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

Qazaethel and Eiravelle arrived in the Solkanaia palace, but since Eiravelle had not slept yet, Qazaethel ordered to postpone the celebration for the new concubine.

The grand halls of the palace stretched endlessly before them, filled with servants and guards who bowed as they passed, but Eiravelle could not bring herself to look at any of them.

She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, on the polished marble that reflected the glow of enchanted lanterns, and on the hem of her own dress as it brushed against the ground.

The palace was beautiful in a way that felt overwhelming, too grand and too ancient for someone like her. Every corner held centuries of history, every wall seemed to whisper of power and legacy, and Eiravelle felt small beneath it all.

Qazaethel was worried that Eiravelle’s lack of sleep would affect the baby she was carrying, and the thought of anything happening to the child made her chest tighten with a fear she could not voice.

So they stopped at the corridor, the soft glow of enchanted lanterns casted warm light across the marble floors.

The corridor was wide and tall, lined with pillars carved from pale marble stones that seemed to shimmer faintly in the lamplight. Ornaments hung from the walls, depicting scenes of dragons and phoenixes in flight, their colors are rich and vibrant despite their age.

Eiravelle wondered how old they were, how many centuries they had witnessed, how many people had walked this same path before her. The thought made her feel even smaller, even more insignificant.

”You should get some rest,” Qazaethel said, her voice was gentle but firm. ”The servants have prepared your palace. You’ll be staying there.”

Eiravelle looked up at Qazaethel, her eyes are tired and hollow. She had not slept in what felt like days. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Arielle’s tear-streaked face, heard her sister’s broken sobs, felt the warmth of Arielle’s arms around her. The trauma she had endured from getting kidnapped was forgotten entirely.

The guilt sat heavy in her chest, a constant companion that she could not shake no matter how hard she tried. She had left her sister behind. She had chosen this path, this palace, this life, and she did not know if she would ever forgive herself for it.

”Will you forbid me from visiting the library?” She asked.

Qazaethel shook her head without hesitation. ”Of course not. Why would I do that?” Eiravelle sighed and looked away, her fingers are twisting together in front of her.

She could not meet Qazaethel’s eyes, could not bear to see whatever expression was there. Would it be pity? Understanding? She did not know which would be worse.

She had spent her whole life being looked at with pity, with tolerance, with the kind of strained patience that people gave to those they considered burdens.

She did not want Qazaethel to look at her that way too. ”I’m just asking... I don’t know what I will do if you choose to forbid me from doing some things now that I have become your concubine.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with fear and uncertainty. Eiravelle had heard stories about concubines, about the ways they were kept and controlled, about the freedoms they lost when they entered a palace.

She did not know what to expect from Qazaethel, did not know if the sovereign would be kind or cruel or something in between. The uncertainty was almost worse than the fear.

Qazaethel saw the worry in Eiravelle’s eyes, saw the way she held herself like someone expecting to be struck at any moment. It made her chest ache in a way she had not expected.

She had waited so long for this moment, had imagined it in a thousand different ways, but never like this. Never with Eiravelle looking at her like she was a stranger, like she was a threat.

Qazaethel forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat. She had to choose her words carefully. She could not afford to make promises she could not keep, but she could not let Eiravelle believe she was a prisoner either.

”Of course not... You are my concubine, you bear my child, but that doesn’t mean I will erase the fact that you are a being with your own choice. That’s why I didn’t force you to come with me here if it deeply scared you.”

Eiravelle nodded, though her expression did not change.

She did not look convinced, did not look comforted. She just looked tired. The words were kind, but kindness could be a mask. She had learned that lesson long ago, had learned to be wary of people who spoke softly and smiled warmly.

She did not know if she could trust Qazaethel, did not know if she could trust anyone in this place.

”Aren’t you bothered that I have loved your son?” She asked.

The question came out of nowhere, and it hit Qazaethel like a physical blow. Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she could not speak. The memory of Eiravelle’s request—the way she had asked Qazaethel to marry Kariv, to let her be with her son—flashed through her mind.

It had hurt more than she wanted to admit. It still hurt. She had spent thousands of years alone, had resigned herself to an existence without love, without companionship, without anyone who truly knew her.

And then Eiravelle had come, and for a brief moment, Qazaethel had allowed herself to hope. But that hope had been crushed, replaced by the cold reality that Eiravelle loved someone else.

”About that... I was hurt... That you did ask me to have you marry Kariv. But who am I to stop you?” She said, her voice was quieter than before.

Eiravelle gasped, her eyes are widening. She had not expected that answer. She had expected anger, or coldness, or maybe even indifference. She had not expected Qazaethel to admit to being hurt.

The sovereign was supposed to be above such things, supposed to be untouchable and untroubled by the feelings of a mere concubine. But the pain in Qazaethel’s voice was real, and it made Eiravelle’s stomach clench with something that felt almost like guilt.

”You’re the sovereign. You can have anything you want,” Eiravelle said, her voice was barely above a whisper. It was not a challenge, not an accusation.

It was simply a statement of fact. Qazaethel was the most powerful being in Solkanaia. She could command armies, move mountains, shape the world to her will. If she wanted Eiravelle to love her, she could simply demand it. If she wanted Kariv out of the picture, she could simply remove him.

”But it means nothing if I take everything by force,” Qazaethel answered.

Those words left Eiravelle bewildered. The sovereign was an alpha, a hybrid dragon-phoenix who had ruled Solkanaia for almost five thousand years. She had power beyond measure, wealth that could buy entire kingdoms.

And yet, she spoke as if she was not allowed to take what she wanted. As if she was bound by something beyond her own desires. Eiravelle did not understand it. She had spent her whole life watching people take what they wanted, had seen the strong trample the weak without a second thought.

The idea that someone with so much power would choose to hold back was almost incomprehensible.

She looked away, refusing to engage with Qazaethel any further. She did not understand this woman. She did not understand why someone with so much power would choose to hold back. It would be so much easier if Qazaethel was cruel, if she was demanding, if she was everything Eiravelle had expected a sovereign to be.

Then Eiravelle could hate her, could fight her, could feel justified in her resentment. But this? This quiet restraint, this unexpected kindness? It confused her, and she did not have the energy to untangle her feelings.

”I am tired... I want to rest,” Eiravelle said.

Qazaethel sighed and nodded, though something in her expression flickered—disappointment, perhaps, or resignation. She had hoped for more, for some sign that Eiravelle understood, but she knew better than to push.

She had waited five thousand years for this moment. She could wait a little longer. ”Liv, please guide Lady Eiravelle to her palace.”

Liv nodded, placing her palm flat on her chest and bowing deeply. ”Yes, Your Majesty.” She turned to Eiravelle, her voice was respectful but warm. ”Please enter the carriage, my lady. It’s a bit far.”

Eiravelle did not answer. She simply climbed into the carriage, her movements were mechanical and hollow. The carriage was elegant, lined with velvet and cushioned with silk, but she barely noticed any of it.

She sat in silence, her hands are folded in her lap, her gaze was fixed on nothing. The coachman calmly had the horse move, and Liv mounted the saddle of her horse to ensure that Eiravelle would arrive safely at her designated palace.

Qazaethel watched as Eiravelle left with her new servants, and her heart was filled with a void she did not know how to fill. She stood in the corridor long after the carriage disappeared from sight, her hands are clasped behind her back, her expression was unreadable.

She had waited centuries for this moment, had dreamed of it in ways she could not explain. And now that it was here, it felt nothing like she had imagined.

She turned and walked back toward her wing, her footsteps echoed in the empty hall. There was still much to do, still preparations to be made, but none of it mattered right now.

All that mattered was the omega she had just sent away, the child growing inside her, and the fragile hope that someday, somehow, Eiravelle would stop looking at her like she was a stranger.

After the ride, they arrived at Eiravelle’s wing palace. The place was majestic and beautiful, like a paradise with fairies making sure the area was clean, comfortable, warm, and safe.

Flowers bloomed in carefully tended gardens, their colors are vivid even in the fading light. Fountains burbled softly, their water was catching the glow of enchanted lanterns that lined the pathways.

Everything was perfect, every detail was attended to with care and precision. It was the kind of place that poets wrote about, the kind of place that people dreamed of.

But Eiravelle wasn’t happy about it. She looked at the palace with empty eyes, seeing only its size, its emptiness, and hearing its silence. It was too big for her alone.

It was too beautiful for someone who felt so ugly inside. She thought of the bedchamber she used to share with her older sister, Arielle, the way they had laughed together in the space, the way Arielle had always made her feel safe no matter how big their world was.

This palace was nothing like that. It was cold and grand and impossibly lonely.

A female beta servant helped Eiravelle descend the carriage safely, her hand was gentle and steady. ”Thank you,” Eiravelle said, her voice was flat.

”It’s nice to finally meet you, Your Highness. My name is Saye. This is Jily, Baley, and Ana.” She introduced the other main maids, each of them bowing in turn.

Eiravelle formed a soft smile on her lips, though it did not reach her eyes. ”It’s nice to meet all of you, but please, don’t call me ’Your Highness.’”

The servants exchanged nervous glances, their bodies are tensing with visible anxiety. ”Ah... Hahaha. Your Highness, we cannot do that. We’ll be punished if we don’t address you formally.”

Eiravelle shook her head. ”Lady Eiravelle is fine. No need to address me like I am some higher being.” She reached out and held Saye’s hand, her touch was warm despite her exhaustion.

Saye blinked, clearly startled by the gesture. Servants were not usually touched by royalty, not in such a casual, kind way. She looked at Eiravelle’s hand on hers, then back at Eiravelle’s face, as if trying to determine whether this was some kind of test.

”How old are you, Saye? And what’s your secondary gender?” Eiravelle asked, her voice was filled with gentleness.

”I am eighteen years old, Lady Eiravelle. And I am a Beta,” Saye answered.

Eiravelle smiled widely when Saye addressed her as Lady instead of Your Highness. It was a small victory, but it was something. It was proof that she could still have some control over her own life, even here.

”Okay... Is it okay if I take a quick rest?” She asked them.

The maids panicked and immediately nodded, guiding her inside her palace to settle on her bedchamber. ”We already prepared the bed for you. We knew you were probably tired from the journey.” They hovered around her, and guided her inside the palace.

They open the grand door to her bedchamber and the other maids immediately approach her bed and adjusted the pillows and pulling back blankets, their movements were quick and efficient.

As Eiravelle was inside the room, she saw how extravagant and opulent it was. The bed was large enough for five people, draped in silks and velvets that shimmered in the lamplight.

The furniture was carved from dark wood, inlaid with gold and precious stones. It was beautiful, like a dream come true for others.

But for Eiravelle, she felt like it was so big, especially without her older sister.

And she had never felt this lonely before. She thought of Arielle, of the way her sister would have gasped at the sight of this room, would have run her fingers over the silks and laughed with delight. The thought made her eyes sting, and she blinked rapidly to keep the tears from falling.

She turned to the servants and continued to smile. ”I’ll take it from here. You’re all dismissed.”

They placed their palms flat on their chests and bowed. ”Yes, Lady Eiravelle.” They uttered and closed the door behind them as they walk out of the room, leaving Eiravelle alone in the vast, silent room.

Eiravelle sighed and sat on the edge of the plush bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight, soft and welcoming, but she could not relax. She glanced down and held her stomach.

”I can do this... For you, my child,” she said to herself.

The words felt hollow, but she repeated them anyway, like a prayer. She knew that the future ahead was uncertain. She knew that there would be challenges she could not foresee, enemies she did not know, trials that would test her in ways she had never imagined.

But she would survive. She had to. She had survived losing her parents, survived growing up in a household where she was tolerated rather than loved, survived the terror of the desperation of seeking help.

She would survive this too. She would fight, not just for herself, but for the child she carried. For the chance to become someone her sister could be proud of. For the hope that someday, she would look back on this moment and realize it was the beginning of something new.

She lay back on the bed, her body continue to sink into the softness, and stared at the ceiling. The decorations were intricate, depicting dragons and phoenixes in flight, their wings were spread wide.

It was a reminder of who Qazaethel was, of the power that surrounded her, the world Eiravelle had stepped into. She traced the lines of the phoenix with her eyes, following the curve of its wings, the sweep of its tail.

It was beautiful, but it was also a cage. A gilded cage, perhaps, but a cage nonetheless.

She closed her eyes, but sleep did not come easily. Her mind kept drifting back to Arielle, to the way her sister had clung to her, to the sound of her sobs. She thought of Ruthina, the golden rabbit who had crossed the world to find her, and the weight of expectation that came with being called Saintess.

She thought of Ragnar’s words, the prophecy that hung over her like a shadow—salvation or destruction. She thought of Qazaethel, of the pain in her voice when she spoke of Kariv, the strange restraint that held her back.

She did not know which she would become. She did not know if she had any choice in the matter. But she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she would not let fear control her. She had been afraid her whole life—afraid of being unwanted, afraid of being a burden, afraid of losing the people she loved.

But she was here now, in a palace that was too big and too beautiful, carrying a child she had never expected to have, and she was still alive.

She was still fighting.

She would continue to fight.

A soft knock came at the door, and Eiravelle tensed. ”Lady Eiravelle?” Saye’s voice was quiet and hesitant. ”Are you awake? We’ve prepared some food for you, if you’re hungry.”

Eiravelle hesitated. She did not want to see anyone, did not want to face the world outside this room.

But her stomach growled, reminding her that she had not eaten in hours. She needed to eat. For the child. ”Come in,” she said.

The door opened, and Saye entered, carrying a tray laden with food. She was followed by Jily and Baley, who carried additional trays and a pitcher of water. They set everything down on a small table near the bed, their movements were careful and quiet.

”We didn’t know what you liked, so we brought a little of everything,” Saye said, her voice wasstill hesitant. ”If there’s anything else you want, please let us know.”

Eiravelle looked at the food—fresh bread, fruit, cheese, a steaming bowl of soup—and felt her throat tighten. It was more food than she had seen in weeks.

”Thank you,” she managed to say. ”This is more than enough.”

The maids exchanged glances, clearly unsure of how to respond. They were used to serving royalty and concubines who demanded and commanded, not royalty who thanked them. ”We’ll leave you to eat, then,” Saye said. ”If you need anything, just ring the bell.”

They bowed and left, closing the door softly behind them. Eiravelle stared at the food for a long moment, her appetite was warring with the grief that sat heavy in her chest.

She did not want to eat. She wanted to curl up in the bed and disappear, to let the darkness swallow her whole. But she could not. She had a child to think about now, a life that depended on her.

She reached for the bread and took a small bite. It was soft and warm, and it tasted like nothing she had eaten before. She took another bite, then another, forcing herself to chew and swallow even though she did not want to.

The soup was rich and flavorful, and the fruit was sweet and juicy. She ate until her stomach was full, until the ache of hunger was replaced by a different kind of ache—the ache of being full when so many others were not.

When she was done, she lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling again. The dragons and phoenixes seemed to mock her, their wings were still spread wide in freedom that she did not have.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but her mind would not quiet.

She thought of Qazaethel, of the way the sovereign had looked at her, of the pain in her voice when she spoke of Kariv. She thought of the words Qazaethel had said—”It means nothing if I take everything by force”—and wondered if they were true.

Was it possible that Qazaethel was different from the others? Was it possible that she truly cared?

Eiravelle did not know. She did not know if she could trust anyone in this place, did not know if she could trust herself. But she knew that she had to try. She had to try to survive, to protect her child, and to find a way to make this life her own.