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

Eiravelle went to Qazaethel’s study room. The corridor leading to the sovereign’s private study was quiet, the thick carpets muffling her footsteps, and the torches on the walls cast a warm, golden glow over the dark stone.

She had walked this path many times in the weeks since she had come to the palace, but never with such purpose, never with such a clear sense of what she needed to do.

The study room was at the end of the corridor, its heavy oak doors slightly ajar, and she could hear voices from within—Dawn’s, high and exasperated, and Qazaethel’s, low and measured.

She paused for a moment, her hand resting on the door, and took a breath. Then she pushed it open and stepped inside.

Dawn and her was buried in thousands of scrolls and Dawn was already bored.

The study was a large, circular room lined with bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, their shelves crammed with leather-bound volumes and rolled parchments.

A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered in maps and documents and half-empty cups of tea that had long since gone cold.

Dawn was slumped in a chair near the window, a scroll was dangling limply from her hand, her expression one of profound suffering. Qazaethel sat at the desk, her posture perfect, her brow furrowed in concentration as she read through a stack of documents, her quill was moving across a piece of parchment in quick, precise strokes.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, filling the room with warmth and the faint scent of cedar, and the windows looked out over the palace gardens, where the last of the autumn leaves were falling from the trees.

But when Eiravelle entered, her face lit up and immediately rush to Eiravelle. Dawn’s transformation was instantaneous—from bored and miserable to radiant and relieved—and she crossed the room in a few quick strides, her arms already open for a hug.

”Eivy! You’re here! Good heavens!” She immediately hug Eiravelle, her arms were wrapping around the omega with a force that made Eiravelle laugh despite herself. The Phoenix Empress buried her face in Eiravelle’s shoulder, and her entire was body sagging with relief.

”Help me! Qazaethel is making me read all these things!” She whine like a child and Eiravelle held herself back from laughing. The contrast between the powerful Phoenix Empress and the petulant omega clinging to her was almost too much to bear, and Eiravelle had to bite her lip to keep from giggling.

”Just let me go already! I wanna see Liv!” She added and Eiravelle pat the empress’ head. The gesture was gentle, soothing, the way one might comfort a fussy child, and Dawn leaned into the touch with a contented sigh.

”Don’t listen to her, this is our job.” Qazaethel coldly said as she read the scrolls and recorded some of its contents. The sovereign did not look up from her work, her quill never pausing, her voice flat and dismissive. But there was a warmth in her eyes that betrayed her, a softness that only appeared when Eiravelle was in the room.

Dawn could only pout at Eiravelle, her lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated expression of misery.

”We need to talk.” Eiravelle declared, and Dawn suddenly stand up straight when she heard the seriousness in Eiravelle’s voice. The change in the room was immediate, the playful atmosphere evaporating like mist in the morning sun. Dawn’s pout faded, replaced by a look of concern, and she released Eiravelle from the hug, stepping back to give her space.

”What’s wrong, Eiravelle?” Dawn asked, her voice was gentle but serious. She had learned to read the omega’s moods, had learned to recognize the quiet determination that preceded her more difficult requests. This was not the Eiravelle who laughed and teased and made light of things.

This was the Eiravelle who had stood up to Lady Herra, who had demanded the release of a servant, who had refused to back down in the face of cruelty. This was the Eiravelle who had come to change things.

Qazaethel glance back, sensing something was important to be discussed. She set her quill down carefully, her full attention now on Eiravelle, and she rose from her chair. The sovereign’s expression was unreadable, but there was a tension in her shoulders that had not been there before.

She had learned, over the months, to trust Eiravelle’s judgment, to listen when the omega spoke with that quiet, steady voice. And she knew, from the look on Eiravelle’s face, that this was not a trivial matter.

Qazaethel put her scroll down and stood up to approach Eiravelle. ”What is it, my dear?” She asked softly, and Eiravelle looked at her with a smile. The smile was small, a little nervous, but it was genuine, and it made Qazaethel’s heart ache with love. She reached out and took Eiravelle’s hand, her thumb tracing gentle circles on the omega’s palm.

”I... I am here to discuss the rights for servants here in the palace.” Eiravelle said, and Qazaethel nodded and sigh. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of everything that had happened—the beating, the rescue, the long night spent by the maid’s bedside.

Qazaethel had known this was coming. She had seen the fire in Eiravelle’s eyes, had heard the determination in her voice, and she had known that the omega would not rest until something was done.

”Of course, let’s get you seated first.” She said, and Eiravelle agreed with a smile. The sovereign led her to a comfortable chair near the fire, her hand still holding Eiravelle’s, her movements careful and attentive.

She helped Eiravelle settle into the chair, arranging a cushion behind her back and ensuring that her pregnant belly was properly supported. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes—the sovereign of Solkanaia, the dragon empress, the most powerful being in the realm, was fussing over a chair for an omega. It was almost absurd. It was almost beautiful.

”Even in times like this, you will always think about whether I’m sitting or not.” Eiravelle tried to make it light and teasing, and Qazaethel gently chuckled at her admission. The sound was low and warm, a rare glimpse of the woman beneath the crown, and it made Eiravelle’s heart flutter despite the seriousness of the conversation.

”I will always think about you,” Qazaethel said simply. ”Whether you are sitting, standing, eating, sleeping—you are always on my mind.” The words were spoken without hesitation, without embarrassment, and they made Eiravelle’s cheeks flush pink.

As for Dawn, she became the third wheel. The Phoenix Empress stood near the window, her arms were crossed over her chest, her expression a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

She had seen this scene play out a hundred times—Qazaethel and Eiravelle, lost in their own little world, forgetting that anyone else existed. It was sweet, in its way. It was also deeply annoying.

”I need Liv.” Her face became deadpan just by looking at the two of them being lovey-dovey while her being left out. The words were spoken with the weariness of someone who had been subjected to far too much romance for one lifetime, and she turned away, her gaze fixed on the window, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

***

Liv was called in, and all she did was sit next to Dawn while the three of them discuss this planned law for the servants. The general arrived with her usual quiet efficiency, her sword at her hip, her expression sharp and attentive.

She took one look at the scene—Dawn sulking by the window, Qazaethel and Eiravelle sitting close together, the air was thick with unspoken tension—and she immediately understood that something important was happening. She sat down next to Dawn, her shoulder brushing against the empress’s, and she waited.

”The problem is that servants are working everyday yet they’re eating little everyday, and I heard that sometimes they don’t totally eat.” Eiravelle explained. Dawn, Qazaethel, and Liv just listened to her words without interruption. The room was silent, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the distant whisper of wind outside the windows.

”I got totally concerned when lady Herra started disciplining the poor servant just because she stole bread from her kitchen.” Eiravelle added. Her voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of emotion—anger, sorrow, determination—that made the others sit up straighter.

”I get what you wanted to say, Eivy. But Lady Herra just discipline the servant.” Qazaethel was trying to make it light, but Eiravelle shook her head and didn’t agree. The omega’s expression hardened, her eyes flashing with a fire that Qazaethel had seen only a few times before.

”Discipline? Qazaethel, what do you think of them? They’re serving the palace and they’re keeping everything in order while you and the nobles are taking care of the stability of this country.” Eiravelle retorted, and Qazaethel glance at Liv. The words were sharp, pointed, and they landed like arrows.

Eiravelle was not backing down. She was not going to let this be dismissed as a trivial matter. ”They work from dawn until dusk, they do the hardest labor, they sleep in cold rooms and eat scraps—and you call it discipline when they are beaten for trying to survive?” Eiravelle continued, her voice rising. ”What kind of palace is this? What kind of sovereign allows their own people to starve?”

”Qaz, I agree with Eiravelle. She had a point. Servants in the palace are often the ones who do the physical labor to keep everything running, even in winter seasons. Especially now, winter is coming, we also have to ensure their safety.” Dawn agreed to Eiravelle and made Qazaethel see the other side of the servants’ point of view. The Phoenix Empress had moved away from the window, her earlier boredom forgotten, her expression now serious and focused.

She had seen the same things Eiravelle had seen, had heard the same whispers, had felt the same unease. But she had never acted. She had never pushed. She had been too caught up in her own problems, in her own struggles. But Eiravelle was different. Eiravelle had seen the suffering and had decided to do something about it.

”If we allow them to get mistreated again and again, people in power will keep abusing them. Is this how you really want things to keep going, Qazaethel?” Eiravelle asked, and Qazaethel got quiet for a moment. The sovereign’s gaze dropped to the floor, her jaw tight, and she was weighing the possibilities along with Eiravelle’s words.

She thought about the palace, about the centuries of tradition, about the rules and laws that had been in place since before she was born. She thought about the servants, about the faceless masses who kept everything running, who cleaned and cooked and carried and served. She had never thought about them.

Not really. They had been part of the background, part of the machinery of the palace, and she had never considered their lives, their suffering, their hunger. And now, Eiravelle was forcing her to see.

After a moment of silence, she sigh and looked at Eiravelle with a smile. The smile was small, weary, but genuine, and it made Eiravelle’s heart flutter. ”I won’t let you stress over this... So I will have you write the law yourself. Then give it to me, so I can make it happen.” Qazaethel said, and Eiravelle’s face lit up with joy and excitement. The omega’s eyes widened, her lips parting in a smile that lit up her entire face, and she looked as though she might cry.

”Are you sure? You’re not trying to trick me?” Eiravelle said, she’s clearly just trying to make a teasing remark, but Qazaethel held her hand and gently shook her head. The sovereign’s expression was soft, tender, filled with a love that she had never expected to feel.

”Why would I trick you? You rarely ask me anything... And when you do, you make sure everyone is benefitting from it. This is the reason why I love you.” Qazaethel said, and once again, Liv and Dawn’s face became deadpan just by seeing how sweet they look. The words were spoken with such sincerity, such openness, that it was impossible not to believe them.

Qazaethel, the dragon empress, the sovereign who had ruled with an iron fist for centuries, was openly declaring her love for an omega in front of witnesses. It was unprecedented. It was scandalous. It was also incredibly sweet.

”I need a way out... I’m getting sick with all this sweetness.” Dawn said, her voice flat. The Phoenix Empress had reached her limit. She had been subjected to hours of scrolls and documents, had been forced to listen to Qazaethel and Eiravelle exchange loving words, and now she was being subjected to declarations of love. It was too much. It was far too much.

”Me too.” And Liv agreed. The general’s voice was equally flat, equally weary, and she rose from her chair, her hand on her sword. ”I think I need to check on the guards. Or the horses. Or anything that is not here.”

Eiravelle laughed, the sound bright and warm, and she looked at Qazaethel with eyes that were full of love. ”I’ll write the law,” she said. ”I’ll make it fair. I’ll make it just. And I’ll make sure that no servant is ever beaten for taking a piece of bread again.” The words were a promise, a vow, and Qazaethel believed her. She believed her with all her heart.

The three of them—Qazaethel, Dawn, and Liv—watched as Eiravelle rose from her chair and walked to the desk, her hand resting on her belly, her expression one of quiet determination. She picked up a quill and a fresh piece of parchment, and she sat down, her brow furrowed in concentration.

The sovereign, the empress, and the general exchanged glances, their expressions were a mixture of amusement and admiration. Eiravelle was going to change the world. And they were going to help her.