Chapter 117: I Accept

By afternoon, Qazaethel left the eastern palace to attend an important meeting with Arielle. The sovereign had been reluctant to go, lingering in the doorway of Eiravelle’s sitting room with a frown etched between her brows, but Eiravelle had waved her off with a gentle smile and a promise to rest.

Qazaethel had kissed her forehead, told Saye to keep a close eye on her, and then finally allowed herself to be led away by her guards. The sound of the carriage wheels on the gravel path faded into the distance, and the eastern palace settled into a quiet that felt almost unnatural after the bustle of the morning.

Eiravelle was sitting on a bench in the garden, her hands were folded in her lap and her gaze was fixed on some distant point beyond the rose bushes. The afternoon sun was warm on her face, a gentle heat that should have been comforting, but she barely noticed it.

She was zoning out, clearly thinking something deep, her brow furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line. The baby was restless today, shifting and kicking with a persistence that made it hard to sit still, but Eiravelle did not move. She simply sat there, lost in her thoughts, while the shadows of the trees lengthened around her and the birds sang in the branches overhead.

A few more minutes passed, and Eiravelle let out a long, slow sigh. She placed her hands on the arms of the bench and pushed herself up, her movements careful and deliberate. The weight of her belly made everything more difficult now, and she had learned to take her time, to let her body adjust to each new position before moving on to the next.

Saye and the new servant, Gale, instinctively rushed to her side the moment she rose, their hands hovering near her elbows, ready to assist if she stumbled.

"My lady, do you want to take your afternoon nap?" Saye asked, her voice was gentle but attentive. She had been watching Eiravelle all morning, noting the distant look in her eyes and the way she had barely touched her breakfast, and she was worried. Eiravelle smiled and politely nodded, the expression on her face were soft and tired.

"Yes, please. I would love to rest in my chambers," she said, and Gale smiled, her young face was bright with eagerness to please.

"Then we’ll bring you there, my lady," Gale said, and she stepped forward to take Eiravelle’s arm while Saye took the other. Together, they guided her toward the palace, their pace slow and steady to match her shortened steps.

The garden path was dappled with sunlight and shadow, and the autumn leaves rustled softly in the breeze, but Eiravelle did not look at any of it. Her gaze was fixed ahead, her mind clearly elsewhere.

They assisted her to walk inside the palace, through the wide corridors with their polished floors and tall windows, and then assisted her to walk slowly upstairs until they reached her bedchamber. The stairs were the hardest part, each step was a small effort that left Eiravelle slightly breathless, but she did not complain.

She simply climbed, one hand on the railing and the other holding Saye’s arm, until they reached the landing and the familiar door of her chambers. Eiravelle stopped at the doorstep and turned around to look at Saye and Gale, her expression calm but firm.

"I’ll be okay here. You two are dismissed," she said, and her servants bowed and slowly walked away, their footsteps fading down the corridor. Saye hesitated for a moment, glancing back over her shoulder as if she wanted to say something, but she knew better than to argue.

She had learned, over the months, to trust her lady’s judgment, even when that judgment seemed strange. Gale followed her without question, and soon the corridor was empty and silent.

Eiravelle entered her bedchamber and sighed as she closed the door behind her. The room was quiet and still, the curtains were half-drawn to let in the soft afternoon light, and the bed was neatly made with fresh linens that smelled faintly of lavender. She slowly sat on the edge of the bed and looked outside the window, her gaze drifting over the garden below and the distant hills beyond.

The sun was bright and warm, casting a golden glow over everything it touched, and for a moment, Eiravelle simply watched it, letting the peace of the scene settle over her. But then the thinking rushed back into her mind, the same thinking that had been circling her thoughts all day, and she sighed again.

She closed her eyes, her hands was resting on her belly, and whispered into the quiet of the room. "Master... Hear me out." The words were soft, barely more than a breath, but they carried the weight of a decision she had been wrestling with for weeks. When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in her bedchamber.

She was back at Ragnar’s peach blossom garden, and the air was always clean, the scenery was always peaceful, and the wind was still howling softly through the branches. The petals drifted down around her like snow, pale pink against the green grass, and the scent of peaches hung sweet and heavy in the air.

This time, she saw Ragnar sitting alone beside a tree, a cup of wine in his hand and his gaze was fixed on the mountains in the distance. He looked the same as he always did—ageless, timeless, his dark hair loose around his shoulders and his robes simple and elegant. He did not turn when she approached, but she knew he was aware of her presence. He always was.

She slowly approached him, her footsteps quiet on the grass. "Master," she calmly called out to him, and Ragnar did not glance at her. He just smiled as he acknowledged her presence, a small, knowing smile that held more than a hint of amusement.

"Why did you suddenly decide to come in here? After making me wait for a month, I thought your answer was no," Ragnar said, and his voice was light, almost teasing, but there was something underneath it—a note of curiosity, perhaps, or hope. Eiravelle was silent for a moment, her hands clasped in front of her, her gaze fixed on the mountains he had been watching.

"About what you said... I accept," she suddenly said, and the smirk on Ragnar’s lips vanished. His head snapped toward her, his eyes widening, and he was clearly dumbfounded. The wine in his cup sloshed over the rim, staining his fingers red, but he did not seem to notice.

"What?" He asked, his voice sharp with disbelief. He wanted to hear it clearly, afraid he had misunderstood what she said. Eiravelle met his gaze steadily, her chin lifted, her expression calm but resolute.

"After I deliver the baby... I’m going back to the academy," she said, and Ragnar immediately rose to his feet, the cup falling from his fingers and landing on the grass with a soft thud. The wine seeped into the earth, forgotten.

"Are you really certain with your decision?" He asked again, his voice was urgent now, his eyes searching her face for any sign of doubt. Eiravelle nodded, slow and deliberate, her hands resting on her belly.

"As long as you tell me what this is all about. Telling me I’ll be light and darkness is just so vague. What am I then?" She asked, and her voice was steady, but there was a plea underneath it—a need for answers that had been denied to her for too long.

Ragnar bit his lower lip in devastation, his composure cracking for the first time since she had known him. He looked away, his jaw tight, and when he spoke, his voice was rough.

"I can’t..." He said, and Eiravelle frowned, confusion flickering across her features.

"What?" She asked, stepping closer. Ragnar shook his head, his hands are curling into fists at his sides.

"I can’t tell you," he answered, and his voice was barely above a whisper. Eiravelle’s frown deepened.

"And why is that?" she replied, and there was frustration in her tone now, a sharp edge that she could not quite hide. Ragnar turned back to face her, and his eyes were full of something that looked almost like pain.

"Because I cannot intervene with your fate. This time, I am forbidden to intervene because if I do, I am ruining the order and the divine prophecy," he explained, and his words fell into a heavy and long silence between them. The wind howled through the peach trees, scattering petals at their feet, and the mountains in the distance seemed to loom larger, their peaks hidden in mist.

Eiravelle sighed and looked at the mountains from afar, her expression was unreadable. The weight of his words settled over her like a cold blanket, but she did not flinch from it. She had expected something like this.

She had known, from the moment she had decided to accept his offer, that the answers she sought might not be hers to have. But she had to ask anyway. She had to try.

"Will I be given a chance to watch my child grow? Will I still be there for them?" Eiravelle asked, and her voice was quiet, but it carried the full weight of her fear. She had been trying not to think about it, trying to focus on the baby and the future and the hope that things would work out, but the question had been gnawing at her for weeks.

She needed to know. She needed to hear it from someone who might actually have an answer. Ragnar was silent for a long moment, and for the first time since she had known him, he had no answer for her question. He looked at her, and his eyes were full of something that might have been sorrow, or pity, or both.

"I do not know, Eiravelle. Your future on that part is uncertain," he said, and his voice was gentle, but the words hit her like a blow. She nodded slowly, her eyes stinging with tears she refused to shed.

She had expected this too. She had known, somewhere deep down, that there were no guarantees. But hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way that her own fears had not.

"I see... Thank you, Master Ragnar," she said, and her voice was steady, despite the ache in her chest. She turned away from him, her steps slow and heavy, and began to walk back the way she had come.

The peach blossoms swirled around her, and the wind tugged at her hair, but she did not look back. She walked with her head held high and her heart heavy, and when she reached the edge of the garden, she turned around one last time. But Ragnar was no longer there. Only the tree remained, and the mountains, and the wind.

And then she woke up, gasping for air, her hands flying to her belly as she sat bolt upright in bed. The room was quiet and still, the afternoon light slanting through the curtains, and for a moment, she was disoriented, unsure of where she was.

Then the familiar scent of lavender and the softness of the linens registered, and she remembered. She was in her bedchamber. She was safe. The dream was over. It turned out to be the same dream she had been having for months, but this time, it was no longer a nightmare. This time, it was acceptance.