Chapter 124: The Empress Dowager’s Invitation

The Empress invited Eiravelle to her palace to have some tea and finally had the courage to meet the empress dowager. The invitation had arrived on a silver tray, carried by a servant in the dowager’s colors, and Eiravelle had read it three times before setting it down on the table beside her bed.

The parchment was thick and expensive, the ink a deep, rich black, and the words were formal, almost cold, as though the sender were doing her a favor by acknowledging her existence at all. Eiravelle had known this moment would come eventually.

She had been dreading it, if she was honest with herself, but she had also been preparing for it. The empress dowager had never approved of her. She had made that clear from the very beginning, from the moment Qazaethel had first brought Eiravelle to the palace and presented her as her chosen mate.

The dowager had looked at her with cold, assessing eyes, and Eiravelle had felt the weight of that gaze like a physical thing pressing down on her shoulders. But she was not the same omega she had been then. She had grown. She had learned. And she would not be cowed.

Eiravelle, out of courtesy, accepted and attended the empress dowager’s invitation. She dressed carefully, choosing a gown of deep blue that brought out the color of her eyes, and she wore her hair in a simple style that was elegant without being ostentatious.

She did not wear the jewels Qazaethel had given her, the diamonds and sapphires that would have marked her as the sovereign’s favorite. She did not want to flaunt her position. She did not want to give the dowager any more reason to hate her than she already did.

She brought Saye and Jily with her, while Baley, Ana, and Gale stayed outside their carriage, waiting for Eiravelle. The three of them had argued about who would accompany her, each one insisting that she needed to be there, but Eiravelle had chosen Saye and Jily because they were the calmest, the most level-headed, the least likely to cause a scene if the dowager decided to be cruel.

Baley, Ana, and Gale would wait outside, ready to fetch help if needed, and that knowledge gave Eiravelle a small measure of comfort.

The journey to the dowager’s palace was short but tense, the silence in the carriage broken only by the clatter of wheels on cobblestones and the distant sounds of the city. Saye kept glancing at Eiravelle, her worry was plain on her face, but she did not speak.

There was nothing she could say that would make this easier. Jily sat beside her, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white with tension, and she stared out the window at the passing buildings as though she were memorizing them, as though she might need to find her way back on her own.

The carriage turned through a set of iron gates, and the dowager’s palace rose before them, grand and cold, its walls of pale stone rising high above the surrounding gardens. It was beautiful, in the way that a sword was beautiful, and Eiravelle felt her heart beat a little faster as she looked at it.

The dowager’s palace was grand and cold, its halls echoing with the footsteps of servants who moved like shadows, their voices hushed, their eyes averted. Eiravelle was led through a series of corridors, each one more opulent than the last, until she reached a sitting room where the dowager waited.

It was a room of pale silks and dark wood, with windows that looked out onto a garden that had been sculpted into perfect, unyielding shapes. There were no flowers in the garden, only hedges trimmed into geometric forms, and the effect was more intimidating than beautiful.

The dowager sat in a high-backed chair, her posture straight, her hands folded in her lap, and her face a mask of polite indifference. She was a beautiful woman, or had been once, and her features still held a cold, sharp elegance that age had not diminished.

But there was something hard in her eyes, something that had calcified over the years until it was impossible to tell where the woman ended and the mask began.

Eiravelle curtsied, her movements graceful despite the weight of her pregnancy. "What made her majesty invite me here? I am just a mere concubine of the sovereign. I surely do not deserve to present myself in front of you," she said, humbling herself in front of the empress dowager.

It was the expected thing to say, the proper thing, but there was a steel beneath her words that had not been there before. The dowager smiled, a thin, humorless smile, and looked at Eiravelle with sharpness in her gaze.

"I invited you to finally meet you, Lady Eiravelle. I want to see who was the omega who caught my daughter’s attention, that she would dare defy me as her mother." The dowager’s voice was smooth, controlled, the voice of a woman who had spent decades perfecting the art of saying one thing while meaning another. Eiravelle remained calm as she heard that, her expression serene, her hands folded in front of her.

"I suspect you did something. Perhaps dark magic to make her look at you," the dowager said, and her eyes narrowed, searching Eiravelle’s face for any sign of guilt or fear. Eiravelle stayed silent. She did not deny it. She did not confirm it. She simply waited, her gaze steady, and the dowager’s smile flickered, just for a moment, before returning.

The empress dowager’s servants started pouring them tea and served them some delicacies, the soft clink of porcelain the only sound in the room. The tea was pale and fragrant, jasmine perhaps, and the delicacies were small, delicate things arranged on a silver tray. Eiravelle did not touch them. She did not trust the dowager enough to eat anything she had been offered, and she suspected the feeling was mutual.

"Forgive the sovereign if she’s been acting strange, your majesty. But please believe me that I have no control over her decisions. If she’s been acting like you’re a stranger, it is simply because the sovereign doesn’t like you. All that’s left was maternal respect without affection," Eiravelle said, and her voice was calm, measured, each word chosen with care.

She had thought about this moment for weeks, had rehearsed what she would say, had practiced keeping her voice steady and her expression neutral. She had known that the dowager would try to provoke her, would try to make her angry or afraid, and she had promised herself that she would not give the old woman the satisfaction.

The empress was shocked to hear that, her eyes widening, her carefully composed mask cracking for just a moment. The teacup in her hand trembled, and a drop of tea spilled onto the saucer.

"And how dare you say such a thing?! You may hold the title of the favorite concubine, but you’re still a womb for my daughter to fill! You’re just a vessel to carry another heir into this family!" She slammed her hand on the table, the porcelain cups rattling, the tea sloshing over the rims. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and sudden, and the servants flinched, their eyes dropping to the floor.

But Eiravelle didn’t flinch. She was no longer the same omega they could bully or scare. She had been through too much, survived too much, to be intimidated by an old woman’s temper.

She had survived the nightmare of Qazaethel’s fever, had walked through fire for the alpha she loved, had faced down the possibility of losing everything and had come out the other side stronger. This was nothing compared to that.

"Perhaps it hit a nerve in you, your majesty? To hear me point out that the Sovereign no longer cares about you. All that’s left is your position—" The empress dowager cut Eiravelle off with a hard slap that echoed in the four corners of the room. The sound was sharp and sudden, and Eiravelle’s head snapped to the side, her cheek stinging with the force of the blow.

The pain was bright and hot, spreading across her face like fire, and for a moment, she saw stars. But she barely reacted. She did not cry out. She did not cover her face. She simply turned her head back slowly, her eyes meeting the dowager’s with a calm that was almost frightening.

Her cheek was red, the imprint of the dowager’s hand clearly visible, but she did not raise her own hand to touch it. She did not give the old woman the satisfaction of seeing her in pain.

Saye and Jily were shocked. They gasped, their faces going pale, and they rushed forward without thinking. "My lady! My lady, are you okay?!" They tried to reach her, but the other maids held them down, their hands gripping their arms, forcing them to their knees on the cold floor.

Saye struggled, her eyes wild with fear and fury, but the maids were stronger, and they held her fast. Jily let out a small, choked sob, her hands clenching into fists at her sides, but she did not fight. She knew it would only make things worse. Eiravelle gritted her teeth slightly, the only sign of the pain she was feeling, and looked at the empress again.

"Is this the reason why you invited me here?! So you can humiliate me and my servants?" Eiravelle asked, and her voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.

The empress smiled, a cold, cruel smile that held no warmth. She was enjoying this, Eiravelle realized. She was enjoying the power she held, the ability to hurt and humiliate and control. It was a game to her, a game she had been playing for decades, and she had no intention of losing.

"Almost, but incomplete. I invited you here to personally tell you to get out of here and never come back again. You will take your child with you, and you will never show your face to Qazaethel ever again!" She screamed, her voice rising to a shrill pitch, but Eiravelle didn’t flinch at the sound of her scream.

She simply stood there, her hands are resting on her belly, while her eyes were fixed on the dowager’s face. The baby kicked, a sharp, insistent movement against her ribs, as though the child could sense her distress. Eiravelle placed a hand on the spot, a soothing gesture, and felt the baby settle.

"And if I don’t?" Eiravelle asked, and her voice was calm, almost curious, as though she were asking about the weather. The dowager’s smile widened, and there was something almost triumphant in her eyes.

She had been waiting for this moment, Eiravelle realized. She had been waiting for the chance to destroy her, to remove her from Qazaethel’s life, to reclaim the control she had lost.

"I will kill them," she said, gesturing to Saye and Jily, who were still struggling against the maids’ grip. Saye let out a choked cry, her eyes wide with terror, and Jily went very still, her face white as snow.

"And I will frame you for hurting me. Who will the Sovereign choose to believe then?" The empress dowager smirked and leaned back in her chair, her satisfaction plain on her face. Then she reached for another teacup, one that had been waiting on a side table, and placed it on the table in front of Eiravelle.

The liquid inside was dark, almost black, and it smelled bitter, like something that had been left to rot. It was not tea. It was something else entirely.

"Drink this... I changed my mind about you keeping the child... I want you to kill it by drinking this poison," she said, and her voice was soft, almost gentle, as though she were offering Eiravelle a kindness rather than condemning her to death. Eiravelle’s eyes widened in horror.

She gasped, her hand flying to her belly, her face going pale. She had expected cruelty. She had expected threats. But she had not expected this. She had not expected the dowager to demand the death of her own grandchild. The words echoed in her ears, repeating over and over, and for a moment, she could not breathe. The room seemed to tilt around her, the walls pressing in, the air growing thick and heavy.

She thought of the baby inside her, the small, fragile life that she had protected for eight months, the child she had knitted blankets for, the child she had dreamed about, the child she already loved more than she had ever thought possible. And the dowager wanted her to kill it. Wanted her to drink poison and end the life growing inside her.

"You’re insane," Eiravelle whispered, and her voice trembled for the first time since she had entered the room. The dowager’s smile did not waver.

"Perhaps. But I am also the empress dowager, and I will not have my daughter’s legacy tainted by a common omega and her bastard child. Drink it, or I will make you drink it. The choice is yours." She leaned forward, her eyes glittering with a cold, terrible light. "And choose quickly. I do not have all day."