Chapter 116: The 8th Month

Another month later, and Eiravelle had entered her eighth month of pregnancy. The changes in her body had become more pronounced with each passing week, her belly round and heavy now, her movements slower and more deliberate.

She could no longer rise from a chair without assistance, could no longer walk the length of the corridor without stopping to catch her breath, and the baby had taken to kicking with a vigor that left her gasping at the most inconvenient moments. But the changes in Qazaethel were even more striking.

The sovereign had become more overprotective than ever, hovering at Eiravelle’s side whenever she was near, sending servants to check on her when she was not, and generally treating her as though she were made of the most delicate glass. It was endearing, most of the time.

Other times, it was exhausting. But Eiravelle never complained. She knew where it came from—the fear of losing her, the fear of losing their child—and she accepted it with the patience of someone who understood that love sometimes wore the mask of worry.

The eastern palace had settled into a quiet rhythm over the past month, the days blending into one another in a steady flow of meals and rest and gentle walks through the gardens. Eiravelle had taken up knitting again, a habit she had picked up in her fifth month and abandoned when the summer heat had made the yarn too warm against her fingers.

Now, with autumn creeping toward winter, the cool air had made the wool pleasant again, and she spent hours in her sitting room, needles clicking softly as she worked on tiny garments for the baby.

She had made booties and mittens and a small cap, and she was working on a blanket now, a soft cream-colored thing that she hoped would keep the child warm through the cold months ahead. It was a simple pleasure, a quiet one, and it helped her feel useful when so much of her day was spent resting.

Qazaethel had been busier than ever. The meetings with her council had grown longer, the reports from her spies more troubling, and the letters from the Reen kingdom more frequent.

Eiravelle did not press her for details. She had learned, over the months, that Qazaethel would share what she could when she was ready, and that pushing her only made her retreat further into herself. So she waited. She knitted, and she waited, and she watched the lines around Qazaethel’s eyes deepen with every passing day.

Then the Reen kingdom sent another letter. A negotiation letter, this time, which was a polite word for a list of demands wrapped in diplomatic language. Eiravelle had not read it—Qazaethel had not offered, and she had not asked—but she had seen the way the sovereign’s jaw tightened when she received it, the way her fingers had gone white around the parchment before she had folded it and tucked it into her sleeve.

The Reen kingdom wanted what they had always wanted: power, territory, control. They wanted Qazaethel to bow, to yield, to give up pieces of her kingdom in exchange for a peace that would never last. And they were not going to stop asking until they got what they wanted, or until someone stopped them.

Xelvyn, who had returned to Varnara with Yvaine three weeks ago, sent her own letter a few days later. Eiravelle received it in the morning, delivered by a courier who looked as though he had ridden through the night to bring it, and she read it in the quiet of her sitting room with her knitting forgotten in her lap.

Xelvyn would not be able to attend the meeting with the Reen representatives. Her handwriting was sharp and hurried, the letters slanted with tension, and her words were brief but clear.

The demon court was going against her. There had been accusations, challenges, and a rising faction that sought to unseat her from her throne. She was too busy fighting to keep her own crown to help with anyone else’s. She was sorry, she wrote, and Eiravelle could feel the sincerity in the words despite the distance. But sorry would not change the fact that Qazaethel would face the Reen representatives alone.

The news hit Qazaethel like a physical blow. Eiravelle saw it in the way her shoulders slumped when she read the letter, in the way her hands trembled before she set it down on the desk.

She had been counting on Xelvyn’s support, on the presence of an ally who understood the delicate balance of power between kingdoms. Without her, the meeting would be a battlefield with no reinforcements, a negotiation that was not a negotiation at all but a siege dressed in fine clothes.

Qazaethel was clearly stressed. The weight of it showed in the lines around her eyes, in the set of her shoulders, in the way her hands sometimes trembled when she thought no one was watching.

She had stopped sleeping through the night—Eiravelle could feel her shifting in the bed beside her, could hear her muffled sighs in the darkness—and she had stopped eating as much as she should. She was wearing herself down, piece by piece, and Eiravelle watched it happen with a growing ache in her chest.

Qazaethel came to visit her. Eiravelle was in the sitting room, settled into the wide chair by the window with her knitting in her lap, the pale cream yarn catching the soft light of the autumn sun. She had been working on the baby’s blanket for weeks now, and it was nearly finished, the edges uneven in places where her fingers had grown tired but still holding together.

She looked up when she heard the door open, and the sight of Qazaethel standing in the doorway made her smile. But the smile faded almost immediately. Qazaethel looked exhausted. Her face was pale, her eyes were shadowed, and there was a tightness around her mouth that spoke of pain held in check.

"My dear, are you okay?" Qazaethel asked, crossing the room to stand beside her. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to Eiravelle’s forehead, letting her lips linger there for a moment, and Eiravelle closed her eyes, leaning into the touch. The kiss was warm and familiar, and it carried with it all the love Qazaethel could not put into words.

Eiravelle nodded and smiled up at her. "I am, thank you. What about you?" She asked back, her hands never stopping their steady work with the needles. Qazaethel just kept smiling, but it was a tired smile, the kind that took effort to maintain, and she reached for Eiravelle’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Her palm was warm, but the fingers wrapped around Eiravelle’s were trembling slightly.

"Just tired... And stressed," she admitted, and the words came out heavier than she intended. Eiravelle saw the tremor in her eyes, the way her gaze flickered and wavered, and she knew that being the ruler of a vast and powerful land was not so easy.

It was not just the meetings and the letters and the negotiations. It was the weight of every decision, every life, every future that depended on her. Qazaethel carried all of it, all the time, and Eiravelle could see it draining her, bit by bit, day by day. So she stopped knitting, setting the needles down on the table beside her, and held Qazaethel’s hand.

"You’re stressed. It’s okay to tell me the truth, Qazaethel," she said, her voice soft but firm. The words were not an accusation. They were an invitation. Qazaethel shook her head, a small, stubborn gesture that Eiravelle had seen a hundred times before.

"I am just tired, that’s all," she said, but the words sounded hollow even to her own ears. Eiravelle softened even more and shifted closer, her pregnant belly pressing gently against Qazaethel’s side. She could feel the baby stirring, a soft flutter against her ribs, as if the child could sense the tension in the room.

"I know... And it’s okay to be tired with me... You’re not alone anymore," she said, and something in Qazaethel’s chest cracked. She had spent so long being strong, so long being the pillar that everyone else leaned on, that she had forgotten what it felt like to be held.

The tears came before she could stop them, welling up in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks, and she sucked in a shaky breath. She tried to turn her head away, to hide her face, but Eiravelle’s hand came up to cup her cheek, gentle and insistent, and held her there.

"I... I don’t... I really don’t want to cry, Eivy—" she started, but Eiravelle gently shushed her by putting her index finger on Qazaethel’s lips.

"I know. But you always acted like you’re very strong, Qaz. You also have a heart that can feel emotions and even get tired. You are a powerful God, we all know. But please, let me comfort you too," Eiravelle said, and she leaned in to kiss Qazaethel’s cheek, her lips were warm against the tear tracks on her skin. The kiss was soft and lingering, a quiet reassurance that she meant every word. Qazaethel closed her eyes, her breath hitching, and more tears fell.

"It should be me who should be your wall, you know? For our child too," Qazaethel said, and she wiped at her tears with the back of her hand, but more kept coming, and she could not stop them. The words came out broken, fractured by the sobs she was trying to swallow. Eiravelle smiled, a soft, tender smile that held no pity, only love.

"But I also love you. I am pregnant, yes, but I am not weak. I’ll always be here for you," she said, and she gently kissed Qazaethel’s forehead. The kiss was a benediction, a promise, and Qazaethel felt something in her chest loosen, just a little. "I will never leave your sight." The words were spoken with a certainty that left no room for doubt.

Qazaethel nodded, her composure was crumbling completely, and she pulled Eiravelle into a hug, her arms are wrapping around the omega and held on tight. She was careful, always careful, mindful of the belly between them, but there was a desperation in her grip that spoke of how close she was to breaking.

"Oh~ I really need this," she whimpered, and the sound was muffled against Eiravelle’s shoulder, but it was raw and honest and full of all the exhaustion she had been carrying for weeks.

She sobbed, her body shaking with the force of it, and Eiravelle held her through it all. She did not pull away. She did not tell her to stop. She simply held her, her arms are wrapped around Qazaethel’s shoulders, her cheek pressed against the sovereign’s hair, and let her cry.

"Shhh~ let it all out. I’m here," Eiravelle said, her voice a steady anchor in the storm of Qazaethel’s grief. She rubbed slow circles on Qazaethel’s back, her touch gentle and grounding, and she could feel the tension in Qazaethel’s muscles, the knots of stress that had been building for months.

She worked at them with her fingers, kneading gently, and slowly, Qazaethel’s sobs began to quiet, replaced by shaky breaths and occasional hiccups. The room was silent except for the soft sounds of Qazaethel’s crying and the distant rustle of leaves outside the window.

As she comforted Qazaethel, Eiravelle realized the true depth of what her beloved was suffering. The upcoming crises, the war of kingdoms that loomed on the horizon, the destruction of the world that seemed more inevitable with every passing day, the life she wanted for her baby—it was all too much.

It was too much for anyone to carry alone, and Qazaethel had been trying to carry it all by herself. She had been trying to shield Eiravelle from the worst of it, trying to be strong when she was breaking inside, trying to hold the world together with her bare hands while the world crumbled around her.

Eiravelle held her tighter, her own eyes stinging with unshed tears, and she felt the baby kick again, a sharp, insistent reminder of the future they were fighting for. The future that Qazaethel was trying so hard to protect.

She knew, in that moment, that she could no longer ignore Ragnar. She had been pushing the thought away for weeks, telling herself that it could wait, that there would be time later, that she needed to focus on the baby and her health and the immediate concerns of the present. But there was no later.

There was only now. The threat was not something that could be dealt with after the baby was born, after things were calmer, after Qazaethel had more support. Things were not going to get calmer. They were only going to get worse. Ragnar was out there, waiting, watching, planning, and every day that Eiravelle ignored him was another day he grew stronger.

She could not ignore him anymore. She could not pretend that he was someone else’s problem, someone else’s fight. He was her problem. He was her fight. And right now, holding Qazaethel in her arms and feeling the weight of her tears soaking through her dress, Eiravelle finally had a clear decision.