After what happened, Qazaethel visited the Northern Garden to have fresh air and have some time to gather and process her thoughts.
The Northern Garden was a place of quiet solitude, far from the bustling courts and the endless demands of the throne. It was a sanctuary of silver-leafed trees and carefully cultivated ponds, where the air was crisp and clean and the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the distant song of birds.
She had come here to escape, to breathe, and to try to make sense of the chaos that had consumed her life in recent weeks.
But then Eiravelle arrived and slowly walked towards her, "your majesty." She softly called out, and Qazaethel immediately remembered about telling Eiravelle to call her by her name and not by title when they’re in private.
Qazaethel stood amidst the silver-leafed trees of the Northern Garden, the crisp air filling her lungs and cooling the residual heat of her irritation. She had spent the last hour staring into the stillness of the pond, watching the way the water reflected the sky above, undisturbed by wind or wave.
It was peaceful here. Quiet. The kind of quiet that allowed her to think, to process, to try to understand the event. She had locked twenty-eight concubines in the Southerneast palace. She had threatened them with punishments she had not been sure she could deliver.
She had stood before her court and shown mercy where she had wanted to show fury. And all of it—every decision, every compromise, every moment of restraint—had been because of Eiravelle.
She had spent the last hour wondering how a single person could possess such a disruptive level of kindness. It was a chaotic force, one that threatened to dismantle the very foundations of her authority, yet she found herself craving it.
Eiravelle had changed things. She had changed Qazaethel. Before Eiravelle, the sovereign had been cold and distant, had ruled with an iron fist and a heart of stone. She had seen mercy as weakness, had believed that kindness had no place in the cutthroat world of politics and power.
And Qazaethel, who had spent centuries building walls around herself, had found those walls crumbling in the presence of a single, gentle omega.
At the sound of Eiravelle’s soft voice, Qazaethel turned. The sight of her—slowly making her way across the grass, the gentle sway of her pregnancy waa adding a fragile grace to her movements—immediately pulled the Sovereign out of her brooding thoughts.
The word ’majesty’ hung in the air, a reminder of the wall that always existed between them in the eyes of the world. But here, in the quiet of the Northern Garden, away from the prying eyes of the court and the endless demands of the throne, that wall felt thinner.
Less insurmountable. Here, they could be something other than sovereign and concubine. Here, they could be something closer to what Qazaethel secretly wanted them to be.
A frown flickered across Qazaethel’s face, though it lacked any real bite. She stepped forward, the heavy fabric of her robes sweeping against the greenery, until she was close enough to smell the soft, calming scent that always clung to Eiravelle.
She didn’t reach out to touch her yet, but her presence enveloped the other woman, creating a sudden, private sanctuary in the open garden. The silver-leafed trees seemed to lean in around them, their branches were forming a canopy that shielded them from the world beyond, and the pond at their feet reflected the sky like a mirror, undisturbed and perfect.
"How many times must I tell you," Qazaethel murmured, her voice was low and vibrating with a hidden warmth that she only ever allowed here, away from the prying eyes of the court, "that when it is only us, those titles are unnecessary. You are not speaking to the throne, Eiravelle. You are speaking to me."
Eiravelle giggle and shook her head, the sound was light and warm and utterly genuine. It was a sound that Qazaethel had come to treasure, a sound that cut through the coldness of her existence like sunlight through clouds.
"Sorry, hehe. I’m still trying to make myself get used to it. But I am here to ask you one thing, Qazaethel. Can I?"
The sound of her name on Eiravelle’s lips was a balm to Qazaethel’s restless mind. It was a small thing, just a word, but it carried a weight that no title ever could. It was intimacy. It was trust.
It was the acknowledgment that between them, there was something more than duty and obligation. There was something real. The sight of the Lady shaking her head with that small, shy giggle made the Sovereign’s chest tighten with a possessive, aching affection.
Here, under the sprawling branches of the silver-leafed trees, the coldness of the empress completely evaporated, leaving behind only the woman who existed for the one person who dared to look at her without fear.
She stepped closer, her gaze was dropping momentarily to Eiravelle’s heavy belly before returning to those wide, hopeful eyes. The swell of the omega’s pregnancy was more pronounced now, the child within her growing stronger with each passing day, and Qazaethel felt a surge of pride and protectiveness that she still struggled to name.
She reached out, her hand was sliding naturally and possessively around Eiravelle’s waist to support her, drawing her closer into the circle of her warmth. The omega’s body was soft against her own, warm and alive, and Qazaethel could feel the faint flutter of movement beneath her palm—the baby, responding to her presence as it always did.
"You may ask me for anything," she replied, her voice was a deep, melodic hum that seemed to echo the stillness of the garden.
There was no hesitation in her tone, no trace of the sovereign who weighed every word for its political cost. To Qazaethel, the answer was already ’yes’ before the question had even been asked. "Tell me, Eiravelle. What is it that you desire?"
Eiravelle was quiet for a moment, her gaze was dropping to the ground, her hands aee coming to rest on the curve of her belly. The gesture was protective, instinctive, and it made something cold settle in Qazaethel’s chest.
She had seen Eiravelle do this before—had watched her curl her body around the child within her as though she could shield it from the world—and she knew that it meant the omega was afraid.
She was about to say something that scared her, something that had been weighing on her mind for days, perhaps weeks, and she was gathering her courage to speak it aloud.
"I desire to know if... Will you accept our child if they become omega?" Eiravelle asked, and her expression was replaced with a gnawing worry.
And Qazaethel noticed how the way she held her pregnant belly like she’s protecting it. The words hung in the air between them, fragile and trembling, and Qazaethel felt her heart stop.
Of all the things she had expected Eiravelle to ask, this was not one of them. She had prepared herself for requests about the concubines, about the palace, about the endless politics that consumed their lives. She had not prepared herself for this.
"It suddenly occured to me... Because... All your children are alphas... I’m just worried you’ll despise me and the child if they become omega." Eiravelle’s voice cracked on the last word, and she pressed her hands more firmly against her belly as though she could protect the child from the very thought of rejection.
Her eyes were wide and wet, filled with a fear that cut Qazaethel to the core. She was not asking about politics or power or the future of the empire. She was asking about love. She was asking whether Qazaethel would still want them—would still want her—if the child she carried was not the alpha heir that the kingdom expected.
The silence that followed was absolute, the wind in the silver-leafed trees seeming to hold its breath. Qazaethel’s gaze dropped to Eiravelle’s hands, clamped protectively over her stomach, and a flicker of genuine pain crossed the sovereign’s features.
The realization that Eiravelle—who had given her everything—could harbor such a fear, a fear rooted in the very hierarchy Qazaethel herself enforced, felt like a cold blade to the heart.
She had spent centuries upholding the traditions of the empire, had believed in the importance of bloodlines and ranks and the natural order of things. But hearing Eiravelle’s fear, seeing the way she held her belly as though she expected it to be torn from her, made Qazaethel realize how much pain those traditions had caused.
Qazaethel didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stepped forward, closing the remaining gap between them until their bodies were flush.
She wrapped both arms around Eiravelle, pulling her into a crushing, protective embrace, as if she could physically shield her and the child from the very thought of rejection.
She buried her face in the crook of Eiravelle’s neck, her breathing was heavy and ragged, and she held on as though the omega might disappear if she let go. She could feel the warmth of Eiravelle’s body against her own, could feel the slight trembling of her shoulders, could feel the steady thrum of the baby’s heartbeat beneath her palm.
And she knew, with a certainty that settled into her bones like a promise, that she would do anything—anything—to protect them.
"Despise you?" The words were a low, dangerous growl, not of anger toward Eiravelle, but at the cruel world that had planted such a seed of doubt. She pulled back just enough to look Eiravelle in the eyes, with her own glowing with a fierce, possessive intensity.
The glow was not the cold, draconic fire that she used to intimidate her enemies. It was something warmer, something softer, something that spoke of love and devotion and an unbreakable bond.
"Listen to me, Eiravelle. My children are alphas because they were born to be tools of the state, to be swords and shields for the empire. But this child..." She slid one hand down to press firmly against the baby, her palm was flat against the curve of Eiravelle’s belly.
She could feel the child moving beneath her touch, small flutters of life that responded to her presence, and she felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes.
"This child is born of you. Whether they are an alpha, a beta, or an omega, they are a part of you. And there is nothing in this world, nor any rank in my court, that could ever make me love them—or you—less."
Her voice dropped to a vow, a sacred promise whispered against the cool garden air. The words were not spoken lightly. They were not the empty reassurances of a politician or the careless promises of a lover.
They were the words of a dragon, binding and eternal, a declaration of love that would echo through the ages. "If they are an omega, I will simply build a stronger wall around them. I will make it so that the world learns to bow to them, not because of their rank, but because they are mine. Do you understand?"
Tears fell from Eiravelle’s eyes as she smiled. She was happy to hear Qazaethel’s admission and it was enough to soothe the worry she’s been carrying. The tears were not tears of sadness or fear, but of relief, of gratitude, of a love that had been tested and had emerged stronger for it. "T-That’s all I need to hear hehe... Promise me you will love them no matter what, okay?"
The sight of those tears, though born of relief, made Qazaethel’s chest tighten. She reached up, her thumb gently brushing away a stray tear with a tenderness that would have been unrecognizable to anyone else in the palace.
The omega’s skin was soft beneath her touch, warm and alive, and Qazaethel marveled at the simple miracle of her existence. How had this happened? How had a dragon who had lived for centuries, who had crushed empires and built nations, found herself brought to her knees by a single, gentle omega?
The vulnerability in Eiravelle’s voice, the slight tremor as she asked for a promise, stirred something primal and fiercely loyal within the Sovereign.
Qazaethel didn’t just nod. She took Eiravelle’s hand, pressing it firmly against her own heart, letting the other woman feel the steady, powerful thrum of the dragon’s pulse.
It was a gesture of absolute truth, a bond that transcended laws and lineages. The heartbeat was strong and steady, a rhythm that had endured for centuries, and it beat now for Eiravelle. For their child. For the future they would build together.
"I promise," she murmured, her voice resonating with an intensity that felt like a blood-oath. The glow in her eyes deepened, reflecting a devotion that bordered on the obsessive.
She would burn the world to ash before she let anyone hurt them. She would tear down the very foundations of the empire before she let anyone make them feel less than they were.
"On my life, on my crown, and on the very blood in my veins. I will love this child with a ferocity that will make the heavens tremble. They will never know a moment of doubt, and they will never feel the shadow of rejection as long as I draw breath."
She leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Eiravelle’s forehead, her presence was acting as an anchor, grounding the Lady in the absolute certainty of her love. The kiss was soft, reverent, a silent promise that words could not fully express.
She lingered there for a moment, her lips were pressed against Eiravelle’s warm skin, breathing in the scent of her, committing every detail to memory. "Now, stop your crying, my sweet. You are draining yourself, and our little one deserves a happy Oma."
Qazaethel pull Eiravelle in a hug, and as they hug, Qazaethel didn’t notice how Eiravelle frown. There was clearly something in her that keeps bothering her. The omega’s body was tense despite the warmth of the embrace, her hands resting lightly on Qazaethel’s back, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
She had asked her question. She had received her answer. But something was still wrong. Something was still gnawing at her, a worry that she could not voice, a fear that she could not name.
And Qazaethel, for all her power and all her love, did not see it. She held Eiravelle close, believing that she had finally put the omega’s fears to rest, unaware that beneath the surface, a new storm was brewing.