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

Eiravelle took the carriage to get to the main palace. The ride had been a blur, the passing scenery nothing more than streaks of color and shadow, the rhythmic clatter of hooves against stone a distant sound that she could barely register.

She had not slept properly in days, had not eaten more than a few bites at each meal, and the strain of the nightmare—of Ragnar’s words, of the dark clouds and the withered trees—had left her feeling hollowed out and raw.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the two sides of the world again: the light and the dark, the healthy and the dying. She saw the black clouds advancing, slow and relentless, and she heard his voice echoing in her skull: You are the prophecy. The words had burrowed into her like a splinter, festering and aching, and no amount of waking could shake them loose.

Her body was trembling, her skin was slick with sweat, and her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. She was heaving and gasping for air as she walked to get to the door, her hand pressed against her belly, her legs threatening to give out with every step.

The palace loomed before her, vast and imposing, its towers reaching toward the sky like grasping fingers, and she had never been so grateful to see it—and so terrified. She had to find Qazaethel. She had to hear her voice, feel her touch, breathe in her scent. It was the only thing that could quiet the storm inside her, the only thing that could make the world feel steady again.

Saye personally helped her, one arm was wrapped around Eiravelle’s waist, the other was holding her hand. The servant’s face was pale with worry, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line. She had never seen her lady like this—not even during the worst days of her paranoia, not even when the concubines had whispered their poison into her ear.

This was different. This was something primal, something instinctive, something that went deeper than fear. It was as if Eiravelle’s very soul was crying out for something—someone—and Saye could do nothing but watch.

She wanted to scream, wanted to shake her lady and demand that she sit down, that she rest, that she think of the child she carried. But she knew it would do no good. The omega was beyond reason now.

”My lady, please calm down. You need to rest,” Saye said, and she was clearly worried that her voice was quivering as she tried to make Eiravelle take a rest. She could feel the omega’s body shaking against hers, could feel the heat radiating from her skin, could hear the desperate, hitching breaths that seemed to catch in her throat.

Every step Eiravelle took seemed to cost her an enormous amount of effort, and Saye found herself silently begging the gods to give her lady strength.

”No, I need to see Qazaethel,” Eiravelle said, even though she was tired. Her voice was weak but determined, the voice of a woman who had pushed past exhaustion, past fear, past everything that had ever held her back.

She was trying to find Qazaethel’s scent, the only scent that made her distress omega biology calm down. It was an instinct she could not explain, a need that went beyond reason, beyond logic, beyond anything she had ever known before. Her body was crying out for her alpha, and she could not ignore it.

”I... I need... My Alpha~” she said. The word slipped out before she could stop it, a raw, desperate admission that she had never spoken aloud before.

Saye gasped when she heard Eiravelle’s admission. The words hung in the air between them, dangerous and intimate, and Saye felt her heart clench with fear. ”My lady, you cannot just call Her Majesty your alpha, it’s not accepted. She is the sovereign, please~ Someone might hear us.” Saye was clearly worried, her voice was dropping to a frantic whisper.

She glanced around the corridor, her eyes are darting from shadow to shadow, as if expecting someone to leap out at any moment. The palace walls had ears, and the wrong word in the wrong place could mean disaster. She thought of the concubines, of the rumors they spread, of the way they twisted every word and gesture into a weapon. If they heard Eiravelle calling the sovereign her alpha, they would use it. They would destroy her.

But Eiravelle was not listening. She was barely aware of Saye’s words, barely aware of anything except the desperate, clawing need that was consuming her from the inside out.

She almost stumbled in front of the door as she reached it, her hand catching herself on the frame, and she did not stop. She could not stop. She had to see Qazaethel. She had to find her alpha. The thought repeated in her mind like a mantra, drowning out everything else.

”Please open the door! Your Majesty?” She called out, her voice was cracking on the last word. At first no one opened it. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, and Eiravelle felt her panic rising with every passing second. She was about to knock again when the door swung open. It was Arielle.

Eiravelle collapsed at her sister’s arms, her body finally giving out, her legs folding beneath her. Arielle caught her, her arms wrapping around Eiravelle’s trembling form, and for a moment, Eiravelle allowed herself to believe that it was Qazaethel holding her.

But when she looked up and realized she was not Qazaethel, she immediately looked at the four corners of the throne room, trying to catch a glimpse of Qazaethel’s figure, but there was simply none. The throne was empty, the dais was cold, and the only people present were Arielle, Dawn, Xelvyn, Yvaine, and a handful of guards who stood at attention near the walls.

”W-Where is she? Where is the sovereign?” Eiravelle asked, and she was sweating a lot. The sweat was cold on her skin, clammy and uncomfortable, and it matted her hair to her forehead and soaked through her dress. She felt as if she had run for miles, as if she had been running her whole life, and she had no strength left to run anymore.

”Eivy, what’s wrong? What’s happening to you?” Arielle asked, and she immediately got worried as she held Eiravelle’s trembling form in her arms. She glanced at Saye, her eyes sharp with fear and confusion.

”What is going on?!” Arielle asked, her voice quivering as she tried to find out the cause of her little sister’s distress. She had seen Eiravelle afraid before, had seen her anxious and worried, but she had never seen her like this—so desperate, so broken, so utterly consumed by something Arielle could not see.

”Lordess, my lady has been like this the moment she woke up from a nightmare,” Saye explained. Her voice was shaking, and she was wringing her hands together in front of her, a nervous habit that she had never been able to break.

She wanted to help, wanted to do something, but she felt utterly powerless. She was just a servant. What could she do against the terror that had taken hold of her lady?

”A nightmare?” Arielle repeated, her brow was furrowing. She looked down at Eiravelle, at her sister’s pale face and tear-streaked cheeks, and felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. She had seen Eiravelle afraid before, had seen her anxious and worried, but she had never seen her like this—so desperate, so broken, so utterly consumed by something Arielle could not see.

She thought of Ragnar’s prophecy, of the visions he had spoken of, and she wondered if the nightmare had been more than just a dream. She wondered if it had been a warning.

”I need Qazaethel. Please take me to her,” Eiravelle whimpered, and now Dawn and the others got concerned. Dawn had been sitting in a chair near the throne, a book open in her lap, and she set it aside as she rose to her feet.

Xelvyn and Yvaine were nearby, their expressions shifting from curiosity to alarm. They had been discussing the new law, the recent unrest among the concubines, and the endless demands of ruling, but all of that faded away at the sight of Eiravelle’s distress.

Ruthina, who happened to be passing by, saw the scene. She came from the church and just returned, and the first thing she saw was Eiravelle’s distress. So she rushed to Eiravelle and tried calming her.

The golden rabbit had been spending more and more time at the church, praying and meditating and trying to understand the strange connection she felt to the omega who did not believe she was a saint.

She had been struggling with her own feelings, with the weight of her responsibility, but all of that vanished when she saw Eiravelle’s face. She had never seen her saintess look so lost.

”Sister Eivy, what’s going on?” Ruthina asked, her small hands reaching out to gently touch Eiravelle’s arm, and Eiravelle started crying.

”Please take me to Qazaethel, I need her,” Eiravelle said, and they could hear how much she was in distress. The words were not a request. They were a plea, a desperate, clawing plea from an omega who was running out of time. The tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and relentless, and she did not bother to wipe them away.

Dawn couldn’t even say where Qazaethel was, afraid that it would add to Eiravelle’s distress. She exchanged a glance with Arielle, then with Liv, her expression a mask of barely controlled panic.

She had known this moment might come, had known that Eiravelle would eventually learn the truth, but she had hoped it would be later—when Qazaethel was better, when the danger had passed. ”Please... Please, where is she? I... I need to see her,” Eiravelle begged, her voice shaking along with her body.

”Lady Eiravelle. Please rest,” Xelvyn said, stepping forward with her hands raised in a placating gesture. She was trying to be calm, trying to be reasonable, but her voice was strained.

She had always been the practical one, the one who tried to solve problems with logic and patience, but there was no logic in this room, no patience that could ease Eiravelle’s pain.

But Eiravelle shook her head and continued to cry. ”Please! Please! Can’t you see that I needed her!” She yelled at them, and there was a moment of silence. The words echoed in the throne room, bouncing off the walls, and everyone froze.

They had never seen Eiravelle like this—never seen her so desperate, so raw, and so utterly consumed by need. The omega who had been so quiet, so compliant, so willing to accept whatever scraps of kindness were thrown her way was gone. In her place was a woman who was fighting for something she could not live without.

Before Liv sighed. ”She’s in the iron chamber,” she said, and everyone’s gaze snapped at her. The general’s voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a confession.

”Liv!” Dawn, Arielle, and Xelvyn said in unison. Their voices were sharp with alarm, and Dawn took a step forward as if she could physically stop the words from leaving Liv’s mouth. They had all agreed to keep Qazaethel’s illness a secret, to protect Eiravelle from the worry, but Liv had broken that silence.

”She was having a fever. She’s sick,” Liv continued, and they knew there was no stopping her now that she had revealed the truth to Eiravelle. The general’s face was grim, her jaw set, and there was something in her eyes—something that looked almost like resignation. She had made her choice, and she would stand by it.

”She’s sick? W-Why is she hiding if she’s sick?” Eiravelle asked, her tears were continuing to stream down from her eyes. Her voice was small and broken, the voice of a child who had just been told that the person she loved was hurting.

”Because when a dragon is having a fever, they cannot stay here. They burn everything around them or fry them,” Liv explained. Her words were blunt, but there was no cruelty in them—only the stark truth.

Dawn sighed. ”Eivy, all we can do is wait and pray she gets out there,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. She wanted to believe her own words, wanted to believe that waiting and praying would be enough, but even as she spoke, she knew it was not.

But Eiravelle simply shook her head. Her earlier distress was forgotten when she realized that Qazaethel needed help more than she did. The fear that had been consuming her, the panic that had driven her from her bed and across the palace, was replaced by something else—something colder and harder and more determined.

”I’m going to her!” Eiravelle said, and Arielle immediately shook her head and stopped her.

”Eiravelle, no!” Arielle said, her hand was closing around Eiravelle’s wrist, her grip was firm and unyielding. She looked at her sister with wide, desperate eyes, her heart breaking at the thought of Eiravelle walking into a situation that could very well kill her.

But Eiravelle immediately withdrew away from Arielle. ”No one is going to stop me!” she said, and immediately left with Saye. The door slammed shut behind her, the sound echoed through the throne room, and Arielle stood frozen, her hand was still outstretched where her sister was already gone.