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

Morning light filtered through the tall windows of the Arthion manor, casting long golden rectangles across the polished floor of the living room. The estate had been awake for hours already, servants are moving quietly through the corridors, preparing for the day ahead with the practiced efficiency that came from years of service to one of Solkanaia’s most prominent families.

The air carried the faint scent of fresh flowers arranged in vases along the walls, mixed with the lingering warmth of the hearth that had burned through the night and still crackled softly in the corner, its embers glowing a deep, comforting orange.

Arisia sat on the edge of a cushioned chair, her fingers are drumming against her knee in a movement that betrayed her impatience. She had barely slept the night before for her mind was churning with thoughts that refused to settle, and the morning had done nothing to ease the knot of anxiety tightening in her chest.

Every passing minute felt like an hour, every whispered conversation between the servants were a potential source of the gossip she dreaded. She had dressed carefully that morning, choosing a simple gown of pale blue that made her look younger than her years, though the dark circles beneath her eyes betrayed her sleepless night.

Beside her, Ariphale stood with her arms crossed, her expression was carefully neutral, though the tension in her shoulders suggested she was anything but calm. She had positioned herself slightly behind Arisia, a silent guardian ready to intervene if necessary.

Ariphale had always been the protector among the sisters, the one who stepped between conflict and those she loved. She tried to convince Arisia that it would be a bad idea to let their parents know, but Arisia had refused to listen, had insisted that their father needed to know immediately, and Ariphale had been left with no choice but to follow and hope for the best.

Elaria’s posture was slightly rigid and her patience was visibly thinning with each passing moment. She had dressed in her customary elegant fashion, her silver hair was pinned back in an elaborate style that spoke of her noble lineage.

The teacup in her hand had long since gone cold, abandoned after only a few sips. She had tried to occupy herself with the morning correspondence, had attempted to review the household accounts that required her attention, but the tension radiating from her daughters made concentration impossible.

They had been waiting for nearly an hour, and the silence between them had grown heavy with unspoken words and unasked questions.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway drew their attention. Arthion entered the living room with the weariness of a man who had spent the entire night in council, his broad shoulders were slightly slumped and his eyes are carrying the weight of prolonged discussion and difficult decisions.

He had been planning for Princess Dawn’s arrival with the military high-ranking officers, reviewing security arrangements and diplomatic protocols until the early hours of the morning. The meetings had been tedious, filled with the kind of bureaucratic maneuvering that reminded him why he had never pursued a career in politics despite his elevated status.

As a warlord, he commanded respect among the military elite, but his status as a God elevated him above even General Liv, placing him in a tier of authority that few could question and even fewer dared to challenge.

He had earned that status through centuries of service and merit, through battles fought and won, through sacrifices that most mortals could never comprehend that the God’s granted him his wish to become God and marry Elaria, the deer Goddess of Forests.

But none of that mattered now. Standing in the doorway of his own living room, watching his daughters exchange tense glances and his wife’s expression grow increasingly pinched, he felt nothing like a God.

Despite his exhaustion, his face softened the moment he saw his daughters. A warm smile spread across his features, transforming the hardened warlord into something gentler, more approachable. The lines around his eyes deepened with the expression, and for a moment, the weight of the night seemed to lift from his shoulders.

”Father, you have to know something,” Arisia said, rising from her chair the instant she saw him.

But Arthion held up a hand, his smile remained in place. He crossed the room with measured steps and pulled Arisia into a gentle embrace, then reached out and drew Ariphale in as well, wrapping both daughters in his arms.

The gesture was unhurried, almost leisurely, as though he had all the time in the world despite the fatigue that lined his face. He held them for a long moment, breathing in the familiar scent of home, allowing himself a brief respite from the demands of his position.

”Later, my child,” he said, his deep voice was carrying the warmth of affection. ”Apa is still tired.”

He released them and crossed to where Elaria sat, bending down to press a kiss to her forehead. She accepted the gesture with a slight nod, though her eyes flickered toward their daughters with a hint of impatience.

Elaria had never been a woman who tolerated delays or evasion, and the morning’s prolonged silence had worn her thin. She was accustomed to order, to schedules kept and expectations met. The tension radiating from her daughters was an aberration she did not appreciate.

”I was tired,” Arthion continued, settling into his usual chair with a heavy sigh. The leather creaked beneath his weight, and he leaned back, closing his eyes for just a moment before opening them again. ”Princess Dawn is coming today. Good thing General Liv had taken over the lead.”

He smiled at Elaria, and for a moment, the tension in the room seemed to ease. The morning light caught the silver threading through his dark hair, a reminder of the centuries he had lived and the battles he had fought.

Despite his weariness, there was a quiet strength in the way he held himself, a presence that filled the room and demanded attention without effort.

”Father, you have to know this. It’s important,” Arisia pressed, stepping forward. Her voice carried a note of desperation, the kind that came from holding onto a secret for too long. She had spent the entire night imagining this conversation, had rehearsed her words until they felt like second nature.

Ariphale’s hand shot out, grabbing her sister’s shoulder firmly. Her grip was tight, a silent warning that Arisia chose to ignore. The two sisters exchanged a glance, one filled with desperation and the other with a plea for restraint, but neither was willing to yield.

”Let go of me,” Arisia whispered, trying to shrug off her sister’s hold.

”What is it?” Elaria demanded, her voice becoming sharp with impatience. She had risen slightly from the sofa, her hands are clasped tightly in front of her. The teacup she had been holding clattered softly against its saucer as she set it down. ”You two look like you can’t wait till your father has his rest.”

Arisia pulled free of Ariphale’s grip and took a step toward their father, shaking her head. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and her palms were slick with sweat. She had spent years watching Eiravelle make one poor decision after another, had endured the whispered gossip and the pitying looks from other noble families. She was tired of it, tired of the shame that seemed to cling to their household because of one person’s reckless choices.

”Mother, you and Father have to know this,” Arisia said, her voice was trembling despite her determination.

”Arisia—” Ariphale started, reaching for her sister again.

But Arthion calmly raised a hand, gesturing for Ariphale to stand back. His expression remained composed, though something flickered in his eyes, a shadow of awareness that suggested he already suspected what was coming. He had seen this scene play out before, had watched his children argue over Eiravelle’s actions more times than he cared to count.

”It’s fine, Ariphale,” he said, his voice was deep and measured. ”It’s just Arisia.”

The words hung in the air, carrying a weight that made Ariphale’s protests die in her throat. She stepped back, her jaw was tight, her hands are curling into fists at her sides. The dismissal stung, but she knew better than to challenge her father when his mind was set.

Arisia took a breath, gathering the courage that had been building inside her since the previous night. She had rehearsed this moment in her mind a dozen times, had imagined how she would present the information, how she would make her father understand. But standing before him now, with his calm gaze fixed on her, the words seemed to catch in her throat.

She thought of Eiravelle, of the scandal that was sure to follow, of the disgrace that would be visited upon their family name. She thought of her father’s reputation, built over centuries of honorable service, and how it would be tarnished by association. She thought of her own future, of the marriage prospects that would dwindle, of the social circles that would close their doors.

”Okay, child,” Arthion said, his lips are curving into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. ”Tell me what’s so important that you couldn’t wait.”

Arisia exhaled slowly, steadying herself. The room seemed to shrink around her, the walls were pressing in as she prepared to speak the words that would change everything. The crackling of the hearth seemed louder now, each pop and hiss of the flames punctuating the silence.

”Father, it’s about Eiravelle,” she said.

The change in Arthion was immediate. His smile vanished, replaced by a carefully neutral expression that masked the storm brewing beneath the surface. His hands, resting on the arms of his chair, tightened almost imperceptibly.

The warmth that had filled the room moments before drained away, leaving behind a cold stillness that made the servants near the doorway shift uncomfortably. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to dim, as though it too recognized the shift in atmosphere.

”She—” Arisia began.

”You are not to decide about telling father, Arisia.”

The voice cut through the living room like a blade, sharp and commanding. Everyone turned toward the entrance, where Arielle now stood framed in the doorway.

She wore her full authority robe as the Prime Minister of Solkanaia, the deep blue fabric embroidered with silver thread that marked her office. The robe fell to the floor in elegant folds, and her posture was rigid, every inch of the powerful official she had become. The morning light caught the silver embroidery, making it shimmer like frost on water.

Behind her, a maid stood holding the Solkanaia Prime Minister’s headdress, the ornate piece glittered with precious stones. The maid looked uncertain, her eyes are darting between Arielle and the assembled family members. She had served the Arthion household for years, had witnessed countless arguments and reconciliations, but the tension in the room now was different. It felt heavier, more dangerous.

”Lordess?” The maid ventured quietly, holding out the headdress.

Arielle gestured dismissively with one hand, never taking her eyes off Arisia. The maid bowed and retreated, carrying the headdress away with her. The soft click of the door closing behind her seemed to echo through the room.

”Arielle,” Arthion said, his voice carried an edge of barely contained fury. ”What did Eiravelle do again?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. This was not the first time Eiravelle’s name had been brought before him in this manner, not the first time her actions had required discussion and damage control.

Arthion had grown weary of it, weary of the constant stream of incidents that seemed to follow his youngest daughter like a shadow. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that the morning would bring news of a different kind. But the expression on Arielle’s face told him otherwise.

Arielle swallowed hard, her composure was cracking for just a moment. She looked away, deliberately avoiding her father’s piercing gaze. The movement was subtle, but everyone in the room noticed it.

Arielle was not a woman who looked away from confrontation, she met challenges head-on, faced down political opponents and hostile diplomats with unwavering confidence. To see her avert her eyes now spoke volumes about the gravity of the situation.

”Father, please do not be mad if Eiravelle did something—” Arielle started.

”What has she done?!” Arthion’s voice rose, cutting her off. He leaned forward in his chair, his hands are gripping the armrests so tightly that the wood creaked under the pressure. ”I am not asking you about how she felt, I am asking what she has done to make you avert your gaze away from me!”

His chest heaved with frustration, the exhaustion of the night’s planning compounded by this new stress. The veins in his temples throbbed visibly, and for a moment, the God who sat before them seemed less like a divine being and more like a father pushed to the edge of his patience.

”Arielle, just speak the truth to your father,” Elaria said, her voice was cutting through the tension. She had risen from the sofa. ”He is tired and still needs rest.”

The words were practical, almost cold, but there was a thread of concern woven through them. Elaria had been married to Arthion for centuries, had seen him face down armies and political rivals without flinching.

But she had also seen what the constant strain of dealing with their children’s scandals did to him, had watched the lines deepen around his eyes and the gray spread through his hair. She loved him too much to watch him destroy himself over a daughter who seemed determined to bring ruin upon them all.

”What now, sister Arielle?!” Arisia shouted, her patience had finally snapped. She rounded on her older sister, her face was flushed with anger. ”Are you gonna tell them or not?!”

Ariphale grabbed her younger sister’s arm, pulling her back with more force than before. ”Arisia, just stop! Eiravelle’s business is not yours to dwell with!”

”I SAID LET GO OF ME, SISTER ARIPHALE! WHAT THE HELL!” Arisia shrieked, struggling against her sister’s grip.

The servants near the doorway exchanged glances and quietly retreated, disappearing into the hallway. They had learned long ago to make themselves scarce when the Arthion family argued. The walls of the manor were thick, but voices carried, and no one wanted to be caught in the middle of a family dispute.

”I DON’T GET WHY YOU’RE SIDING WITH EIRAVELLE!” Arisia continued, her voice was rising to a pitch that made the windows vibrate.

”I am not siding with anyone!” Ariphale yelled back, her own composure was finally cracking. ”But you’re crossing the line and acting like a child! Eiravelle’s business are not for you to meddle with!”

”IT IS! WHATEVER SHE DOES WILL BRING SO MUCH DISGRACE TO THIS FAMILY!” Arisia’s face was red now, tears of frustration glistening in her eyes.

Arielle remained silent, her hands are clasped behind her back and her expression was unreadable. She was trying to compose herself, to keep the anger that was building inside her from spilling over.

Arisia’s words stung because they carried a kernel of truth. Eiravelle’s actions had brought disgrace to their family, had provided ammunition to their political enemies, had made Arielle’s position as Prime Minister infinitely more complicated. But Arielle also knew that yelling at Arisia would solve nothing. It would only add more fuel to the fire.

”Enough! You will stop this madness!” Ariphale said, wrapping both arms around Arisia and holding her firmly despite her sister’s struggles.

The two of them stumbled backward, Ariphale’s greater strength keeping Arisia contained even as she thrashed and fought. The sound of their scuffle echoed through the living room, a chaotic counterpoint to the heavy silence that had fallen over their parents.

”Ariphale! Let go of your sister!” Arthion commanded, his voice was cutting through the noise like thunder.

Ariphale froze, her grip loosened immediately. Arisia stumbled forward, nearly falling before she caught herself. The two sisters stood apart, both breathing hard, both refusing to look at each other.

”Tell me the truth, Arielle!” Arthion demanded, turning his attention back to his eldest daughter. His voice was quieter now, but no less commanding. The fury was still there, burning beneath the surface, but he had regained control of it, had locked it away behind a mask of cold authority.

Arielle still refused to look at him directly. She stared at a point somewhere past his shoulder, her jaw was tight, her hands are clasped so tightly behind her back that her knuckles had gone white.

”No,” she said firmly. The single word fell into the silence like a stone into still water.

Arthion’s eyes widened, disbelief flickered across his features. ”What did you say?”

Arielle finally lifted her chin, meeting her father’s gaze for the first time since she had entered the room. Her eyes were bright with an emotion that was difficult to name—defiance, perhaps, or determination, or something else entirely.

”No,” she repeated, her voice was steady. ”It should be Eiravelle’s decision.”

The words hung in the air, a declaration of loyalty that no one had expected. Arisia’s mouth fell open, her anger was momentarily forgotten in the face of her sister’s defiance. Ariphale stared at Arielle as though seeing her for the first time. Even Elaria seemed taken aback, her carefully composed expression cracking to reveal a flicker of surprise.

Arthion leaned back in his chair, his expression was unreadable. The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, filling every corner of the room. Outside, the morning light continued to brighten, the sun was rising higher in the sky, but inside the Arthion manor, it felt as though the world had stopped turning.

No one spoke. No one moved. The weight of Arielle’s words pressed down on everyone present, and the question of what Eiravelle had done—and what decision she would ultimately make—hung in the air like a sword waiting to fall.