that had been forged that night in the gardens, when moonlight had painted Eiravelle’s pink hair in shades of pearl and starlight.

She thinks I’m doing this out of duty, Qazaethel realized. Out of mercy for a loyal subject. She doesn’t know that I’m doing this out of love—out of fear—out of the desperate need to save what is mine.

”Arielle,” Qazaethel said, her voice was steadier than she felt. ”Stand up.”

The young alpha lifted her head, confusion flickering through her tear-filled eyes. ”Your majesty?”

”Stand up,” Qazaethel repeated, reaching down to grasp Arielle’s arm and pull her to her feet. ”I will help you.”

Arielle blinked, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had heard. ”You will?”

”I will.” Qazaethel turned her gaze toward Liv, who had been standing silently near the doors, her face was carefully neutral. ”Liv, prepare the carriage. I shall visit Demon Lordess Cerpys.”

Liv’s eyes widened, the careful composure cracked just slightly. ”Your majesty,” she began, stepping forward with a hesitant urgency, ”please think about this for a second. Demon Lordess Cerpys has been at odds with our kingdom for years now. Your visit to her territory could be seen as a sign of weakness, or worse, as an invitation for her to exploit our vulnerabilities. Perhaps we should send a messenger first, or negotiate through intermediaries—”

”Do as I say!” Qazaethel’s voice cut through the air like a whip, carrying the full force of her authority. Her eyes flashed with an intensity that made Liv take an immediate step back.

Liv swallowed hard, the visible bob of her throat betrayed her fear. She bowed quickly, her hands clasped in front of her. ”Yes, your majesty.”

She turned on her heel and practically fled the throne room, her footsteps echoed against the marble floor as she rushed to carry out her sovereign’s commands.

Qazaethel turned to the butler, a stoic alpha who had served her family for three generations. ”Fetch me my formal attire,” she commanded, her voice brooked no argument. ”I shall visit Eiravelle at the Arthion mansion.”

The butler nodded, his weathered face betrayed no emotion. ”At once, your majesty.” He turned and rushed toward Qazaethel’s bedchamber, moving with surprising speed for his age.

”Arielle,” Qazaethel said, turning back to the young aloha, whose face was a mixture of hope and lingering tears. ”Stand up. Stop your crying and compose yourself. Show me where Eiravelle is.”

Arielle nodded, wiping furiously at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. ”Yes, your majesty. Thank you, your majesty. Thank you—”

”Save your thanks for when I have succeeded in saving her,” Qazaethel said, her tone was sharp but not unkind. ”We have no time to waste on gratitude now. Every moment we lose is a moment closer to—” She stopped herself, unable to finish the sentence.

The thought of losing Eiravelle, of losing their child, was too painful to voice aloud.

***

A few moments later, Qazaethel emerged from her bedchamber, transformed from a weary sovereign into a vision of royal authority.

The formal attire she now wore was a masterpiece of craftsmanship—deep crimson velvet threaded with gold, the fabric falling in elegant folds that accentuated her powerful frame.

Her shoulder cape was lined with the purest white fur, and the crown upon her head gleamed with the light of a thousand polished gems. She looked every inch the ruler she was, and the weight of her presence seemed to make the very air in the palace grow heavier.

She strode through the palace corridors with purpose, her boots were clicking against the stone floor in a steady beat. Behind her, a procession of chaperones and royal guards fell into formation, their own footsteps are creating a percussive harmony that announced her approach to all who heard it.

Arielle followed at her side, her face was wrapped with urgency as well.

The royal carriage was already waiting when they reached the Arthion manor’s entrance, a magnificent vehicle of polished ebony wood and gold filigree, drawn by four massive winged horses whose coats shimmered like silver in the moonlight.

The beasts snorted and pawed the ground, their powerful wings folded against their sides as they awaited their sovereign’s command.

”Ride with me,” Qazaethel ordered, and Arielle scrambled into the carriage without hesitation.

The moment they were both seated, the carriage launched into the air with a lurch, the winged horses taking flight with powerful beats of their great wings.

Qazaethel sat rigid in her seat, her hands are gripping the armrests until her knuckles turned white. The carriage was fast, faster than any land-bound vehicle could hope to be, but it still felt excruciatingly slow.

Every beat of the horses’ wings seemed to take an eternity, and she found herself mentally urging them onward, as if her will alone could make them fly faster.

Arielle sat across from her, her face was pale in the dim light of the carriage’s interior lanterns. She was trembling, her fingers are clutching at the fabric of her skirts, and she kept glancing out the window as if she could somehow will the destination to appear sooner.

”How long until we arrive?” Qazaethel asked, breaking the silence as anxiety consume them.

”Less than an hour,” Arielle replied, her jaw was tight. ”The manor is not far from the palace, but the flight will still take time.”

Qazaethel nodded, the she noticed how Arielle’s gaze dropped to her lap. ”I should have known,” she murmured, more to herself than to Qazaethel. ”I should have paid more attention to the flowers she was cultivating. Night Dazzling flowers—they’re so beautiful and so alluring. How could I have known they would be fatal to her?”

”You couldn’t have known,” Qazaethel said, her voice became softer than she had intended. ”These things happen. We cannot predict every danger that lurks in the world, no matter how careful we are.”

Arielle looked at Qazaethel, her eyes are shimmering with unshed tears. ”I just feel so helpless. Watching her suffer, knowing there’s something I could have done to prevent it. I should have been more attentive.”

”You are doing what you can now,” Qazaethel reminded her. ”That is what matters.”

And I am doing what I should have done long ago, she added silently. I should have claimed Eiravelle openly. I should have protected her properly. Instead, I hid in the shadows of my own desires, and now I must pay the price for my cowardice.

***

The moment the carriage touched down, Qazaethel threw open the door and stepped out before the footmen could even approach.

Her boots hit the cobblestone path with a resounding thud, and she strode toward the manor with the unstoppable momentum of a force of nature.

Behind her, the royal guards and chaperones scrambled to keep up, their formation was breaking as they hurried after their sovereign.

Arthion and Elaria were already emerging from the manor, alerted by the commotion of the carriage’s arrival. Their faces were masks of shock and confusion, and they immediately dropped into deep bows as Qazaethel approached.

”Your majesty!” Arthion exclaimed, his voice was strained with surprise. ”We were not expecting—”

Qazaethel swept past them without acknowledgment, her gaze was fixed on the manor’s entrance. She had no time for pleasantries, no patience for the formalities that usually accompanied her visits. All that mattered was Eiravelle.

Arielle followed close behind, her steps were quick and urgent as she led the sovereign through the winding corridors. They passed by startled servants, who pressed themselves against the walls and bowed as Qazaethel strode past, their eyes are wide with the shock of seeing the sovereign in their midst.

The corridors seemed to stretch on endlessly, each turn felt like a delay that might cost Eiravelle her life. Qazaethel’s heart pounded in her chest, a frantic beat that matched the urgency of her steps.

Please, she found herself praying to any deity that might be listening. Please let her hold on. Just a little longer.

Finally, they reached Arielle’s wing, and the young Alpha pushed open the grand doors of her bedchamber.

The sight that greeted them made Qazaethel’s heart stop.

Eiravelle lay on the bed, her once-luminous pink hair spread across the pillow in a tangled mess. Her skin was ashen, the healthy flush of her cheeks were replaced by a gray pallor that spoke of advancing poison.

Her lips, usually so full and pink, were tinged with blue, and her chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths that seemed to pain her with each inhalation.

But it was the black veins that caught Qazaethel’s attention—dark, branching lines that were spreading across Eiravelle’s skin like creeping vines, slowly consuming her body inch by inch.

They had already reached her neck, and Qazaethel could see them pulsing with sinister, spreading their poison deeper into Eiravelle’s body with every heartbeat.

Gertrude was at Eiravelle’s side, a damp cloth in her hand as she wiped the cold sweat from the omega’s brow. The old servant looked up as Qazaethel entered, her eyes are widening before she quickly bowed her head.

Dale stood on the other side of the bed, his face was grim as he monitored Eiravelle’s vitals. His expression was one of barely contained panic, the mask of professional composure was cracking at the edges.

”Tell me what’s happening to her,” Qazaethel interrupted, her voice carried so much authority.

Dale stepped forward, his expression turned grave. ”I was wrong, your majesty,” he admitted, the words were clearly painful for him to speak. ”It’s not a normal allergy. It turns out that Night Dazzling flowers are poisonous for Lady Eiravelle. I had initially believed it to be a severe allergic reaction, but the symptoms are far more aggressive than any allergy I’ve ever encountered. The pollen, once inhaled, spreads through the bloodstream and attacks the heart. We’ve been doing everything we can to slow the progression, but the poison is tenacious.”

Qazaethel’s eyes traced the black veins spreading across Eiravelle’s body, her heart clenched with each new branch that appeared. ”How much time do we have?”

”Not much,” Dale admitted, his voice was barely above a whisper. ”If we don’t obtain the cure soon, the poison will reach her heart, and when it does—” He shook his head, unable to finish the sentence.

”Ngh~ mm~ h-hurt~” Eiravelle whimpered in her unconscious state, her head tossing weakly on the pillow. Her fingers twitched against the blankets, as if she were trying to grasp something that remained perpetually out of reach.

The sound of her voice, so weak and pained, struck Qazaethel like a physical blow. She felt an ache spread through her chest, an unfamiliar pain that seemed to mirror Eiravelle’s suffering.

This is what love feels like, she realized with startling clarity. This is what it means to care for someone so deeply that their pain becomes your own.

Arielle fell to her knees beside the bed, her hands reaching out to grasp Eiravelle’s limp fingers. ”Eivy, please hold on,” she begged, her voice was cracking with sobs. ”I’m doing everything I can, just please hold on a little longer. Please don’t leave me. You can’t leave me, not like this, not when I’m so close to saving you.”

Her tears fell on Eiravelle’s hand, and the unconscious omega seemed to stir slightly, her fingers twitching in response to the contact.

Arthion and Elaria entered the room behind them, their eyes went wide as they took in Eiravelle’s condition. Elaria’s hand flew to her mouth, and she made a sound of distress that she quickly tried to suppress. Arthion’s face darkened, a complex mixture of anger and fear flickering across his features.

”Arielle, you must come with me,” Qazaethel said, turning to face the young Alpha. ”We will go to Varnara to retrieve the healing potion that only they possess. The Demon Lordess Cerpys is the only one who can provide it, and we must persuade her to do so.”

Arielle snapped her gaze up to Qazaethel, her tear-streaked face was alight with fierce determination. ”Whatever it takes to save my sister,” she declared, her voice was trembling but resolute. ”I’ll do anything, go anywhere, and face any danger. Just tell me what I need to do.”

”What is going on?” Arthion demanded, his voice was sharp with confusion and suspicion. ”Arielle, why is the sovereign here? Why didn’t you inform us of any of this? We are your parents—we have a right to know what’s happening in our own household.”

The accusation in his voice made Qazaethel’s blood boil. She turned to face him, her eyes are blazing with cold fury. ”Can’t you see that your daughter is suffering?!” She thundered, her voice was echoing off the walls of the bedchamber.

”I am ashamed of you, Arthion. Your daughter is dying before your very eyes, and all you care about is your pride—the fact that you weren’t informed of my visit?”

Arthion recoiled as if slapped, his face was paling. ”Your majesty, I didn’t mean to imply—”

”Eiravelle is not dying,” Qazaethel declared, cutting him off before he could make the situation worse. Her voice was steel wrapped in velvet, carrying the absolute certainty of a sovereign who refused to accept defeat. ”I will not allow it. We will get that potion no matter what it takes. I swear it on my crown.”

And on my child, she added silently. On the life that grows within her, the life I created. I will not let either of them perish.

Suddenly, Eiravelle convulsed on the bed, her body arching as a violent cough tore through her. Blood erupted from her lips, spraying across the white sheets in a horrifying splash of crimson. The metallic scent filled the room, thick and cloying.

Everyone froze, their eyes turned fixed on the spreading stain on the bedding.

Dale rushed forward, his hands are pressing against Eiravelle’s wrist as he checked her pulse. His face grew even grimmer, the lines of worry deepening into something approaching despair.

”The poison is trying to catch her heart,” he announced, his voice was carefully controlled. He avoided any mention of the pregnancy, keeping that secret close to his chest. The last thing they needed was Arthion learning about his daughter’s condition and complicating matters further.

”Arielle,” she said, her voice was urgent but controlled. ”We must go now. There is no more time for goodbyes or extended farewells. Every moment we delay is a moment closer to losing her.”

Arielle nodded, her jaw was set with fierce determination. She turned to Eiravelle one last time, leaning down to press a kiss to her sister’s forehead. ”I’ll bring you back,” she whispered, her voice was thick with emotion. ”I promise you, Eivy. I will bring you back, and then we’ll see each other again. Just hold on a little longer. Please.”

She stood, wiping her tears with the back of her hand, and walked away from the bed without looking back. Her steps were quick, purposeful, as she followed Qazaethel out of the bedchamber.

Elaria made a small sound, a half-voiced plea that died in her throat as she watched her daughter’s retreating figure. She wanted to approach Eiravelle, to sit by her bedside and offer whatever comfort she could.

Perhaps it was being an Oma that made her want to get beside her daughter and console her, to hold her hand and smooth her hair and whisper that everything would be alright.

But her pride refused to let it happen. The years of distance she had maintained, the walls she had built between herself and her youngest daughter, would not allow her to break down now.

”Eiravelle,” Arthion muttered in a low voice, his expression was unreadable. He seemed almost angry—furious at the chaos that had invaded his household, and at the way everyone was so busy saving her while he stood on the periphery, uninformed.

The door closed behind Qazaethel and Arielle, sealing them off from the scene within.

Qazaethel strode through the corridors at a pace that made her guards scramble to keep up, her mind was already racing ahead to the challenges that awaited her in Varnara. Demon Lordess Cerpys was a formidable figure, a ruler who had carved out her territory through sheer force of will and political cunning.

She was known for driving hard bargains, for extracting maximum concessions from those who came to her seeking favors.

I will pay whatever price she demands, Qazaethel thought, her jaw was tightening. Whatever it takes to save Eiravelle and our child. I will humble myself before Cerpys if I must.

She glanced back at Arielle, who was following with grim determination. The young Alpha’s face was pale, her eyes are red-rimmed, but there was a fire in them that it was the first time for Qazaethel to see.

You don’t know that your sister carries my child within her, that the life growing in her womb is the heir to my throne. But soon, perhaps, you will understand. When this is all over, when Eiravelle is safe and our child is born, I will tell you the truth.

The carriage was waiting for them when they emerged from the mansion, its winged horses pawing the ground impatiently. Qazaethel climbed aboard without hesitation, reaching down to help Arielle up when the young alpha stumbled on the step.

”Thank you, your majesty.” Arielle whispered, her voice was hoarse.

Qazaethel simply nodded, her gaze was already fixed on the night sky ahead. ”To Varnara,” she commanded, and the carriage launched into the air once more.

***

The flight to Varnara was longer than the journey to the Arthion mansion, and the tension in the carriage was almost unbearable.

Arielle sat in silence, her hands are clasped in her lap, her eyes were fixed on some distant point beyond the window. Qazaethel could practically see the thoughts racing through her mind—the fear for her sister, the worry about what would happen if they were too late.

Qazaethel understood that hope all too well. It was the same hope that was keeping her own fear at bay, the same hope that was allowing her to focus on the mission ahead rather than the terrifying possibility of failure.

”We will succeed,” she said, breaking the silence. Her voice was firm and certain. ”I will not accept any other outcome. We will reach Varnara, we will obtain the healing potion, and we will return in time to save Eiravelle and her child.”

Arielle looked up, her eyes are still glistening. ”You sound so sure.”

”I am sure.” Qazaethel met her gaze, letting the alpha see the determination in her eyes. ”Because the alternative is unthinkable. And I refuse to consider it.”

A small smile flickered across Arielle’s face—the first glimmer of hope Qazaethel had seen from her since they left the palace. ”Thank you, your majesty. I don’t know why you’re doing this for us, but I am grateful beyond words.”

Qazaethel remain silent fot a moment before speaking again.

”I am doing this because it is the right thing to do,” Qazaethel said aloud, keeping the truth hidden for now. ”A ruler’s duty is to protect their people, and your family is part of my kingdom. No subject of mine will suffer while I have the power to prevent it.”

Arielle nodded, accepting the explanation without question.

The carriage flew on through the night, carrying them toward a confrontation that would be difficult to finish.