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

Eiravelle got in the main palace and went inside the throne room where Qazaethel was having a meeting with Dawn, Liv, Arielle, and other ministers.

The grand doors swung open with a groan that echoed through the vast chamber, and the warm golden light of the throne room spilled out into the corridor.

Eiravelle paused at the threshold, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the scene before her. The room was filled with people—ministers in their formal robes, advisors with scrolls clutched in their hands, and the familiar faces of Dawn, Liv, and Arielle standing near the throne.

Qazaethel sat at the center of it all, her presence commanding the room even in stillness, her eyes fixed on a scroll that a minister was presenting to her.

The usher tried to stop them, stepping forward with his hand raised and his mouth already forming the words of refusal. ”Lady Eiravelle. You can’t—”

But Saye stopped the usher, stepping between him and her lady with a quiet authority that made the man hesitate. She did not speak, did not threaten, did not even raise her voice.

She simply stood there, her presence a silent barrier that the usher could not cross. And Qazaethel, who had looked up the moment the doors opened, gestured for the usher to let Eiravelle enter. The gesture was small, but it carried the weight of command. The usher bowed and stepped aside.

Eiravelle bow gracefully and kept her head down, her movements careful and deliberate despite the heaviness of her pregnant belly. ”Greetings, your majesties.” Her voice was soft but steady, and it carried through the sudden silence of the throne room.

The ministers exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued by the arrival of the omega who had captured the sovereign’s attention. They had heard rumors, of course. Everyone had. But rumors were one thing, and seeing the sovereign’s reaction with their own eyes was something else entirely.

”What brings you here, lady Eiravelle?” Dawn asked, and there was a genuine concern on her tone. She had risen from her seat the moment Eiravelle entered, her sharp eyes taking in the omega’s exhausted face and the way she leaned slightly against Saye for support.

Dawn had seen Eiravelle just days ago, had held her hand while she cried, and the memory of that night was still fresh in her mind. To see her here now, standing before the throne with that familiar look of quiet determination, made something twist in Dawn’s chest.

”I am here hoping to talk to the sovereign in private.” Eiravelle said, and Qazaethel’s feature softened and nodded. The change was immediate, almost startling. The cold, calculating sovereign who had been discussing border disputes and trade agreements mere moments ago was gone, replaced by something softer, something warmer.

The ministers who had been speaking fell silent, their eyes are darting between Eiravelle and the sovereign with barely concealed shock. They had never seen Qazaethel look at anyone like that. They had never seen her look at anyone at all, not really, not with that kind of focused attention that made everything else in the room fade into insignificance.

The atmosphere in the throne room was heavy with the tension of statecraft, the ministers speaking in low, urgent tones about border disputes and trade.

However, the moment Eiravelle entered, the air seemed to shift. Qazaethel’s focus snapped away from the scrolls and the ministers instantly, her gaze locking onto the pregnant woman with an intensity that bordered on possessive.

The scroll she had been holding slipped from her fingers and rolled across the floor, forgotten. The minister who had been speaking trailed off mid-sentence, his mouth still open, his words dying in the air.

The sudden softening of Qazaethel’s features was a jarring contrast to the cold sovereign the ministers knew. To the others, it was as if a winter storm had suddenly yielded to a tentative spring, though the power still humming beneath the surface remained formidable.

Qazaethel didn’t just nod; she stood up from the throne, her presence was commanding the immediate silence of everyone in the room. The movement was fluid, graceful, and utterly unlike the measured, deliberate motions they were used to seeing from their sovereign. This was not a ruler rising to address her court. This was an alpha rising to greet the mate she longed for.

”The meeting is adjourned,” Qazaethel declared, her voice was ringing out with a finality that left no room for protest. The ministers and the high-ranking ladies, including Dawn and Arielle, bowed quickly, their eyes lingering on Eiravelle with a mixture of curiosity and awe at the influence she clearly held over the sovereign.

Dawn caught Eiravelle’s eye as she passed, and there was something in her gaze—a warning, perhaps, or a plea. But Eiravelle did not have time to interpret it. The ministers filed out in a hushed rush, their robes are rustling against the marble floor, and Liv paused at the door to glance back at Dawn. The two exchanged a look that spoke volumes, and then Liv followed the others out.

As the room cleared, the heavy doors groaned shut, sealing the two of them in a sudden, intimate silence. The torches on the walls flickered, casting dancing shadows across the empty throne, and the only sound was the soft echo of footsteps fading into the distance.

Qazaethel stepped down from the dais, her movements fluid and focused. She didn’t stop until she was directly in front of Eiravelle, her eyes sweeping over the Lady’s tired face and the heavy swell of her belly.

She reached out, her hand hovering for a moment before gently resting on Eiravelle’s shoulder, her touch surprisingly warm.

”You look exhausted, Eiravelle,” she murmured, her voice low and devoid of the edge it had held with the concubines. ”Why have you come all this way? What is weighing on your heart?” The concern in her voice was genuine, raw in a way that Qazaethel rarely allowed herself to be.

She could see the dark circles beneath Eiravelle’s eyes, could see the way her hands trembled slightly at her sides. She should be resting. She should be in bed, being cared for, not standing here in the throne room with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

”Your majesty, why did you lock the concubines in the southerneast palace? I came here to plead on their behalf.” The genuine concern was etched on her face and Qazaethel was taken aback, she wasn’t supposed to know that. The words hit Qazaethel like a physical blow, and for a moment, she could not speak.

She could only stare at Eiravelle, her mind wasracing, her heart pounding against her ribs. How did she know? Who had told her? The lockdown had been a silent secret, carried out with only the guards and the servants involved.

No one was supposed to know. No one was supposed to tell her.

Qazaethel’s hand tightened slightly on Eiravelle’s shoulder, the warmth of her touch turning into something more rigid. Her eyes narrowed, the soft glow returning as she processed the words.

The sovereign’s mind immediately raced through the palace corridors, identifying the leak. She had ensured the lockdown was a silent operation, meant only for the victims and their immediate guards to know.

”Plead for them?” The words were slow, each syllable carrying a trace of disbelief.

Qazaethel stepped back just an inch, her gaze searching Eiravelle’s eyes for any sign of deception, only to find a purity of concern that was almost maddening.

The contrast between Eiravelle’s mercy and the concubines’ malice was a jagged edge that grated against Qazaethel’s instincts. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to demand who had told her, to march out of the throne room and find the culprit and make them regret ever opening their mouth.

But she could not. Not when Eiravelle was looking at her like that. Not when the omega was standing before her, exhausted and pregnant, asking for mercy on behalf of women who had tried to destroy her.

”Who told you of this, Eiravelle?” Her voice was no longer a murmur; it had regained its authoritative chill, though it remained tempered for the woman before her. She didn’t mention the southeast palace by name, testing to see how much information had actually been leaked.

”And more importantly... Why would you waste your breath, and risk the strain on your health, for omegas who would happily see you stripped of everything you hold dear?”

”Your majesty, please... Please don’t do this to them...” Eiravelle’s voice cracked on the last word, and she pressed a hand to her belly as though trying to soothe the child within.

She could feel the baby moving, responding to her distress, and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She did not want to cry. She had cried enough.

Qazaethel looked away, she’s not gonna raise a voice on Eriavelle. Not when she’s pregnant and not when Qazaethel loved her so much that she couldn’t express it properly.

The sight of Eiravelle’s tears, the way her voice trembled, the way she stood there with her hand pressed to her belly as though she could protect her child from the world—it all cut through Qazaethel like a blade.

She could not be angry with her. She could not raise her voice. She could not do anything except stand there, her jaw clenched, her hands trembling with the effort of holding back the storm that raged inside her.

Qazaethel sighed, the sound escaping her as a low, heavy exhale. She looked away, her gaze drifting toward the high vaulted ceilings of the throne room.

The image of Vespera’s terrified face and the others’ trembling forms flashed through her mind, but it was drowned out by the sight of Eiravelle—fragile, exhausted, and yet standing there pleading for the very people who had tried to poison her reputation.

She did not understand. She could not understand. Eiravelle had been hurt, had been humiliated, had been made to believe that her child would not survive. And yet here she was, asking for mercy on behalf of those who had wronged her.

The sovereign’s jaw tightened. Every instinct in her draconic nature screamed for the head of whoever had dared to speak ill of her mate, but the raw sincerity in Eiravelle’s voice acted as a leash, pulling back the beast.

She couldn’t bring herself to be cruel in this moment, not while Eiravelle looked at her with such heartbreaking hope. She turned back slowly, her expression a mask of conflicted frustration. She reached out, her fingertips grazing Eiravelle’s cheek with a tenderness that felt almost foreign to her own nature.

”You are too good for this palace, Eiravelle,” she murmured, her voice thick with an emotion she still struggled to name. She didn’t want to explain the depth of the omegas’ malice—to do so would only taint Eiravelle’s perception of the world.

Instead, she let out a defeated breath. ”They are not innocent. Far from it. But... If your heart demands it, I will not have you suffer the stress of worrying over them.”

”I want you to have mercy on them. Please.” Eiravelle’s voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it. She was not begging. She was asking. She was standing before the sovereign of Solkanaia, the most powerful alpha in the realm, and she was asking for mercy not because she was weak, but because she believed in it.

She believed that people could be better. She believed that cruelty could be answered with kindness. She believed that even those who had wronged her deserved a chance to change.

Qazaethel knew this is a contradiction to her authority. She knew that if she released the concubines, if she showed them mercy, they would see it as a victory. They would see it as proof that they could act with impunity, that the sovereign’s justice was negotiable.

And the next time—because there would be a next time—they would be bolder. They would be crueler. They would stop at nothing to destroy Eiravelle and everything she loved.

”I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” Hearing that makes Qazaethel feel like Eiravelle doesn’t understand her authority that comes with responsibility.

The words were innocent, kind, and utterly naive. Eiravelle did not understand. She did not understand that mercy, in the world of politics and power, was often mistaken for weakness. She did not understand that by sparing the concubines, Qazaethel would be putting her own authority at risk. She did not understand that the only language these omegas understood was fear.

Qazaethel’s hand dropped from Eiravelle’s cheek, her fingers curling slightly. A flicker of irritation sparked in her eyes, not toward Eiravelle, but toward the fundamental gap between their worlds.

To Eiravelle, the world was a place of mercy and healing; to Qazaethel, it was a series of borders, threats, and hierarchies that required a firm, often bloody, hand to maintain.

They were two people standing on opposite sides of a chasm, and neither of them knew how to bridge the distance.

”Mercy,” Qazaethel repeated the word as if it were a foreign concept, tasting the bitterness of it. She stepped back, the air around her cooling once more as the weight of her crown seemed to press down on her.

”You speak of mercy as if it costs nothing, Eiravelle. But in my position, mercy for the treacherous is often interpreted as weakness by the ambitious. If I let them walk away from such insults, I tell every other omega in this palace that they can tear you down and face no consequence.”

She looked at Eiravelle’s heavy belly, her gaze softening momentarily before hardening again. She wanted to explain that the ’hurt’ Eiravelle feared was the only language these omegas understood, but she knew Eiravelle would only recoil.

Instead, she closed her eyes for a brief moment, the internal struggle between her love for her omega and her duty as a sovereign playing out in the tense line of her shoulders.

She thought about the child growing inside Eiravelle, the child who would one day inherit this world, and she knew that she could not afford to be soft.

She had to be strong. She had to be ruthless. She had to be the sovereign that Solkanaia needed, not the alpha that Eiravelle wanted.

”You do not understand the burden of this throne,” she said, her voice low and resonant. ”Responsibility is not just about providing safety; it is about pruning the rot before it spreads to the rest of the garden. And those omegas... They are rotting.”

And there was a long silence between them. The words hung in the air like smoke, thick and choking, and neither of them spoke. Eiravelle stared at Qazaethel with wide, hurt eyes, her hand still pressed to her belly, and Qazaethel stared back with an expression that was equal parts frustration and sorrow.

She wanted to take her words back. She wanted to pull Eiravelle into her arms and promise that everything would be alright. But she could not. Some things could not be fixed with a touch or a kiss. Some things required a choice, and Qazaethel had already made hers.