Chapter 113: Eiravelle’s Desperation To See Qazaethel

Eiravelle went back to the eastern palace with her steps quick and uneven, her breath still coming in short, sharp gasps. The carriage ride back had been a blur—just like the ride to the main palace, just like everything else since she had woken from that nightmare.

The world around her felt distant and muted, as if she were moving through a fog that swallowed sound and color. She could barely remember the streets passing by the carriage window, the faces of the guards who had helped her down, or the sound of Saye’s voice calling after her.

None of it had registered. The only thing she could feel was the frantic, clawing need in her chest—the need to do something, to fix this, to save the alpha she could not live without.

The eastern palace was quiet when she arrived, the servants bowing as she passed, their faces a mixture of confusion and concern. They had not expected her back so soon. They had not expected the wild look in her eyes, the way her hands trembled at her sides, or the way she moved as if something were chasing her.

A few of them exchanged glances, unsure whether to approach or retreat, but Eiravelle did not notice any of it. She did not notice the way the late afternoon light slanted through the windows and cast long shadows across the marble floor, or the way the silk curtains stirred in the breeze from the open doors.

She was aware of nothing except the pounding of her own heart and the singular thought that drove her forward—she had to make the potion. She had to save Qazaethel.

Saye hurried after her, her footsteps quick and light on the marble floor, her voice a constant stream of pleas that Eiravelle did not hear. "My lady, please—you must rest—the baby—" Saye’s words tumbled out, breathless and desperate, but Eiravelle did not slow down.

She did not even turn her head. She simply kept walking, her hand pressed against her belly, her gaze fixed on some point ahead that only she could see. Saye reached out as if to grab her arm, but her fingers barely brushed the fabric of Eiravelle’s sleeve before she pulled back, afraid to touch her lady without permission.

She had served Eiravelle long enough to know when the omega was beyond listening, and this was one of those times. Still, she could not stop herself from trying.

"My lady, you’ve been traveling all morning, and you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday. Please, just sit down for a moment. I’ll bring you something to eat, and then—"

Eiravelle cut her off without looking back. "There’s no time. I need to get to the kitchen."

"The kitchen?" Saye’s voice rose with alarm. "My lady, you shouldn’t be—"

"I said there’s no time, Saye." Eiravelle’s voice was sharp, sharper than she had ever used with her maid, and it echoed through the corridor. A few servants flinched at the sound, their eyes widening with surprise and fear.

Saye fell silent, her lips pressing together as she swallowed her words, but she did not stop following. She could not stop following. If her lady was going to do something reckless, someone had to be there to catch her when she fell.

Eiravelle went to the kitchen to get some ingredients and open the fire as she prepared a casserole. The kitchen was warm and quiet, the embers of the afternoon fire still glowing in the hearth, and the scent of dried herbs hung in the air. It was a large room, with high stone walls and shelves lined with jars and baskets and bundles of hanging plants, and normally it was a place of calm, steady activity.

But now it felt different. The air was thick with tension, and the shadows in the corners seemed darker than they should have been. Eiravelle moved with a desperate kind of efficiency, her hands are shaking as she pulled open cabinets and drawers, searching for what she needed.

The clatter of pots and the rustle of dried leaves filled the silence, and she did not care if she broke anything. She did not care about anything except getting this potion made before it was too late.

Saye and the other servants were getting more worried with every passing moment. They hovered near the doorway, their faces pale, their hands wringing, and they exchanged glances that spoke of fear and helplessness.

They had never seen their lady like this—so frantic, so reckless, so utterly consumed by something they could not understand. One of the younger servants, a girl named Tessa who had only been working in the eastern palace for a few months, whispered to the woman beside her, asking if they should send for the healer.

The older woman shook her head, her expression grim, and whispered back that the healer could not help with whatever was wrong. This was not a sickness of the body. This was something else entirely.

Saye wanted to speak again, wanted to grab Eiravelle’s hands and still them, but she knew it would be useless. The omega was beyond reason now. Her eyes were wild, her movements jerky, and there was a feverish flush to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat of the kitchen.

She kept muttering under her breath as she worked, words that Saye could not quite make out, and her hand kept drifting to her belly as if she were reassuring herself that the child was still there. That, more than anything, frightened Saye. She had seen Eiravelle in many states over the months—happy, sad, angry, exhausted—but she had never seen her like this.

"Saye! Get me other ingredients, hurry!" Eiravelle said, and she started boiling the water. The pot was heavy, and she nearly dropped it in her haste, but she caught it at the last moment and set it on the fire with a clatter that echoed through the kitchen.

The flames leaped up, licking at the bottom of the pot, and the water began to bubble almost immediately. Steam rose in lazy spirals, and Eiravelle watched it with an intensity that was almost frightening, her fingers drumming against the stone counter as she waited for the water to boil.

Saye had no choice but to obey Eiravelle. She hurried to the pantry, her footsteps quick and light on the stone floor, and began gathering everything she could find—dried herbs, roots, powders, anything that might be useful.

Her hands were trembling, and she dropped a jar of dried rosemary, the glass shattering on the floor. The sharp scent of the herb filled the air, mixing with the steam and the smoke from the fire, but she did not stop to clean it up. She simply grabbed what she could and ran back to Eiravelle, her arms are full of jars and bundles.

"Ana, Jily, and Baley. Get me some herbs. Find me the Ruby flowers—it can be found in trees that grow a different red flower, and it glows. I need ten different herbs you will find. Hurry!" Eiravelle said, then started stirring the boiling water as she put the first ingredients she could find in the kitchen.

She did not measure them. She did not even look at what she was doing. She simply grabbed handfuls of this and pinches of that and threw them into the pot, her movements frantic and imprecise.

The three servants scrambled to obey, their faces a mixture of confusion and alarm. Ruby flowers were rare—they grew only on the oldest trees in the palace gardens, and they bloomed only at certain times of the year. Finding them would not be easy, especially not in the fading light of late afternoon.

But they did not question her. They simply ran, their footsteps fading into the corridor as they disappeared into the gardens. Ana and Jily exchanged a glance as they ran, their fear mirrored in each other’s eyes, but neither of them spoke.

There was no time for words. Baley, the youngest of the three, stumbled on the garden steps and scraped her palm on the stone, but she picked herself up and kept running, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

Saye helped her lady as best she could, and she moved faster than she ever had before, her movements bordering on desperation. She chopped and measured and stirred, her hands moving with a speed that surprised even herself. She had never been particularly skilled in the kitchen—she was a lady’s maid, not a cook—but she had learned enough over the months to know what she was doing.

And this—this potion—was something Eiravelle had read about in the academy, in a dusty old book that she had found in the library. A fire-resistant potion. It was simple enough, if one had the right ingredients, and Eiravelle had memorized the recipe years ago, never thinking she would ever need it.

Saye did not know the recipe, but she knew how to follow instructions, and she knew how to keep her hands steady even when her heart was racing.

"My lady, slow down," Saye pleaded, but Eiravelle was clearly not listening. She was lost in her own world, her mind focused entirely on the task at hand, and nothing Saye said could reach her.

The omega’s hands moved with a frantic energy, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps that seemed to catch in her throat. Every few seconds, she would pause and press her hand harder against her belly, as if she were trying to soothe the child inside her, and then she would resume her work with even greater urgency.

A few minutes later, the three servants returned with herbs, the flower she required, and uncertainty written across their faces. They held out their treasures—the Ruby flowers, still glowing faintly in the dim light of the kitchen, and a bundle of herbs that they had gathered from the gardens and the pantry.

The flowers were beautiful, their petals were a deep crimson that seemed to shimmer with an inner light, and the herbs were a mixture of green and gold and silver, their scents sharp and unfamiliar. Eiravelle took it all and put them all in the boiling water and continued to stir.

The flowers dissolved instantly, their glow was spreading through the liquid, and the herbs followed, releasing a scent that was sharp and strange, like nothing she had ever smelled before. She kept stirring until the water turned into a glowing crimson liquid, the color of blood and fire.

After that, she turned off the fire and poured the potion into a small cup. She blew on it, trying to cool it so she could drink it immediately, but the liquid was stubborn—it stayed hot, the steam curling upward in lazy spirals, and no matter how hard she blew, it would not cool. She blew until her cheeks ached and her head spun, but the steam kept rising, and the cup remained too hot to touch.

"It’s not getting colder," she sobbed, her tears are streaming down her cheeks again as she felt like a failure for not being able to turn the hot liquid into a cold one. The tears were hot on her face, and she wiped at them with the back of her hand, but more came, and more, and she could not stop them.

She was so tired. She was so scared. And she could not even do this one simple thing. The thought that she might fail Qazaethel, that the alpha might suffer because she was too slow, too weak, too useless—it crushed her.

She pressed her forehead against the edge of the counter and squeezed her eyes shut, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. She had come so far. She had done everything she could think of. And still it was not enough. It was never enough.

As she was losing hope along with the mood swings of being pregnant, a hand held the cup with two hands and used magic to make it cold faster. The magic was gentle, a soft blue glow that spread across the surface of the liquid, and within seconds, the steam had vanished, replaced by a faint mist of cold. Eiravelle felt the chill against her skin before she saw it, and she lifted her head, her breath catching in her throat.

She raised her gaze and saw it was her older sister, Arielle. Her sister’s face was drawn with worry, her eyes dark with fear, but there was something else there too—something steady and strong, something that Eiravelle had always been able to rely on.

Arielle had always been the one to fix things, to make the world right, and seeing her now, Eiravelle felt a wave of relief wash over her. It was not the relief she needed—it was not Qazaethel’s scent, Qazaethel’s warmth, Qazaethel’s arms around her—but it was close, and for now, it was enough.

"Sister?" She breathed.

"Don’t cry, sister is here now," Arielle assured her, and Eiravelle suddenly hugged her tight and cried against her shoulder. The embrace was desperate, clinging, the kind of embrace that came from months of fear and loneliness and the desperate need to be held.

Eiravelle pressed her face into the curve of her sister’s neck and breathed in her scent—lavender and parchment and something warm and familiar—and realized that Qazaethel’s scent was still what she needed. Arielle’s scent was comforting, but it was not the same. It did not calm the storm inside her the way Qazaethel’s did. But it was close, and for now, it was enough.

"I don’t know what happened, and I know you won’t tell me," Arielle said softly, her hand was moving in slow circles on Eiravelle’s back. "But I will help you get through this, okay?" Her voice was steady, but Eiravelle could hear the worry beneath it, the fear that her sister was trying to hide.

Arielle had always been good at hiding her fear. She had always been the strong one, the one who kept her composure while the world fell apart around her. But Eiravelle knew her well enough to see the cracks in her armor.

Eiravelle slightly withdrew, looking up at her sister with eyes that were red and swollen. "Even allow me to go to Qazaethel?" She asked. The question was simple, but it carried the weight of everything she could not say. She needed to see her. She needed to be with her. She needed to make sure she was alive.

Arielle looked at her with pure worry in her eyes. The question hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning, and for a moment, Arielle did not know what to say. She glanced at the cup in her hands, at the faint crimson residue that clung to its sides, and then back at her sister’s face.

"The sovereign is having a fever," she said finally, her voice was careful and measured. "If you get too close, she’ll burn you. Eivy, you’re pregnant. Please don’t put yourself in danger."

But Eiravelle just smiled. It was a small smile, fragile and sad, but there was something in it that Arielle had not seen before—a quiet certainty, a resolve that could not be shaken. "I made a fire-resistant potion," Eiravelle said, and her voice was steadier now than it had been all day.

"Don’t worry about me anymore, please." She took the cup from Arielle’s hands and drank the whole thing in one long swallow. The potion was cold and bitter on her tongue, and it burned going down, but she did not flinch. She had endured worse. She had endured the separation from Qazaethel, the nightmares, the long hours of not knowing whether the alpha was alive or dead. This was nothing compared to that.

Arielle watched her, her heart was aching with fear and love and something that felt almost like pride. Her little sister had grown so much. She remembered when Eiravelle was just a child, small and fragile and always clinging to her skirts, afraid of the dark and the thunder and the shadows in the corners of her room.

She had been so easy to protect then. Arielle had been able to keep her safe, to chase away the monsters and dry her tears. But now—now Eiravelle was standing before her, pale and trembling and pregnant, and she was drinking a potion she had made with her own hands so she could walk into a burning room to save the person she loved.

She had become someone who would risk everything for someone else. And Arielle could not stop her. She could not protect her from this. All she could do was trust her.

Arielle nodded slowly, her throat tightened with emotion. "Then I’ll bring you to the Sovereign if that’s what you truly need and want," she said, and she pulled Eiravelle into another hug. This one was tighter, fiercer, the kind of embrace that said everything words could not. It said I love you. It said I’m scared. It said I trust you. It said please come back to me.

Eiravelle hugged her back, and for a moment, she allowed herself to feel the warmth of her sister’s love. It was a small comfort, a brief respite from the fear that had been gnawing at her for hours, and she held onto it for as long as she could. Then she pulled away, her expression determined, and she turned toward the door.

"Let’s go," she said.

Arielle nodded and followed her out of the kitchen, leaving Saye and the other servants standing in the corridor, their faces were pale with worry and their hearts are heavy with fear. They watched their lady go, and they prayed—to whatever gods might be listening—that she would come back safe.

Saye pressed her hands together and whispered a prayer she had learned as a child, a prayer for protection and safe return, and the other servants bowed their heads and did the same. None of them spoke. There was nothing left to say.