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

Night,

The healers are done healing and attending to the wounded maid. The room was quiet now, lit only by the soft glow of candles and the pale moonlight streaming through the window. The maid lay on the bed, her body wrapped in clean bandages, her breathing shallow but steady.

The welts on her back had been cleaned and treated, the blood was washed away, and the healer had assured Eiravelle that she would recover with rest and proper care. But the wounds went deeper than flesh.

The maid’s face was still pale, her eyes were still closed, and there was a fragility about her that made Eiravelle’s heart ache. Eiravelle stayed on the edge of the luxurious bed as she looked at the bruised maid.

She had not moved from this spot since they had brought the girl back to the Eastern palace, had not eaten, and had not slept. She simply sat there, holding the maid’s hand, watching the rise and fall of her chest, and praying that she would wake up.

The Omega healer was a young woman with kind eyes and steady hands, and she had worked quickly and efficiently, her movements practiced and precise. She had not asked questions, had not demanded explanations, had simply done her job with a quiet professionalism that Eiravelle had appreciated.

But now, as she gathered her supplies and prepared to leave, she paused, her gaze lingered on the injured maid. There was something in her expression—a flicker of hesitation, a moment of internal debate—and Eiravelle could tell that she was weighing whether or not to speak. The healer’s hands stilled on the clasp of her bag, and she took a breath before turning to face Eiravelle fully.

”Lady Eiravelle, she is an omega.” The Omega healer said, and Eiravelle just nodded. The words were simple, but they carried a weight of meaning that hung in the air between them. Omegas were not supposed to be servants. Omegas were not supposed to be beaten.

Omegas were precious, protected, cherished. And yet, this girl—this omega—had been treated worse than an animal, had been beaten for taking a piece of bread, had been left to bleed on the floor while her mistress watched.

The healer watched Eiravelle’s face carefully, waiting for the shock, the outrage, the inevitable demand for answers. But Eiravelle simply nodded, her expression unchanged, her hand still gently holding the maid’s.

”Okay...” She said, and the healer was also confused. The healer’s brow furrowed, her head tilted slightly to the side, and she looked at Eiravelle as though she was trying to solve a puzzle that did not quite make sense. She had expected a reaction. She had expected something. But Eiravelle’s calm acceptance was more unsettling than any outburst could have been.

”That’s it?” The healer asked, and there was genuine bewilderment in her voice. She had expected shock, expected outrage, expected the kind of reaction that would have sent ripples through the palace. She had expected Eiravelle to demand answers, to ask how this had happened, to insist that the matter be brought before the sovereign.

But Eiravelle had simply nodded, had simply accepted the truth without flinching. The healer’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying the omega before her. She had heard stories about Eiravelle—the omega who had captured the sovereign’s heart, the omega who had pleaded for mercy for the concubines who had tormented her, and the omega who had somehow survived a lifetime of cruelty and emerged with her kindness intact.

She had thought the stories were exaggerations. She had thought no one could be that good. But looking at Eiravelle now, at the gentle way she held the maid’s hand, at the quiet steadiness in her eyes, the healer began to wonder if perhaps the stories were true.

”Yeah... That’s it.” Eiravelle casually answered, so the young healer cleared her throat and straightened her posture. The omega’s lack of reaction seemed to unsettle her, and she felt the need to assert her authority, to remind Eiravelle of the rules that governed the palace.

She was not used to being questioned, not used to having her pronouncements met with such calm indifference. It made her uncomfortable, and when she was uncomfortable, she fell back on protocol.

”You know the rules, right?” She asked, and Eiravelle shook her head. She did not know the rules. She had never been told the rules. She had been kept in the dark about so much of how the palace worked, had been sheltered and isolated and left to navigate the treacherous waters of the harem on her own.

She had learned some things through observation, through quiet listening, through the whispered warnings of servants who had taken pity on her. But there was still so much she did not know, so much that had been kept from her, and she felt the familiar sting of ignorance.

Jily cover her mouth, hiding her laugh. The servant’s eyes were bright with amusement, and her shoulders were shaking with the effort of containing her mirth. She had been with Eiravelle long enough to know that her lady was not stupid, was not ignorant, was simply uninformed.

And there was something funny about the way the healer was trying to explain the rules to an omega who had just defied them so completely. Jily had seen the way Eiravelle had stood up to Lady Herra, had watched her command the release of the servant with a quiet authority that had made even the guards hesitate.

The idea that this same omega needed to be told the rules was absurd, and Jily could not help but find it amusing. Saye have to shot a glare at Jily. The glare was sharp, warning, and Jily immediately sobered, her laughter dying in her throat. Saye was not in the mood for jokes. She was not in the mood for anything except making sure her lady was safe.

The healer sigh and looked at Eiravelle, her expression a mixture of frustration and resignation. ”The sovereign forbid omegas from becoming palace maids. Only betas are allowed to serve the harem of the sovereign. While Alpha servants are the one serving the alpha sovereign.” She explained, and Eiravelle sigh and held the maid’s hand.

The rules were clear, the consequences of breaking them was severe. Omegas who disguised themselves as servants were subject to punishment, to imprisonment, to worse. They were seen as deceivers, as threats to the order of the palace, and they were dealt with accordingly.

The healer’s voice was matter-of-fact, as though she was reciting a lesson she had learned long ago, and there was no judgment in her tone—only a weary acceptance of the way things were. She had seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore. She had treated too many wounds, had witnessed too much cruelty, and she had learned to keep her distance, to protect herself.

”I don’t care about that... But since it is forbidden, I don’t want her to face more pain. So please hide her identity, there must be a reason why she did it. And that reason should not become the cost of her life.” Eiravelle said, and the healer softened and nodded.

The omega’s words were quiet but firm, and there was a compassion in them that made the healer’s heart ache. She had seen so much cruelty in this palace, had treated so many wounds inflicted by the powerful on the powerless, and she had learned to keep her distance, to protect herself.

But Eiravelle was different. Eiravelle cared. Eiravelle was willing to risk her own position, her own safety, to protect a servant she did not even know. The healer felt something shift in her chest, something she had not felt in a long time. Hope, perhaps. Or gratitude. Or simply the warm glow of witnessing something good in a place that had so little of it.

”Lady Eiravelle, you are the first omega concubine I have ever seen to care about them... And I totally admire you for that.” She said, then left some medicinal potions and left the room. The door closed behind her with a soft click, and Eiravelle was left alone with the maid, with Saye and Jily hovering nearby, and with the weight of what she had done settling onto her shoulders.

She did not feel like a hero. She did not feel brave or noble or admirable. She simply felt tired. She felt the exhaustion of the day pressing down on her, the weight of the confrontation with Herra, the fear of what might come next.

But she also felt something else—a quiet determination, a resolve that had been building inside her for months. She would not let this girl be hurt again. She would not let anyone be hurt again.

Eiravelle fixed the blanket and checked the maid’s forehead. The girl’s skin was cool now, the fever that had threatened to consume her finally broken, and she seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Eiravelle brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear, and she felt a surge of protectiveness that surprised her.

She did not know this girl. She did not know her name or her history or the reason she had disguised herself as a servant. But she knew that the girl had suffered. She knew that the girl had been hurt. And she knew that she could not let it happen again.

”Saye, prepare some porridge for her, please. And Jily... Get some water in a basin, and clean, small towels.” Eiravelle requested, her voice was returning to its usual softness as she asked them. The words were simple, ordinary, a request rather than a command, and it was this—this gentleness, this kindness—that set Eiravelle apart from the other nobles.

She did not demand. She did not threaten. She simply asked, and her servants obeyed not out of fear but out of love.

Saye and Jily immediately move to carry out her orders while Eiravelle stayed beside the servant. The two women exchanged a glance as they left the room, a silent communication that spoke of their shared concern and their shared admiration.

They had both seen Eiravelle change in the weeks since she had arrived at the palace. They had watched her grow from a frightened, fragile omega into someone who was strong, who was determined, who was willing to fight for what was right. And they were proud of her. They were proud to serve her.

The room was quiet now, the only sound the soft rhythm of the maid’s breathing. Eiravelle sat beside her, her hand still holding the girl’s, and she looked at the face of the omega who had been beaten for taking a piece of bread.

The girl was young, younger than Eiravelle, and there was a fragility about her that spoke of a life of hardship. Her cheeks were hollow, her skin was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and endless worry. She had been starving. She had been desperate. And she had been punished for it.

”You’re safe now.” She murmured and sigh. The words were soft, barely more than a whisper, and they were a promise. A vow. A declaration that Eiravelle would do whatever it took to protect this girl, to give her a life free from pain and fear and hunger.

She did not know how she would do it. She did not know what the future held. But she knew that she would try. She would try with everything she had.

The maid stirred slightly, a small moan escaping her lips, and Eiravelle leaned forward, her grip on the girl’s hand tightening. ”Shh,” she whispered. ”It’s okay. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you anymore.” The maid’s eyes fluttered, and for a moment, Eiravelle thought she might wake.

But then her breathing evened out again, and she slipped back into sleep. Eiravelle watched her for a long moment, her heart heavy with a mixture of sorrow and determination, and she made a silent promise to herself. She would not let this girl be forgotten. She would not let her be discarded. She would give her a chance. She would give her a home.

The door opened softly, and Saye returned with a bowl of porridge, the steam rising in gentle curls. She set it on the bedside table and looked at Eiravelle with concern. ”My lady, you should eat something too. You have not eaten since morning.”

Eiravelle shook her head. ”I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later.”

”My lady—”

”Saye, please. I’m not hungry.” Eiravelle’s voice was gentle but firm, and Saye knew better than to argue. She simply nodded and stepped back, her expression still worried.

Jily returned a moment later with a basin of water and a stack of clean towels, and she set them down quietly, her eyes flickering to the maid on the bed. ”Will she be alright, my lady?” She asked, her voice was barely above a whisper.

Eiravelle looked at the girl, at the gentle rise and fall of her chest, at the color slowly returning to her cheeks. ”She will be,” she said. ”She will be.” Eiravelle repeated, as if repeating it would make the battered servant okay.

The night stretched on, quiet and still, and Eiravelle remained by the maid’s side, her hand was never leaving the girl’s. She did not know what the morning would bring. She did not know what Herra would do, or what the other nobles would say, or what consequences she would face for her actions. But she knew that she had done the right thing.

She knew that she had saved a life. And that, for now, was enough.