Chapter 27: The Medicine for Eiravelle

They immediately returned to the Arthion manor, the carriage barely touched the ground before Qazaethel was already moving, throwing open the door and leaping out before the footmen could even position the steps.

She did not wait for Arielle or Liv, did not acknowledge the startled guards who scrambled to keep pace with her. Her boots struck the cobblestone path with sharp, urgent clicks as she strode toward the mansion’s entrance, her robes billowing behind her like a crimson storm.

The servants who had gathered at the commotion scattered out of her path, their bows are hurried and shallow as she swept past them without a glance. Arthion and Elaria were nowhere to be seen, and for that, Qazaethel was grateful. She had neither the time nor the patience for their questions, for their wounded pride, for the tedious dance of courtly formalities that would only delay her further.

Arielle followed close behind, her arms are wrapped securely around the unconscious omega she had carried from Varnara. The golden rabbit’s weight was so light, but the journey had been long, and Arielle’s muscles burned with exhaustion.

Still, she did not falter, did not slow down. She pressed forward, her jaw was set with determination, her sister’s life depending on every precious second they could save.

Qazaethel reached the door to Arielle’s bedchamber and threw it open with enough force that it slammed against the wall, the sound echoed through the corridor like a thunderclap.

Gertrude, who had been dozing in a chair beside Eiravelle’s bed, startled awake with a gasp, her hand flying to her chest.

"Your majesty!" Gertrude exclaimed, scrambling to her feet and dropping into a hasty bow. "We did not expect—we were not informed—"

"Where is Dale?" Qazaethel cut her off, her gaze was already fixed on Eiravelle’s still form on the bed. The omega’s condition had worsened in their absence. The black veins had spread further, crawling up her neck and across her jawline, pulsing with a sickening rhythm that seemed to mock Qazaethel’s desperation.

"He stepped out to prepare more remedies," Gertrude said, her voice was trembling. "He said he would return shortly—"

"Find him. Now." Qazaethel’s command was sharp, brooking no argument. "Tell him to return immediately. We have the Flower of Life."

Gertrude’s eyes widened, a flicker of hope breaking through her exhausted features. She nodded quickly and hurried from the room, her skirts rustled as she disappeared into the corridor.

Qazaethel turned to Arielle, who had paused in the doorway, the golden rabbit still cradled in her arms. The young omega’s face was pale with strain, her breath coming in short, labored gasps, but she did not complain, did not ask for rest.

"Place her on the bed," Qazaethel instructed, gesturing to the empty space beside Eiravelle. "The bed is spacious enough. They can maintain distance from each other without touching."

Arielle nodded and crossed to the bed, gently lowering the golden rabbit onto the soft sheets. The omega stirred slightly, a small whimper escaping her lips, but she did not wake. Her thin body looked fragile against the expanse of the bed, her pale skin was nearly translucent in the candlelight.

New healers arrived moments later, summoned by some unseen messenger, their arms laden with supplies and their faces set with grim determination. They moved to the golden rabbit’s side first, their hands were gentle as they checked her pulse, her breathing, and the temperature of her skin.

Then some of them crossed to Eiravelle, their expressions are growing more alarmed as they took in the spread of the poison.

Qazaethel ignored them all. Her attention was fixed solely on Eiravelle, on the slow rise and fall of her chest, on the small sounds of discomfort that escaped her lips even in unconsciousness. The poison had reached her throat now, dark tendrils creeping upward toward her jaw, her cheeks, and her closed eyes.

It was spreading faster than before, as if sensing that its time was running out, that a cure was near.

Eiravelle whimpered, a soft, pained sound that cut through Qazaethel like a blade.

Without hesitation, Qazaethel sat on the edge of the bed and took Eiravelle’s hand in her own. The omega’s fingers were cold, so cold, and Qazaethel felt a surge of fear that she quickly suppressed.

She could not afford fear now. She could not afford anything but focus, the will to save the woman she loved.

She closed her eyes and reached deep within herself, drawing on the well of power that resided in her core. It was an ability she rarely used, a reserve of energy that she kept hidden from all but her closest confidants. But now, she poured it through her palm and into Eiravelle’s body, a gentle stream of warmth that she hoped would soothe the omega’s pain and slow the poison’s advance.

"Your majesty, don’t do that," Liv said from somewhere behind her, her voice was tight with concern. "You’ll tire yourself out. You need your strength for what’s to come."

Qazaethel did not glance at her. She did not even acknowledge that she had heard her. Her focus remained on Eiravelle, on the fragile connection between them, on the steady pulse of energy she was passing into the omega’s body.

"No," she said, her voice was quiet but firm. "I will do this."

She did not let go of Eiravelle’s hand.

Please, just open your eyes, dear, she thought, the words echoing through her mind with desperate intensity. The rest of the burden shall be mine to carry. Just please be safe—you and our unborn child. Nothing else matters. Nothing else has ever mattered.

The worry was etched on her face, plain for anyone to see, and Qazaethel did not care. She had spent centuries perfecting the mask of the stoic sovereign, the unflappable ruler who showed no weakness, no vulnerability, no hint of the emotions that churned beneath the surface.

But now, watching Eiravelle struggle for each breath, feeling the coldness of her skin, seeing the poison spread across her features like a creeping shadow, Qazaethel found that she could not maintain the facade.

She did not understand it. She had bred several omegas before, all for political duty, all to secure alliances and strengthen her kingdom. Those encounters had been clinical, transactional, and devoid of any real emotion. She had felt nothing for those omegas beyond a vague sense of responsibility, a duty to provide for them and their offspring.

But this one was different. Eiravelle was different.

From the moment Qazaethel had first seen her. Something had cracked open, something she had kept locked away for so long that she had forgotten it existed. And now, with Eiravelle’s life hanging by a thread, that something was screaming, clawing at her from the inside, demanding that she do everything in her power to save this omega, this person, this impossible creature who had somehow captured her heart.

"Ngh~ mmm~ it feels good~" Eiravelle murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The words were slurred, barely coherent, but they sent a wave of relief through Qazaethel’s chest. The energy she was passing into Eiravelle was helping, at least a little. The omega’s features had relaxed slightly, the lines of pain had softened, and her breathing had become marginally easier.

A small smile graced Qazaethel’s lips, there and gone in an instant, carefully controlled so that no one would notice. It was not a large smile, not a dramatic display of emotion. Just a small, private expression of relief, of hope, of love.

The door to the bedchamber opened, and Qazaethel heard footsteps entering the room. She did not look up, did not acknowledge the new arrivals. Her focus remained on Eiravelle.

"Who is that omega?" Arisia’s voice came from somewhere near the bed, her tone was curious but cautious. Then there was a sharp intake of breath, a moment of stunned silence. "Your majesty! Forgive me, I did not notice your presence!"

Arisia dropped into a deep bow, her head lowered, her posture rigid with sudden tension. Behind her, Ariphale followed suit, though her bow was shallower, her eyes flickered with barely concealed curiosity.

Qazaethel still did not look at them. "Rise," she said, her voice was flat. "In this room, I do not seek everyone’s greetings. There is no need for formality here."

Arisia straightened slowly, her cheeks were flushing with embarrassment. She glanced at Arielle, who had moved to stand beside the bed, her eyes are fixed on the golden rabbit’s sleeping form. Then Arisia’s gaze shifted to the unconscious omega, and her expression softened with concern.

"Sister, who is she?" Arisia asked, stepping closer to Arielle.

Arielle shook her head, her voice sounded tired. "Our rescue from Varnara. I haven’t learned her name yet, but she is a golden rabbit."

"Golden rabbit?!" Arisia’s eyebrows shot up, her surprise genuine. "I’ve never heard of such a species before. Are they common in the demon realm?"

"Me too," Arielle admitted, her gaze drifted between the golden rabbit and Eiravelle. Her chest tightened with a complicated tangle of emotions—relief that they had succeeded in their mission, fear for her sister’s life, confusion about the strange omega they had rescued, and something else, something darker that she could not quite name. "I didn’t know such a species existed until today. Xelvyn explained a little, but there is still so much I don’t understand."

Ariphale moved to stand beside Arisia, her eyes are fixed on the golden rabbit with undisguised fascination. "A rare species," she murmured. "Abducted from the beast realm, if what you said earlier is true. How long do you think she was held captive by Ceprys?"

"I don’t know," Arielle said, her voice was heavy with sadness. "But from what Xelvyn told us, it was a long time. Years, perhaps decades. She was tortured, humiliated, broken in ways we can only imagine. And now she has to piece together who she was from the fragments of her memories."

The room fell silent, the weight of the golden rabbit’s suffering settled over them like a shroud. Even the healers paused in their work, their hands are stilling for a moment as they absorbed the horror of what the omega had endured.

Arielle’s eyes darted toward Eiravelle, and her chest tightened with a fresh wave of pain. Why is this happening to them? She thought, the question was burning in her mind with no answer. Why does my sister have to suffer? Why does anyone have to suffer like this? What kind of world allows such cruelty to exist?

She did not have an answer. She was not sure anyone did.

***

Night had fallen by the time the antidote was ready.

Qazaethel had not left Eiravelle’s side the entire time. She had not eaten, had not slept, and had not even moved from her position on the edge of the bed. Her hand remained wrapped around Eiravelle’s, her energy was still flowing in a gentle stream into the omega’s body, slowing the poison, soothing the pain, and keeping her alive.

The healers had come and gone, checking on both Eiravelle and the golden rabbit, adjusting treatments, murmuring in hushed voices about the severity of the poison and the rarity of the cure.

The golden rabbit had remained unconscious, her body slowly beginning to heal from the years of abuse, though it would take time—perhaps months, perhaps years—for her to fully recover.

Liv had tried several times to convince Qazaethel to rest, to eat, to take even a moment’s break from her vigil. Each attempt had been met with the same quiet refusal, the same unwavering determination.

Qazaethel would not leave Eiravelle. Not until she was safe. Not until she was healed.

The door to the bedchamber opened, and Dale entered, his face was drawn and exhausted but his eyes were bright with hope. In his hands, he carried a porcelain bowl filled with a shimmering liquid that seemed to glow with an inner light.

"Your majesty," Dale said, his voice was hoarse from hours of work. "The potion is ready. I have transformed the Flower of Life into a liquid medicine. It should be enough to counteract the poison and restore Lady Eiravelle to full health."

Qazaethel’s head snapped toward him, her eyes were sharp with intensity. She released Eiravelle’s hand—reluctantly, as if the separation physically pained her—and rose from the bed, crossing the room in three quick strides.

"Give it to me," she commanded.

Dale handed her the bowl without hesitation. Qazaethel took it, her fingers are curling around the porcelain rim, and she could feel the warmth of the liquid seeping through the material. The medicine pulsed with energy, with life, with the promise of healing.

"Thank you," she said, the words are simple but sincere. "You have done well, Dale. You will be rewarded for your service."

Dale bowed, his cheeks were flushed with pride and relief. "I live only to serve, your majesty."

Qazaethel turned back to the bed and resumed her seat beside Eiravelle. She stirred the liquid gently with the porcelain spoon, watching as the shimmering fluid swirled within the bowl. Then she reached out and brushed a strand of pink hair from Eiravelle’s face, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that surprised even herself.

"Eiravelle," she said softly, her voice was gentle but firm. "Open your eyes."

The omega did not respond. Her breathing remained shallow, her body was limp and unresponsive. The poison had weakened her too much, had drained her of the strength needed to even lift her eyelids.

Qazaethel’s jaw tightened. She could not force Eiravelle to drink if the omega was unconscious. The medicine would simply spill from her lips, wasted, and Eiravelle would die before they could try again.

"How can Lady Eiravelle drink the medicine if—" Dale began, but his words were cut off abruptly, his eyes are widening with shock.

Qazaethel had lifted the bowl to her own lips and taken a sip of the potion. The liquid was warm and slightly sweet, tingling with a pleasant energy that spread through her mouth and down her throat. She held it there for a moment, feeling the potency of the medicine, and then she leaned down and pressed her lips gently to Eiravelle’s.

The omega’s lips were cold, but they parted reflexively at the contact. Qazaethel passed the medicine from her mouth to Eiravelle’s, a slow, careful transfer that ensured not a single drop was lost. She felt Eiravelle’s throat move as she swallowed, and a wave of relief washed through her.

She pulled back and took another sip, repeating the process. Again and again, she transferred the medicine to Eiravelle, kiss by kiss, until the bowl was empty and the potion had been fully administered.

She did not notice the door opening. Did not notice Arielle stepping into the room, her face was pale with exhaustion and her eyes were red from crying. Did not notice the moment when Arielle froze, her gaze was fixed on the scene before her—the sovereign of the realm, her lips pressed to Eiravelle’s, her hands are cradling the omega’s face with unmistakable tenderness.

Arielle’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart felt like it had been seized in her chest. The world seemed to tilt around her, the floor dropped away beneath her feet.

What is she doing?! The thought screamed through Arielle’s mind, raw and jagged and full of pain. What is the sovereign doing to my sister? Why is she kissing her? What does this mean? What has been happening behind my back?

She did not stop to think. She did not pause to consider the situation, to observe the bowl in Qazaethel’s hands, to realize that the sovereign was simply administering medicine. All she saw was Qazaethel’s lips on her sister’s, and something inside her broke.

"What are you doing?!" Arielle shouted, rushing forward, her voice became sharp with shock and fury.

And Qazaethel’s eyes widened when she heard Arielle’s voice.