Chapter 111: Ragnar’s Visitation

Eiravelle was in this unfamiliar garden, it was beautiful and full of life. The air was warm and soft, carrying the scent of flowers she could not name and the faint, sweet smell of ripe fruit. The grass beneath her bare feet was cool and damp with morning dew, and it cushioned her steps as she walked without direction, without hurry, without fear.

She felt light—lighter than she had felt in months, perhaps years. The weight of the palace, the whispers of the concubines, the constant vigilance that had become her second skin—all of it had fallen away, and she was simply a woman walking through a garden, her hand resting on the gentle swell of her belly.

She sighed and sniffed the fresh air as she smiled. The garden stretched endlessly in every direction, filled with trees that seemed to shimmer with life—cherry blossoms in full bloom, their petals drifting down like pink snow; willows with long, trailing branches that swayed in a breeze she could not feel; flowers of every color she had ever seen and some she had not. A stream ran nearby, its water so clear she could see the pebbles at the bottom, and the sound of it was like music, soft and constant.

Then behind a cherry blossom tree, Ragnar was there, standing. Eiravelle caught a figure of him and stopped. He was just as she remembered—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair streaked with gray, his eyes sharp and knowing.

He wore the same simple clothes he had worn at the Manor in the clouds, a loose robe and dark trousers, and he stood so still that for a moment she wondered if he was part of the garden itself, a statue carved from memory.

"Master?" She asked. Her voice came out soft, uncertain, and she stopped at her tracks and saw how Ragnar revealed himself to her. He stepped out from behind the tree, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable.

"Eiravelle, I came here to tell you something," he said. His voice was the same as always—calm, measured, carrying the weight of centuries. It was the voice of a man who had seen too much to be surprised by anything, and yet there was something in his tone now that she had not heard before. Something urgent.

Eiravelle remained composed and attentive. She had learned, in the months since she had left the Manor in the clouds, to hide her fear behind a mask of calm. It was a skill she had developed out of necessity, a way of surviving in a world that was always watching, always judging.

But inside, her heart was beating faster. She had not seen Ragnar since the day he had given her the peach and told her the prophecy, and she had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that she would never see him again.

"What is it, Master?" She asked, slowly approaching while holding onto her pregnant belly. The movement was instinctive now, a protective gesture that had become as natural as breathing.

Ragnar watched her approach, his eyes lingering on her belly for a moment before returning to her face. "I just wanted to ask you if you’ve considered enough going back to the academy?" He asked.

Eiravelle frowned. The question caught her off guard, and for a moment she did not know what to say. The academy. The place where she had spent years studying, where she had been a top student, where she had learned to be invisible in a crowd of brilliant people.

She had not thought about the academy in months—not since she had come to the palace, not since she had become the sovereign’s concubine, not since she had begun to build a new life for herself and her child.

"But... Master..." She paused and heavily sighed. She looked away, at the cherry blossoms falling around them, at the stream that ran nearby, at anything but the man who was asking her questions she did not want to answer. "I didn’t, Master." She said.

Ragnar did not speak. He simply waited, his patience was vast as the garden around them, and Eiravelle felt the silence pressing down on her like a physical weight. She had to fill it. She had to explain.

"I am currently contented with my life now, Master. I don’t want to go back to the academy... It’s not like I am trying to prove I am anything when I don’t have powers." She said. The words came out defensive, sharper than she intended, and she bit her lip as soon as they left her mouth.

Ragnar frowned. It was not an angry frown, not a disappointed one. It was the frown of a man who had heard this before, who had seen this fear in a hundred other eyes, and who knew how to answer it. "My dear, listen to me. Do you remember the vision I told you?" He asked.

Eiravelle felt her stomach clench. The vision. She had tried not to think about it—had pushed it to the back of her mind, had buried it beneath the daily demands of survival—but she had never forgotten it. The words were seared into her memory: salvation or destruction.

The light or the darkness. She had spent many nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering which one she would become. Wondering if she had any choice at all.

"Yes," she whispered. "I remember."

"It’s not changing, Eiravelle. It’s a prophecy." He said.

Eiravelle gasped slightly. The word hit her like a physical blow—prophecy. It was one thing to have a vision, to have a nightmare that might or might not come true. It was another thing entirely to have it called a prophecy, a thing that was fixed, inevitable, written in stone.

"What do you mean prophecy?" She asked. Her voice was shaking, and she hated the way it sounded—small and afraid, like the girl she had been before the palace, before Qazaethel, before everything.

Ragnar did not answer with words. He turned his gaze to the horizon, and Eiravelle reluctantly followed his gaze. At first she saw nothing but the garden, the endless green, the pink cherry blossoms, and the sparkling stream. But then the garden began to fade, dissolving like mist in the sun, and she saw something else.

Two sides of the world. On the dark side, black clouds were gathering, swelling and churning like a living thing. Terrible thunder rolled across the sky, and lightning flashed, its light harsh and cold.

The darkness was moving, slowly advancing, eating the healthy life on the other side—the bright side, where the sun still shone and the grass was still green. She could see it happening in slow motion, could see the green turning brown, the trees withering, the flowers crumbling to dust. The darkness was not just a storm. It was a hunger and it was consuming everything in its path.

"What is happening?" She asked. Her breath was slightly bated as she watched the scene unfold, and she felt a cold dread settle in her chest.

"It’s coming... And the choice is yours... You can decline, but surely, everything around us will be jeopardised..." Ragnar said. His voice was quiet, almost gentle, but the words were heavy with meaning.

Eiravelle shook her head. She did not want to hear this. She did not want to be standing in this beautiful garden, watching the world fall apart, being told that she was the only one who could stop it. "Why are you doing this? Master, I just got a life where I don’t have someone forcing choices to me!" She was trying to stop her tears from falling, but she could feel them burning at the corners of her eyes.

"Eiravelle, I am not forcing a choice. This is the prophecy!" Ragnar answered. His voice was still calm, but there was a note of desperation in it now, a plea for her to understand.

"Then I don’t want any part of it!" she replied back. The words came out fierce, almost a shout, and she was surprised by the strength of her own anger.

"You have no choice because you are the prophecy!" Ragnar retorted, and the words stopped her cold. She paused, speechless for a moment, her mind was struggling to process what he had just said.

"What?" She asked slowly. Her voice was shaking so badly now that she could barely get the word out.

"You cannot stop this because... You... You are the prophecy." He repeated, more slowly this time, as if he wanted to make sure she understood. As if he wanted to make sure she could not pretend she had misheard.

Tears streamed down from Eiravelle’s eyes as she heard that. She held onto her stomach, her fingers pressing against the swell of her belly as if she could protect the child inside from the weight of what she had just learned. "I am here to prepare you... Not dictate your actions. That is why you can still decline," Ragnar said.

Eiravelle frowned. She did not understand. How could she be the prophecy and still have a choice? How could she be the only one who could save the world and still be allowed to say no? It made no sense. It was cruel. It was unfair.

She could not help but cry as she held onto her stomach. The tears came freely now, hot and bitter, and she did not bother to wipe them away. "Why me? I am just a nobody." She said. Her voice was broken, the voice of a woman who had been told her whole life that she was nothing, that she was a burden, that she was a misfortune.

"If you’re willing to explore... You will find out who you are." Ragnar said.

There was a moment of silence between them, and Ragnar could only sigh heavily and nod. He looked at her with something that might have been pity, or sorrow, or perhaps just the weariness of a man who had seen too many people carry burdens they had not chosen. "I will give you one week to decide. Just remember, you don’t have to force it." He said.

He turned to leave, his steps slow and measured on the soft grass, and Eiravelle felt panic rise in her chest. He could not leave. He could not just drop this on her and walk away. She needed answers. She needed to understand.

"Master, wait! No! You have to tell me the truth!" She cried. She tried to follow him, her bare feet was slipping on the grass, but she was too slow. She was too heavy with child, too weak, and too afraid.

The ground shook. A great crack split the earth between them, wide and deep and dark, and Eiravelle slipped and fell off. She tumbled into the darkness, her scream was swallowed by the void, and she fell, and fell, and fell.

"AHHH!"

She jolted awake. It turned out it was all just a dream.

Eiravelle was soaked in cold sweat. Her heart was pounding in her chest, so hard that she could feel it in her throat, and her breath came in short, ragged gasps. She looked around her and saw she was in her bedroom—her familiar bedroom in the eastern palace, with its soft silks and its warm lamplight and its shuttered windows. The cherry blossoms were gone. The dark clouds were gone. Ragnar was gone.

But the fear was still there. It sat in her chest like a stone, heavy and cold, and she could not seem to shake it.

Saye and the other servants rushed to her when they heard her scream. They burst through the door, their faces pale with alarm, their hands reaching for her as if they expected to find her bleeding or broken.

"My lady?! Are you okay?!" Saye approached and asked with a quivering voice. She was at Eiravelle’s side in an instant, her hands fluttering over the omega’s shoulders, her face drawn with worry.

"My lady, what’s wrong?" Jily asked, her voice high and anxious.

"My lady, what happened?" Ana added, her eyes wide.

"My lady, do you need water?" Baley offered, already reaching for the pitcher on the bedside table.

Eiravelle looked at them—at their worried faces, at their trembling hands, at the way they hovered around her like mother hens—and she felt something inside her soften. They cared. They actually cared.

She had spent so long believing that she was alone, that no one would ever truly worry about her, and yet here they were, four women who had no reason to love her, standing in her room in the middle of the night because they had heard her scream.

She shook her head and smiled. It was a weak smile, a fragile one, but it was real. "Nothing... Just a bad dream." she said.

Saye did not look convinced. She knelt beside the bed, her hand finding Eiravelle’s and holding it gently. "A bad dream? My lady, you were screaming. You were thrashing. We could hear you from the corridor." She said. Her voice was gentle, but there was a firmness in it too, a determination to get to the truth.

Eiravelle looked away. She did not want to talk about it. She did not want to relive the dream, to see the dark clouds and the withered trees and Ragnar’s face as he told her that she was the prophecy. But she also knew that Saye would not let it go. Saye was loyal, but she was also stubborn, and she had a way of getting Eiravelle to talk even when she did not want to.

"It was just a dream," Eiravelle repeated. "A nightmare. Nothing more."

Saye studied her for a long moment, her dark eyes searching Eiravelle’s face. Then she nodded slowly, though her expression said she did not believe it. "If you say so, my lady. But perhaps some tea would help you sleep? Something warm and soothing?"

Eiravelle nodded. "Yes. Tea would be nice."

Saye stood up and gestured to the other servants. "Jily, go to the kitchen and fetch the mallow infusion. Ana, bring fresh water and a cloth. Baley, stay here and keep Lady Eiravelle company."

The servants hurried to obey, their footsteps quick and quiet on the marble floor. Jily disappeared through the door, Ana went to the basin to wet a cloth, and Baley settled into a chair near the bed, her hands are folded in her lap.

Eiravelle leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes. The dream was still there, lurking at the edges of her mind, and she could not seem to push it away. She saw the two sides of the world—the light and the dark, the healthy and the withered. She saw the black clouds advancing, slow and relentless, and she heard Ragnar’s voice: You are the prophecy.

She opened her eyes and looked down at her belly, at the swell that held her child. She thought of the future she had imagined—a quiet life in the palace, a life where she could raise her child in peace, where she could be safe, where she could finally stop running.

She thought of Arielle, of the promise she had made to write letters, of the hope that they would see each other again. She thought of Qazaethel, of the way the sovereign had held her, of the way she had promised to protect her.

And she thought of the prophecy. Salvation or destruction. Light or darkness. She did not know which she would become. She did not know if she had any choice at all.

But she knew one thing: she could not let the darkness win. Not for herself, not for her child and not for the world that had been so cruel to her and yet was still worth saving.

She closed her eyes again and took a deep breath. The fear was still there, but it was quieter now, buried beneath a layer of resolve. She would think about the dream in the morning. She would think about Ragnar’s words, about the week he had given her and the choice she had to make.

The beautiful, endless garden with its cherry blossoms and its sparkling stream. She thought of Ragnar standing beneath the tree, his face sad and patient. She thought of the dark clouds and the withered trees and the choice she had been given.

And she thought, for the first time, that perhaps she was not a nobody after all. Perhaps she was something more. Perhaps she was exactly what the world needed.

The thought was terrifying. She held her belly and breathed, "Qazaethel~" and her voice trembled as she felt her distress.