Chapter 125: Eiravelle’s Water Broke

Eiravelle was secretly using Qazaethel’s given scale, her fingers closed tightly around the small, warm object hidden in the folds of her gown. The scale was a piece of Qazaethel herself, a fragment of her dragon form that she had given to Eiravelle months ago as a token of protection and love.

It pulsed faintly against her palm, a steady, reassuring beat that matched the rhythm of her own heart. Eiravelle had not told anyone she carried it. She had not told Saye, had not told Jily, had not even told Qazaethel that she kept it with her always. It was her secret, her quiet assurance that no matter how far apart they were, a part of her alpha was always with her.

And now, as she sat in the dowager’s sitting room with her cheek stinging and her heart pounding, she was grateful for it. The scale was not just a token. It was a conduit. And through it, every word of the conversation was being heard by Qazaethel from afar.

Qazaethel was still on the battlefield when she heard it. The sand was still settling from her victory, the Reen army still fleeing across the plains, and her phantom sword was still humming in her grip when Eiravelle’s voice cut through the silence in her mind.

At first, she thought she was imagining it. She thought the stress of the battle had finally caught up with her, that her mind was playing tricks on her, that the exhaustion was making her hear things that were not there. But then she heard the dowager’s voice, cold and sharp, and she knew.

She knew it was real. She knew Eiravelle was in danger. And she knew, with a certainty that made her blood run cold, that she had to get back to the palace immediately.

She abandoned the battlefield without a second thought. She did not give orders. She did not explain. She simply shifted into her dragon form and launched herself into the sky, her wings beating against the air with a desperate, frantic power.

The soldiers below watched her go, their faces were a mixture of confusion and awe, but Qazaethel did not see them. She saw only the clouds ahead, the distant towers of the palace, and the image of Eiravelle’s face, pale and afraid, that burned in her mind like a brand.

"You really think you can use your power to abuse the weak, your majesty?! You’re wrong!" Eiravelle screamed, and the sound of it echoed through the scale, through the bond, through every fiber of Qazaethel’s being. She flew faster. The wind tore at her scales, the cold bit at her wings, but she did not feel any of it. She felt only the frantic, clawing need to get to Eiravelle before it was too late.

The empress dowager did not flinch at Eiravelle’s defiance. Her smile only widened, a cold, terrible expression that held no warmth, no mercy, no recognition of the omega before her as anything other than an obstacle to be removed. "Fine, if you can’t drink it, then I shall force you," she uttered, and her voice was calm, almost conversational, as though she were discussing the weather rather than the murder of an unborn child.

Eiravelle’s eyes widened in fear, her hands flying to her belly, but before she could react, she was held by the empress dowager’s servants. They grabbed her arms, their fingers digging into her flesh, and forced her back against the chair. Eiravelle tried to fight, tried to twist and pull and kick, but they were stronger than her, and her pregnant body would not obey her commands.

She struggled, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and then she released her distress pheromones, a desperate, instinctive cry for help that filled the room with the sharp, bitter scent of fear.

"My lady!" Saye screamed, but she also couldn’t protect Eiravelle. She was pinned to the floor with Jily, her arms twisted behind her back, her cheek pressed against the cold stone. She struggled, her eyes wild with terror, but the maids held her fast, their faces blank, their hands unyielding.

Jily screamed too, her voice raw with fury and fear. "Let go of me! Do not hurt our lady!" But it was no use. The maids did not listen. They did not even flinch. They simply held on, their grip as tight as iron, and watched as their mistress approached Eiravelle with the cup of poison in her hand.

"Say goodbye to your child, Eiravelle," the empress dowager smiled widely as she held Eiravelle’s chin. Her fingers were cold and hard, digging into Eiravelle’s jaw, forcing her head back.

Eiravelle thrashed, her eyes are wild with terror, her breath coming in ragged sobs. "No! Let go of me! This is a crime!" she screamed, but the dowager did not listen. She did not care. She had come too far, had committed too much, to stop now.

"Qazaethel is not here. She didn’t mark you either. It means she cannot detect your distress," the dowager said, and her voice was confident, triumphant. She believed every word. She believed that her daughter had not marked Eiravelle, had not bound the omega to her in the way that would allow Qazaethel to feel her pain, her fear, her desperate need for help.

She believed she had won. But she was wrong. She was so very wrong. Eiravelle had not been marked, it was true, but she had something far more precious, far more intimate. She had the scale. And through it, Qazaethel heard everything. "Please! No! Not my baby, please!" Eiravelle begged, but the dowager held her chin and forced her to drink the poison.

The cup was cold against Eiravelle’s lips, and the liquid inside smelled bitter and foul, like something that had been left to rot in the sun. She clenched her teeth, turned her head, tried to pull away, but the dowager’s grip was too strong. The cup pressed harder, the rim biting into her skin, and Eiravelle felt a tear slip down her cheek, hot and helpless.

She thought of the baby inside her, the small, fragile life that had done nothing wrong, that deserved nothing but love and protection. She thought of Qazaethel, of the look in her eyes when she had first felt the baby kick, of the way she had pressed her hand to Eiravelle’s belly and smiled with a joy so pure it had made Eiravelle’s heart ache. She thought of everything she stood to lose, everything the dowager was about to take from her, and she screamed.

Good thing that before the poison could even touch her lips, the front door burst open and a strong wind rushed inside. The doors slammed against the walls, the windows rattled in their frames, and the curtains whipped wildly in the sudden gale. There was a tall figure standing in the doorway, her silhouette dark against the light from the corridor, and when she opened her eyes, they were glowing bright with gold fury.

The empress dowager stumbled back, her face going pale, and realized it was her daughter, Qazaethel. The servants got scared and immediately scattered, their hands releasing Eiravelle and the other maids as they fled the room. They ran without looking back, their footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving the empress dowager to face her own sin alone.

"Where are you all going?! Come back!" She screamed at the servants, but they didn’t listen. They were gone, their loyalty shattered by the sight of the sovereign’s fury, and the dowager was left standing alone in the center of the room, her carefully constructed power crumbling around her.

Eiravelle gasped, her body sagging against the chair, and she held onto her stomach, feeling a sharp, stabbing pain as she tried to breathe right. The distress pheromones were still pouring off her in waves, filling the room with the scent of her fear, and she could feel something wrong, something shifting inside her. Saye and Jily scrambled to their feet and approached her, their faces pale with worry.

"My lady, are you okay? What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?" Saye asked, her voice trembling as she knelt beside Eiravelle and took her hand. Jily stood behind her, her eyes fixed on the dowager with a hatred that burned like fire.

Qazaethel entered the room and once again summoned her phantom glowing sword. The blade appeared in her hand with a flash of golden light, its edge crackling with power, and she advanced on her mother with a slow, deliberate step. The dowager stumbled back, her hands raised, her eyes wide with fear.

"Qazaethel, my child," the empress dowager tried to coax her, to use her maternal right at the Sovereign. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and her voice cracked with desperation. "I... I... I am your oma... I bore you in my womb, and this is how you will repay me!" She spat the words at Qazaethel, her face twisted with a mixture of fury and terror, but the alpha didn’t flinch.

She didn’t show any remorse. She simply looked at her mother with eyes that were cold and hard and utterly without mercy.

"You dare hurt Eiravelle? Have you forgotten that this is your last chance, mother? And you just crossed the line!" Qazaethel yelled at the empress, her voice rising to a roar that shook the walls.

The dowager flinched at her daughter’s fury, her face going pale, her hands falling to her sides. She had never seen Qazaethel like this. She had never seen the cold, controlled sovereign so utterly consumed by rage.

"Q-Qaz~ Ngh~" Eiravelle called out to Qazaethel, and her voice was weak, strained, barely more than a whisper. Qazaethel’s head snapped toward her, and what she saw made her freeze. Eiravelle was pale, her face slick with sweat, and she was clutching her belly with both hands, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. And there, spreading across the floor beneath her, was a thin trickle of water.

"Your majesty, Lady Eiravelle is about to give birth," Saye said, her face grim, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. Qazaethel’s fury was forgotten in an instant, replaced by a terror that was deeper and more overwhelming than anything she had ever felt. Her phantom sword vanished, dissolving into nothing, and she crossed the room in three quick strides.

"Eivy, hold on. I’ll take you to safety," she said, cupping Eiravelle’s face in her hands and kissing her forehead. Her lips were warm against Eiravelle’s clammy skin, and her hands were gentle despite the panic that was clawing at her chest. Eiravelle looked up at her, her eyes full of tears and pain and a desperate, pleading hope.

"P-Please, I... I don’t want to lose our baby, please~" Eiravelle begged, and Qazaethel nodded, her jaw tight, her throat thick with emotion.

"You won’t. I promise you, you won’t," she said, and her voice was fierce, determined. She would not let anything happen to Eiravelle. She would not let anything happen to their child. She would burn the world to ash before she let that happen. She turned her head and screamed for the guards, her voice echoing through the palace like a thunderclap.

"Guards!" Royal guards poured into the room, their weapons drawn, their faces tense with alertness. They hesitated at first, their eyes widening as the smell of Eiravelle’s distress filled their senses. It was a primal, instinctive reaction, the alpha part of their brains responding to the omega’s fear, but Qazaethel’s voice cut through their hesitation like a blade.

"Arrest the empress dowager! I am stripping her of her title and authority and prepare her for my trial!" she commanded, and her voice was cold, absolute, the voice of a sovereign who would not be disobeyed.

"Yes! Your majesty!" the guards said in unison, and they moved toward the dowager, their hands closing around her arms. She screamed, she struggled, she called out to her daughter, but Qazaethel did not look back. She scooped Eiravelle into her arms, cradling her against her chest, and rushed out of the palace. Saye and Jily followed close behind, their footsteps echoing in the corridor.

"Darling, hold on. I’ll bring you back to the eastern palace," Qazaethel said, and her dragon wings burst from her back, spreading wide, their membrane thin and translucent in the light. She launched herself into the air, her wings beating against the wind, and she held Eiravelle protectively in her arms, her body curled around the omega like a shield.

"Qaz~ please~ our child~ I... I can’t lose them," Eiravelle begged, her voice barely audible over the rush of the wind. Her face was buried against Qazaethel’s chest, her fingers clutching at the fabric of her tunic, and she was trembling, her whole body shaking with pain and fear. Qazaethel held her tighter, her jaw set, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

She did not answer. She could not answer. Because she was uncertain, too. She did not know if Eiravelle would survive this. She did not know if their child would survive this. She did not know what the future held, what the next few hours would bring, what she would do if she lost them. So she remained silent, her wings beating against the wind, and she flew toward the eastern palace as fast as she could, praying to gods she had never believed in that she would not be too late.