Ever since her conversation with the concubines in the palace, Eiravelle grew paranoid everywhere that she refused to go out of the eastern palace. The words they had spoken, the laughter they had shared at her expense, the way they had looked at her—it all replayed in her mind like a poison that she could not expel.
She had heard the whispers, had seen the glances, had felt the weight of their judgment pressing down on her. They thought she was nothing. They thought she was a fool. They thought she was undeserving of the sovereign’s attention, of the child she carried, of the life she had been given.
And so, she had retreated.
The eastern palace had become her sanctuary and her prison. She knew every corner of it now, every shadow, every creaking floorboard, and every draft that slipped through the windows at night.
She had memorized the patterns of the servants’ footsteps, the times they came and went, the sounds they made as they worked. She had learned to listen for the subtle shifts in the air, the way the silence changed when someone approached. She had become a creature of vigilance, of suspicion, and fear.
Whatever food she eats, she refuses to let the royal kitchen cook it for her. Every food and every ingredient, she checked it with meticulous focus that her servants are afraid she’s restraining herself too much. She would inspect every grain of rice, every leaf of vegetable, every piece of meat.
She would sniff it, examine it, sometimes even cut it open to check for anything unusual. The servants watched her with worry, their hands are wringing, and their eyes are darting to each other as if asking what they should do. But none of them dared to stop her.
None of them dared to tell her that her fears were unfounded. Because they had seen the fear in her eyes, the way she trembled when she thought no one was looking, and they knew that something had broken inside her.
Saye had tried to reason with her once. She had knelt beside Eiravelle in the kitchen, her voice soft and pleading, her hands reaching out to still the omega’s shaking fingers. "Lady Eiravelle, please. You don’t have to do this. The royal kitchen is safe. The sovereign would never let anyone harm you." But Eiravelle had only shaken her head, her eyes wild and unfocused, and continued her inspection.
She had not eaten for hours after that, too terrified to put anything in her mouth, and Saye had never tried to stop her again.
Even when Qazaethel asked to visit or summon her, it was always met with excuses and declines that made Qazaethel somewhat uneasy.
"The lady is tired," the servants would say.
"The lady is resting."
"The lady does not wish to be disturbed."
Each excuse was more feeble than the last, and each one drove a knife deeper into Qazaethel’s heart. She had tried to be patient. She had tried to give Eiravelle space, to let her adjust to her new life, to let her come to terms with everything that had happened.
But weeks had passed, and the omega had not left the eastern palace once, she had not come to dinner, she had not walked in the gardens, she had not sent a single message, and Qazaethel was beginning to fear that something was very, very wrong.
She had sent gifts, at first. Flowers from the northern garden, their petals are still wet with morning dew. Books from the royal library, rare volumes that she thought Eiravelle might enjoy. Sweets from the palace confectionery, delicate pastries filled with honey and nuts.
Each gift had been returned, unopened, with a polite note of thanks that said nothing at all. And each return had felt like a rejection, a door closing, a wall rising higher and higher between them.
Qazaethel, Liv, and Arielle were in the study room to review documents, investigate the ministers, and other accounts and royal affairs. The study was a large room, lined with shelves that reached the ceiling, filled with books and scrolls and records that stretched back thousands of years.
A fire burned in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls, and the only sounds were the scratch of quills on parchment and the occasional rustle of paper. Qazaethel was opening old records of taxes, but the sudden silence of Eiravelle kept gnawing at her. She could not focus. She could not think.
Every time she tried to read the numbers on the page, they blurred together, replaced by the image of Eiravelle’s face, pale and drawn, the last time she had seen her.
She remembered that day clearly. It had been a week ago, the morning after the wedding celebration. Eiravelle had come to the throne room to apologize to Dawn, her steps hesitant, her hands trembling.
She had looked so small, so fragile, so utterly terrified. And Qazaethel had promised to protect her, had sworn that no one would ever hurt her. But now, Eiravelle was hurting herself.
She was starving herself, isolating herself, working herself to exhaustion despite the child she carried. And Qazaethel could not reach her. Could not save her. Could not do anything but sit in this study and pretend to work while her heart shattered into a thousand pieces.
She felt frustrated that she closed the book, the sound echoed in the whole room, and all she could do was throw it away. The book hit the far wall with a heavy thud, its pages fluttering open, and Liv and Arielle both looked up with startled expressions. They had never seen Qazaethel lose her composure like this.
They had never seen her throw anything, had never seen her give in to her emotions so completely. It was frightening, in a way. It was a reminder that even sovereigns could break.
Qazaethel sighed and massaged the bridge of her nose and sat down on a vanity chair. She was too tired to care about anything. She slumped in the chair, her shoulders sagging, her head hanging low, and for a moment, she looked nothing like the powerful ruler who had governed Solkanaia for five thousand years. She looked like a woman who was exhausted, who was scared, who was losing someone she loved and did not know how to stop it.
She caught both Liv and Arielle’s attention.
"Your Majesty, are you alright?" Liv asked.
Qazaethel shook her head. "Eiravelle is ignoring me. I don’t know what’s going on." The words came out heavy, laden with frustration and fear and something that sounded almost like grief.
Arielle immediately stopped writing and focused entirely on Qazaethel. The quill fell from her fingers, ink splattering across the page, but she did not notice. Her eyes were fixed on the sovereign, her expression sharp and alert.
She had been working in the study for hours, reviewing the same documents over and over without really seeing them. Her mind had been elsewhere, with Eiravelle, with the sister she had only just found again. She had known something was wrong.
She had felt it in her bones, had sensed it in the silence that stretched between them. But she had not realized it had gotten this bad. "What do you mean by that, Your Majesty?"
"It has been a whole week since she left the eastern palace, and her servant keeps telling me that she is tired and wants to rest. But I also received reports that she refused to eat from the royal kitchen. She insists on doing chores herself." Qazaethel said, and they could hear the genuine fear in her voice.
She was not speaking as a sovereign now. She was speaking as an alpha who was terrified for her omega, for the mother of her child.
And now, it was also Arielle who felt alarmed. Her heart dropped into her stomach, and she felt a cold dread spread through her veins. She had known that Eiravelle had been struggling. She had seen the signs—the way her sister had withdrawn, the way she had stopped writing, the way she had refused to see her. But she had not realized it had gotten this bad. "I should visit her then."
Qazaethel sighed. "They said she’s been refusing to accept any visitors."
The words hung in the air, and Arielle felt her chest tighten. She wanted to argue, wanted to insist that she was different, that Eiravelle would see her. But she knew it was not true. She knew that her sister had built walls around herself, walls that even Arielle could not breach.
She had seen it in Eiravelle’s eyes during their conversation on the swings, the way she had looked at Arielle with love and fear and a desperate need to protect her from something that Arielle could not understand.
"What about we ask Dawn and Ruthina to visit her instead? She trusts them." Liv said.
The suggestion hung in the air, and the three of them considered it. It was a safe option, perhaps the only option left. Eiravelle had grown close to Dawn and Ruthina in the short time she had known them. She had let down her walls with them, had laughed with them, had trusted them. If anyone could reach her, it would be them.
Qazaethel nodded slowly. "Send for them."
***
They called Dawn and Ruthina in the study office, and they all sat, facing each other. The study was warmer now, the fire had been stoked, and the candles had been lit. But the atmosphere was tense, heavy with unspoken fears.
Dawn and Ruthina sat side by side, their expressions were a mixture of confusion and concern. They had been in the middle of their afternoon tea when the summons had come, and they had rushed to the study without hesitation, their hearts pounding with worry.
"You want us to visit Eiravelle?" Dawn asked. "What’s going on?"
"Eiravelle had been refusing to accept any visitors. She doesn’t eat from the royal kitchen anymore, and reports also say she’s been doing chores even though her servants told her not to because she is heavily pregnant." Liv explained.
Both Dawn and Ruthina found it strange. Dawn’s brow furrowed, and she leaned forward, her hands are clasped in her lap. Ruthina’s rabbit ears twitched nervously, and she looked at Dawn, then at Qazaethel, then back at Dawn.
"Why is the saint behaving like that? That’s bad for her baby." Ruthina said, and everyone agreed, especially Qazaethel.
"That’s why we’re asking if you can visit and check on her. She refused visitors, but she will surely let you both in because you both are her most trusted friends." Qazaethel answered.
Dawn nodded slowly. She understood what they were asking. She understood the weight of the task they were placing on her shoulders. But she also understood that this was not about politics or duty.
This was about a friend who was hurting, a friend who was scared, a friend who needed help. "We will try, but if she says no, we won’t force it. Because stressing her will affect the baby."
Everyone agreed to her words. It was a reasonable condition, a necessary one. They could not afford to make things worse.
The meeting ended, and Dawn and Ruthina left the study, their steps were quick and determined. Qazaethel watched them go, her heart was heavy with hope and fear. She did not know what would happen.
She did not know if Eiravelle would accept them, if she would listen, or if she would let them help. But she had to try. She had to do something. Because the alternative—the thought of Eiravelle suffering alone, of the omega she loved slowly fading away—was more than she could bear.
She turned back to her desk and stared at the scattered papers, but she did not see them. Her mind was elsewhere, with Eiravelle, with the child, with the fragile hope that maybe things would be okay.