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

By a carriage, Eiravelle arrived with Saye and Jily. The ride had been short but tense, the silence broken only by the clatter of hooves against cobblestone and the distant sound of Jily’s anxious breathing. Eiravelle had sat with her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the window, her mind racing with thoughts she could not quiet.

She had never done anything like this before. She had never challenged a noble, had never demanded something that was not freely given, had never used her position to force someone to bend to her will.

But she had also never seen a servant beaten for taking a piece of bread, had never heard the sound of a cane against flesh, had never felt so helpless and so angry all at once. She did not know what she was going to say when she arrived.

She did not know what she was going to do. But she knew she could not stay silent. She could not turn a blind eye. Not anymore.

When they got there, lady Herra was sitting on her chair, the guards are caning the servant even though it was already bleeding heavily. The scene was worse than Eiravelle had imagined. The servant was a young woman, barely more than a girl, her face streaked with tears and blood, her hands are bound behind her back.

She was lying on the ground, her body was curled in on itself, and the guards—two large alphas with cold, expressionless faces—were taking turns striking her with long wooden canes. Each blow landed with a sickening thud, and each thud was followed by a whimper that made Eiravelle’s stomach turn.

The other maids just watched and serve Herra, clearly not caring if the servant was in pain. They moved around the room with practiced efficiency, pouring tea and arranging cushions and pretending that nothing was happening. Their faces were blank, their eyes averted, and Eiravelle realized with a sickening lurch that this was normal to them. This was just another day in the palace.

The usher announced, ”lady Herra, Lady Eiravelle is here.” The words cut through the air like a blade, and everything stopped. The canes froze mid-swing. The maids turned to look. And Herra’s face lit up in excitement.

It was a sickening expression, a smile that did not reach her eyes, and a warmth that was entirely false. She rose from her chair, her robes rustling around her, and she approached Eiravelle with her hands outstretched as though she was greeting an old friend.

”Oh! Lady Eiravelle! It’s an honor to have you here. May I know why you’re here?” She asked politely. It’s been month since Eiravelle last saw Herra after Qazaethel punished them into solitary.

Herra looked different now—thinner, perhaps, and there were shadows under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and bitter thoughts. But her smile was as wide as ever, and her voice was as sweet as honey.

”Lady Herra, what is this?” Eiravelle asked, and Herra just casually smile wider and wave a hand, clearly dismissing it. The gesture was careless, almost contemptuous, as though the bleeding servant on the floor was nothing more than an inconvenience.

”Nothing much, my lady. I am simply just teaching my servant some discipline.” She said, and Eiravelle shook her head. The words were so casual, so matter-of-fact, that they made Eiravelle’s blood run cold. Discipline. That was what Herra called it. That was what she called the beating of a starving girl for taking a piece of bread.

”I came here because I heard you are disciplining her... Herra, aren’t you showing any guilt for hurting her? Is this how you really discipline servants?” Eiravelle asked, and her voice was strained with impending fury that she was trying to suppress. She could feel the anger building in her chest, hot and tight, and she had to force herself to breathe, to keep her voice steady, to not let the rage consume her.

”M-My lady... This is normal. This has been the norm of the palace, what do you mean?” She was confused why Eiravelle is acting like this. The omega’s brow furrowed, her head was tilting to the side, and there was genuine bewilderment in her eyes.

She did not understand. She could not understand. To her, this was simply the way things were. Servants were beaten. Servants were disposable. Servants were nothing.

”Did you came here to personally educate me on how I should discipline my servants? Hah! What a meddler! Do you think that holding the highest ranking position as the favorite of the sovereign will protect you forever? No! And certainly, it does not give you power to meddle with my business!” Herra was clearly not pleased with how Eiravelle is acting.

Her voice had risen, her face had flushed, and her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. She was angry now, genuinely angry, and the maids around her had stopped their work to watch the confrontation with wide, frightened eyes.

Eiravelle stand her ground, showing that she is not gonna back down. She did not flinch at Herra’s words. She did not look away. She simply stood there, her hand resting on the curve of her belly, her gaze steady and unyielding.

”Release her.” She said, and it was no longer a request or a plea, but a command that comes to her authority as the Sovereign’s favorite concubine. With that title, they are referred to as the most highest ranking concubine in the harem. The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning, and the servants in the room seemed to hold their breath.

”What will you do if I don’t?” Herra was clearly challenging her, and Eiravelle is no longer the same weak and meek girl everyone knew. The old Eiravelle would have backed down.

The old Eiravelle would have apologized and left and cried herself to sleep. But that Eiravelle was gone. That Eiravelle had been replaced by someone who had seen too much, who had suffered too much, who had learned that sometimes the only way to protect the powerless was to stand up to the powerful.

”Then I am willing to fight for her.” Eiravelle said, and her voice did not waver. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a vow. She was not going to back down. She was not going to leave.

She was going to fight for this servant, for this girl who had been beaten for taking a piece of bread, for every servant in the palace who had been told that their suffering did not matter.

”Hah!” Herra scoffed loudly, the servants just listened and Saye was ready to protect Eiravelle at all cost as she stood rigidly beside her. The servant’s hand was on Eiravelle’s arm, her grip tight, her body positioned slightly in front of the omega as though she was ready to shield her from a blow.

Saye did not trust Herra. She did not trust the guards or the maids or anyone in this room. She had seen what the nobles were capable of, had seen the cruelty that lurked beneath their polished smiles, and she was not going to let anything happen to her lady.

”And what makes you think you have the rights? What makes you want to save this servant, she is a low life preyborn, she doesn’t deserve you, my lady. I do not want this to become the reason why we’re gonna fight.” Herra’s voice was dripping with contempt, and the words she spoke were a window into her soul.

Preyborn. It was a slur, a word used to describe servants and commoners, the people who were considered less than nothing by the nobility. It was a word that Eiravelle had heard a thousand times, had been called herself on occasion, and it made her sick to hear it spoken so casually.

”Just give the servant to me... Or you want the sovereign to be involved again.” Eiravelle said, and some servants gasp. The mention of the sovereign was a weapon, a reminder of what had happened the last time Herra had crossed Qazaethel. The memory of the Southerneast palace, of the cold and the darkness and the fear, was still fresh in Herra’s mind.

She had spent weeks in that frozen prison, had heard the screams of the other concubines, had felt the weight of the sovereign’s wrath pressing down on her. She had been released only because Eiravelle had pleaded for mercy. And now, the omega was standing before her, reminding her of that debt.

Herra had her hands clenched into a tight fist as she held back the urge to burst out. The alpha’s face was pale, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and there was a war playing out behind her eyes. She wanted to refuse.

She wanted to tell Eiravelle to leave, to take her bleeding servant and get out of her palace. But she could not. The fear of the sovereign was too strong. The memory of that cold, dark palace was too fresh. And so, in the end, she just give in.

”Let the servant go. And give her to lady Eiravelle.” She commanded, and the guards immediately obey. Their canes clattered to the floor, and they stepped back, their faces were still blank, their eyes still cold. The servant on the floor did not move. She was too weak, too battered, to do anything but lie there and tremble.

They took the servants and left her on Eiravelle’s feet. The girl was a mess—her back was covered in welts and blood, her clothes torn, her face streaked with tears and dirt. She was shaking, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, and she did not seem to know where she was or what was happening.

”She is yours, and don’t bother giving back that trash.” Herra said such cruel words and turn around in a fit of rage, going back inside her palace with her maids. The door slammed behind her, the sound echoing through the courtyard, and Eiravelle was left standing there, her heart pounding, her hands trembling. She had done it. She had actually done it. She had faced down a noble and won.

Eiravelle then kneel in front of the servant and cup her face. The girl’s skin was cold, her cheeks damp with tears, and she flinched at the touch as though she expected to be hit again.

”My dear, open your eyes and look at me.” Eiravelle pleaded, but the maid was too weak to even respond. Her eyelids fluttered, but they did not open, and her breath was shallow and uneven.

”Call the coachman, tell him to carry her.” She commanded, and Jily immediately went back to their carriage to fetch the coachman, while Eiravelle held the injured maid’s hand with worry.

The girl’s hand was small and cold, her fingers are calloused from years of hard work, and Eiravelle held it gently, as though she was holding something precious. She could feel the girl’s pulse, weak but steady, and she prayed to whatever gods might be listening that it would be enough.

The coachman arrived, a large beta with kind eyes and strong arms, and he lifted the girl as though she weighed nothing. Eiravelle followed him back to the carriage, her hand still resting on her belly, her mind racing with thoughts of what she would do next. She would take the girl back to the Eastern palace.

She would have the physician tend to her wounds. She would give her food and rest and time to heal.

Saye walked beside her, her expression was still grim, her hand still resting on the hilt of a small knife she kept hidden in her sleeve. ”My lady, that was dangerous.” She said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. ”Lady Herra will not forget this. She will try to retaliate.”

Eiravelle nodded, her gaze still fixed on the injured servant in the coachman’s arms. ”I know.” She said, and her voice was calm despite the storm of emotions raging inside her. ”But I could not stand by and do nothing. I could not let her die.”

Saye was silent for a moment, then she sighed. ”You are too kind, my lady. Too kind for this palace.”

Eiravelle looked at her, and there was something in her eyes that had not been there before. Something hard. Something determined. ”Maybe.” She said. ”But maybe that is exactly what this palace needs.”