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

Eiravelle was in her palace, she was reading the book that Dawn gave her. The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of the Eastern wing palace, casting long golden rectangles across the floor and the furniture.

The room was quiet, peaceful in a way that felt almost fragile, and Eiravelle sat near the window in a cushioned chair, her feet resting on a small ottoman, the book open in her lap. Her hand rested on the curve of her belly, a habit she had developed in recent weeks, and her eyes moved slowly across the pages, though she was not truly reading.

Her mind kept drifting, pulled away from the words by thoughts she could not seem to escape.

Qazaethel entered with a basket of fruit and smile, ”good morning, Eiravelle.” She said, and Eiravelle frown. The sovereign’s voice was warm, light, carrying the easy affection that she only ever showed in private.

She had spent the morning in the main palace, dealing with the endless demands of the court, and she had been looking forward to this moment all day. The basket in her hands was filled with fruit from the royal orchards—ripe peaches, sweet plums, and a small bunch of grapes that she had picked herself, remembering how much Eiravelle had enjoyed them the week before.

She had imagined this moment a hundred times during her meetings, had pictured the way Eiravelle’s face would light up when she saw her, had anticipated the soft smile and the gentle laugh that had become the brightest part of her days.

”Good morning.” Eiravelle said, her voice was set down to a low murmur that Qazaethel barely heard. The words were flat, devoid of the warmth they usually carried, and they landed in the space between them like stones dropped into still water.

But she still entered and give the basket of fruit to Saye. The servant took it with a quiet bow, her eyes were flickering between the sovereign and her lady with barely concealed concern. She had noticed the change in Eiravelle over the past few days, had watched her lady grow quieter and more withdrawn, had seen the way she stared out windows with an expression that spoke of deep, tangled thoughts.

”Are you okay?” Qazaethel asked, she keep her face calm. The question was simple, but it carried a weight of genuine worry. She had sensed something was wrong the moment she entered the room, had felt the shift in the air, the subtle tension that had replaced the easy warmth that usually existed between them. She searched Eiravelle’s face for answers, for some sign of what had changed, but the omega would not meet her eyes.

Eiravelle shook her head and close the book she’s reading, then look away. ”Your majesty, can you please visit next time?” Eiravelle asked, and Qazaethel’s breath hitch. The title hit her like a physical blow, stopping her heart for a moment before it resumed beating at a faster, more frantic pace.

Eiravelle had not called her ’your majesty’ in private for a long time now. She had been using her name, had been calling her Qazaethel with a softness that made the sovereign feel human. The return of the formal title was a wall, a barrier, a deliberate distance that Eiravelle was putting between them.

”Uhm... Why? Did I say something?” Qazaethel asked, and Eiravelle shook her head. The sovereign’s voice was smaller than it had been, stripped of its usual authority, and there was a note of uncertainty in it that would have shocked anyone who knew her.

She was not used to being uncertain. She was not used to being refused. But with Eiravelle, everything was different. With Eiravelle, she was not the dragon sovereign. She was just a woman, terrified of losing the one person who had ever made her feel whole.

The use of the title immediately struck Qazaethel because Eiravelle didn’t use her name. ”No, I just... I just want you to go.” Eiravelle said, and Qazaethel frown. The words were simple, but they cut deep, and Qazaethel felt something cold settle in her chest.

She had come here with fruit and a smile, had come here with hope, and now she was being pushed away. She did not understand. She had done everything Eiravelle had asked—had shown mercy to the concubines, had promised to love their child no matter what, had tried to be the partner that Eiravelle deserved. What had she done wrong?

”I... I should stay outside?” Qazaethel asked, her voice was tentative and uncertain. She was grasping for something, anything, that would make sense of what was happening. If Eiravelle needed space, she would give her space. She would wait outside, would stand in the corridor for as long as it took, would do whatever was necessary to fix whatever had broken between them.

”No... Go back in the main palace.” Eiravelle answered. The words were final, absolute, and they left no room for negotiation. Eiravelle was not asking her to wait outside. She was not asking for space. She was sending her away. She was sending her back to the main palace, back to the throne and the court and the endless demands of ruling, and she was doing it without explanation, without reason, without any sign of the warmth that had been there just days before.

”But... I don’t... Want to––” Qazaethel began, her voice was cracking slightly. She did not want to go. She did not want to leave Eiravelle alone, did not want to walk away from the person she loved without understanding why. She wanted to stay. She wanted to hold Eiravelle, to comfort her, to fix whatever was wrong. But she did not get the chance to finish her sentence.

Eiravelle stood up and didn’t let Qazaethel finish and walk away, she had Saye assist her to walk and go upstairs. The omega moved slowly, her pregnant belly making every step a labor, but she did not pause, did not look back. She simply walked away, her hand resting on Saye’s arm, her eyes fixed on the stairs ahead.

And it actually breaks Qazaethel’s heart that Eiravelle have to push her away like this. The sovereign watched her go, frozen in place, her hand still extended as though she had been about to reach for the omega. She could not move. She could not speak. She could only stand there, her heart shattering in her chest, as the person she loved more than anything in the world walked away from her.

Qazaethel stood up and quietly walk away. Her footsteps were slow, heavy, each one carrying the weight of her confusion and her pain. She did not understand what had happened. She did not understand why Eiravelle had pushed her away.

She replayed every conversation, every moment, every word she had spoken, searching for something she had done wrong. But she could find nothing. She had been patient. She had been kind. She had tried to be the person Eiravelle needed her to be. And yet, it had not been enough.

The corridors of the Eastern wing palace were quiet as she walked, the only sound the soft rustle of her robes against the marble floor. Servants bowed as she passed, their eyes wide with surprise at seeing the sovereign wandering the halls alone, but she did not acknowledge them. She could not.

Her mind was consumed by Eiravelle, by the look in her eyes, by the coldness in her voice. She had never seen the omega like that. She had seen her afraid, had seen her uncertain, had seen her exhausted and overwhelmed. But she had never seen her shut down. She had never seen her withdraw so completely, had never felt her put up walls that Qazaethel could not climb.

When she reached the end of the corridor, she paused, her hand was resting on the doorframe. She looked back, her eyes tracing the path she had just walked, the path that led back to the room where Eiravelle was now alone. She wanted to go back.

She wanted to march up those stairs, to demand answers, to refuse to leave until Eiravelle told her what was wrong. But she could not. She had seen the look in Eiravelle’s eyes, had heard the finality in her voice. She had been dismissed. And even a sovereign could not force someone to love her.

She stepped outside the palace, the sun was warm on her face, and she began the long walk back to the main palace. The path was familiar, lined with flowers and hedges that she had passed a thousand times before, but today it felt different. The colors seemed duller, the air cooler, the world less vibrant.

She felt hollow, as though something essential had been carved out of her chest. She had known loss before—had lost soldiers, advisors, even family—but this was different. This was not the loss of someone who had died. It was the loss of someone who had chosen to leave.

She did not understand. She could not understand. And as she walked, the weight of her confusion pressed down on her, heavier with each step. She had been so sure. So sure that they were building something together, that they were moving toward a future where they could be happy.

She had seen it in Eiravelle’s smile, had felt it in her touch, had heard it in the way she said Qazaethel’s name. But now, all of that was gone. The smile, the touch, the warmth—it had all been replaced by a coldness that Qazaethel did not know how to fix.

She reached the main palace and climbed the steps to her chambers, her movements were mechanical, automatic. The guards bowed as she passed, and she nodded in acknowledgment without truly seeing them. She entered her chambers and closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment with her eyes closed. The silence of the room was deafening. She had never felt so alone.

She thought about going back. She thought about calling for a horse, flying back to the Eastern wing, demanding to see Eiravelle. She thought about falling to her knees, begging for an explanation, for a chance to make things right.

But she knew that it would not help. Whatever was wrong, Eiravelle had decided to push her away. And Qazaethel could not force her to open up. She could only wait. She could only hope. And she could only try to understand.

She walked to her desk and sat down, her eyes falling on a small portrait that she kept there—an artist’s rendering of Eiravelle that she had commissioned weeks ago. The omega was smiling in the portrait, her hand resting on her belly, her eyes bright with joy. Qazaethel had looked at it a hundred times, had drawn strength from it during long meetings and difficult decisions. But now, looking at it, she felt only pain.

”What happened?” She whispered to the empty room. ”What did I do wrong?”

The room offered no answers. The portrait offered no answers. And Eiravelle, miles away in the Eastern palace, offered no answers. Qazaethel was left alone with her questions, her pain, and the cold, creeping fear that she might have lost the only person who had ever truly mattered to her.