Chapter 12: Qazaethel’s Memory of Eiravelle On The Spring Festival

Qazaethel was now alone in her bedchambers, taking a hot bath.

The steam rose in gentle spirals from the surface of the water, carrying with it the delicate fragrance of lavender oils that her handmaidens had carefully poured into the marble basin earlier.

The warmth seeped into her muscles, loosening the tension that had taken root in her shoulders throughout the long day of courtly duties and endless meetings with ministers who could never seem to agree on anything of true importance.

She leaned her head back against the smooth edge of the bath, her silver-white hair was spreading across the water like liquid moonlight.

The high ceiling of her bedchambers stretched above her, decorated with intricate murals depicting the three supreme Gods watching over the divine realm of Solkanaia.

Candlelight flickered from dozens of sconces along the walls, casting dancing shadows that made the painted figures seem almost alive.

But Qazaethel saw none of it.

Her golden eyes had grown distant, unfocused, lost somewhere in the labyrinth of her own memories. The warmth of the water faded into the background as her mind drifted backward through time, carried by currents of recollection that she had long kept buried beneath the weight of her responsibilities.

She remembered the Spring Festival.

She remembered her.

***

[FLASHBACK]

The streets of Solkanaia’s capital city had been transformed into a sea of color and sound that day. Banners of gold and crimson hung from every windowsill, fluttering in the warm spring breeze that carried the scent of blooming flowers and freshly baked pastries.

The Spring Festival was a time of celebration, a time when even the most solemn of divine beings allowed themselves moments of joy and frivolity.

Qazaethel had decided to disguise herself as a young lordess that day. Someone who is not important like her sovereigh persona, enough not to draw attention from anyone.

It was a simple enough ruse, fine but unremarkable robes of deep emerald silk, and a carefully practiced posture that suggested nobility without revealing her true station.

Beside her walked Liv, who had agreed to accompany her on this venture with the resigned patience of someone who had long since learned that arguing with the Sovereign was an exercise in futility.

"Lordess Zae," Liv had said, using the honorary title they had agreed upon, "are you certain this is wise? The city is crowded. There could be threats hidden among the commoners."

Qazaethel remain neutral even. "That is precisely why we must walk among them, Liv. The conspiracy brewing within my palace did not manifest from nothing. Someone in this city knows something, and I intend to find them."

They had moved through the bustling streets together, two figures seemingly out for nothing more than leisurely entertainment. All around them, commoners hawked their wares with enthusiastic cries, their voices were blending into a symphony of commerce and celebration.

"Oh! Young Lordess, buy some floating paper and send your wishes to the clouds! The supreme Gods may read your prayers and might make them happen!"

A female alpha vendor had suddenly stepped into their path, her weathered face was bright with the eagerness of a merchant who had spotted potential customers.

In her hands, she held sheets of delicate rice paper, each one was carefully folded and tied with a thin crimson ribbon.

Qazaethel stopped, her attentionwas caught by the simple beauty of the papers. The tradition of sending floating papers into the clouds during the Spring Festival was ancient—so ancient that even the oldest records could not pinpoint when it had first begun.

It was believed that the three supreme Gods of the higher realm looked down upon these offerings, reading the wishes written upon them and granting those that pleased them.

A million years, perhaps more. Time had little meaning in matters of faith.

Qazaethel looked at the floating paper in the vendor’s hands, her fingers are twitching with an impulse she could not quite name. Something about the simple act of writing a wish and sending it skyward appealed to her in a way she had not anticipated.

Liv, however, hesitated. Her hand found Qazaethel’s arm, gripping it gently but firmly, her golden eyes darted between the Sovereign and the vendor with barely concealed concern.

"Lordess Zae... Are you certain to accept such a thing?" Liv asked, her voice was lowered to a near whisper. "I was worried it might be filthy."

The vendor’s expression crumpled immediately at Liv’s words, her bright smile faded into something wounded and defensive.

Qazaethel could see the woman’s hands trembling slightly, could see the desperation in her eyes that spoke of a hard life spent struggling to earn even the smallest coin.

Without a word, Qazaethel reached into the pouch at her belt and withdrew a heavy bag of coins. She pressed it into the vendor’s hands, her movements were unhurried.

"Eh? Young lord, this is... Heavy..." The vendor’s eyes widened as she felt the weight of the bag. "The price only cost one coin of Kanaia!"

Kanaia—the currency of their realm, each coin was stamped with the profile of the current Sovereign. A single coin could purchase a modest meal. A hundred could feed a family for a month.

"I like your honesty," Qazaethel said, her voice carried the warm authority that came naturally to one born to rule. "Keep the bag of one thousand coins of Kanaia. That is your reward."

The vendor’s mouth fell open. For a long moment, she seemed frozen in place, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what had just been given to her.

Then the words spilled out in a torrent of gratitude, her voice cracked with emotion as she bowed repeatedly, pressing her forehead nearly to the ground.

"Thank you! Thank you, young lord! May the supreme Gods bless you! May your wishes reach the highest clouds! May—"

Qazaethel had already turned away, the floating paper was clutched loosely in her fingers. She walked on without looking back, ignoring the vendor’s continued praises and thanks.

The weight of the paper in her hand was negligible, almost nonexistent, yet it felt strangely significant.

Liv fell into step beside her, offering no further protest. She had learned long ago that there was no point in questioning the Sovereign’s decisions, especially when such a sum was nothing more than a drop in the vast ocean of Qazaethel’s wealth.

"I want to try the floating paper before we go on to our plan," Qazaethel said, her gaze fixed on the delicate sheet in her hand.

"As you wish, Lordess." Liv’s response was immediate, her tone was carefully neutral as she maintained the proper honorary title.

The streets were crowded with commoners who would not recognize the Sovereign’s face as no one had met her before outside the palace, but one careless slip of the tongue could ruin everything.

Their true purpose in walking the streets of Solkanaia was far more serious than mere festival revelry. Someone within Qazaethel’s own imperial palace was feeding information to enemies beyond its walls, and the Sovereign had grown tired of waiting for the conspiracy to reveal itself through conventional means.

She had decided to hunt for answers herself, to walk among her people and find the threads of treachery that had been within the walls of her imperial palace.

But first—the paper.

What should she write?

Her mind wandered through the possibilities. She could wish for prosperity for her realm, health for her children, wisdom to guide her decisions as Sovereign.

All of these were good wishes, proper wishes, the kind of wishes that a ruler should make.

But none of them felt right.

She thought of all that she possessed—the palace with its countless rooms, the treasury that was overflowing with gold and jewels, the armies that answered to her command, and the subjects who bowed in her presence.

She had power beyond measure, wealth beyond counting, and influence that stretched across the entire divine realm.

She had everything.

Except for one thing.

Qazaethel’s eyes widened as realization struck her with the force of a thunderbolt. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she forgot where she was, forgot the crowds and the festival and the conspiracy she was meant to be investigating.

Love.

She did not have love.

Not the kind of love that poets wrote about in their verses, not the kind that made hearts race and souls intertwine. She had duty and obligation, respect and admiration, but she had never known what it meant to be truly, deeply loved by another person.

The thought was so profound, so unexpected, that she nearly dropped the paper. She had never allowed herself to dwell on such matters before—there had always been too much to do, too many responsibilities to shoulder, and too many crises to manage.

But standing there in that quiet ground, surrounded by the sounds of celebration, the truth of her emptiness pressed against her heart like a physical weight.

She would write it.

She would write the wish that she had never dared to speak aloud.

Qazaethel use her power to write a single word upon the floating paper.

Love.

The alphabets flowed from her fingers with practiced ease, yet they felt more significant than any decree she had ever signed or any law she had ever enacted.

She folded the paper carefully, pressing the creases flat with her fingertips, and then lifted her hand to the sky.

The floating paper rose from her palm, caught by some invisible current of magic that carried it upward. It joined the countless other papers already drifting through the air, a sea of white and gold against the blue sky of the heavens.

Together, they rose higher and higher, disappearing into the clouds where the supreme Gods were said to dwell.

Qazaethel watched until her own paper could no longer be distinguished from the others, lost among the hopes and dreams of her people. A strange sense of peace settled over her—a feeling that, somehow, she had done something right.

She hoped that her floating paper would be read.

She hoped that the wish would be granted.

She hoped that, one day, she would know what it meant to be truly loved.

"Your majesty. Let us go?" Liv’s voice cut through her reverie, gentle but insistent.

Qazaethel nodded, pulling herself back to the present, back to the purpose of their excursion. "Yes. Let us continue."

They walked through the festival together, their pace was unhurried as they observed the crowds, searching for any sign of the informant who had been selling palace secrets to shadowy figures.

Qazaethel’s heart was not entirely in the hunt, however—her thoughts kept drifting back to the floating paper, to the wish she had sent skyward with such desperate hope.

They passed vendors selling spiced meats and sweet pastries, children chasing each other through the streets with brightly colored ribbons tied to their wrists, and musicians playing cheerful melodies on flutes and drums.

The atmosphere of celebration was infectious, and despite her worries, Qazaethel found herself smiling.

Eventually, they came to a jewelry shop.

The establishment stood out from its neighbors, its facade was decorated with gleaming golden symbols that seemed to pulse with soft light. A sign above the door proclaimed it to be the property of one Lord Thane, and the windows displayed an array of exquisite pieces—necklaces, rings, bracelets, each one was glittering with the unmistakable aura of enchanted craftsmanship.

"This place speaks of wealth," Liv observed, her tone carried a note of appreciation. "And magical comfort. The kind of place that would attract all manner of people."

Qazaethel nodded, her interest was piqued. "Let us enter."

The interior of the shop was even more impressive than its exterior. Shelves lined every wall, filled with jewelry of every description, each piece was carefully labeled with its magical properties, protection, safety, comfort, luck, fertility, strength.

A pleasant warmth filled the air, the result of countless enchantments woven into the very stones of the building.

Qazaethel paused just inside the doorway, her eyes are sweeping across the room. Something about this place felt significant, though she could not say why.

Perhaps it was the sheer opulence of it, or perhaps it was the way the magical energy seemed to hum in the air like a distant song.

She reached for her golden mask and put it on, ensuring that it was securely in place. The shopkeeper might recognize her—he had visited the palace last autumn to celebrate her first child’s birthday, and he was sharp-eyed enough to remember a face.

"Ah, General Liv!"

The voice was warm and welcoming, and Qazaethel turned to see a male alpha approaching them with a broad smile. He was of middle years, his features was refined and his bearing was elegant, his robes of deep purple silk spoke of considerable wealth.

Lord Thane, the shopkeeper.

"What brings you here to my humble shop?" He asked, bowing with a flourish that was more theatrical than reverent.

Liv chuckled, a sound that held no true malice. "Humble? I would hardly call this extravagant place humble, Lord Thane."

"Haha, you flatter me so much, my Lordess." Thane’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "And who is this with you? A female alpha... So tall and... Elegant."

His gaze had fallen upon Qazaethel, and she could see the curiosity flickering in his eyes as he studied her posture, her bearing, the way she held herself with unconscious authority.

"Your presence feels very familiar to me, Lordess," Thane continued, tilting his head slightly. "I feel as though perhaps we have met somewhere before."

Qazaethel felt a lump form in her throat. If her identity were discovered, their entire plan would be ruined. The informant would go to ground, and she would have lost her only lead.

"Lord Thane! I am here now!"

The voice cut through the moment like a blade, sharp and clear, and both Qazaethel and Thane turned toward the entrance.

Standing in the doorway was a young omega.

She was petite, with a slender frame and delicate features that spoke of youth and innocence. Her hair was a soft pink, tied back in a practical ponytail that had come slightly loose during her journey through the streets.

Her robes were simple—far too simple for the kind of establishment she had entered—and carried the faint scent of cooking oil and bread.

But it was her eyes that drew Qazaethel’s attention.

They were the color of warm pink rubies, bright and alive with a spark of intelligence that belied her humble appearance. There was something in those eyes, something that made Qazaethel’s breath catch in her throat and her heart beat just a fraction faster.

"Oh hello, Lady Eiravelle."

Thane’s voice had softened, grown sweeter, as he turned his attention to the new arrival. He approached her with a familiar ease, his hands are reaching for the wooden basket she carried.

"I cooked all the egg sandwiches you asked for," the omega, Eiravelle said, her voice was light and musical. She smiled as she handed over the basket, and Qazaethel felt something shift in her chest, something she could not quite name.

"Thank you, Lady Eiravelle." Thane took the basket gently, almost reverently, and placed it on a nearby counter. "How much would it cost me, then?"

"Only two hundred Kanaia."

Thane nodded and withdrew a bag of coins from his pocket, pressing it into Eiravelle’s hands. "I have added eight hundred tip to it," he said, "so I hope you never stop making egg sandwiches."

Eiravelle’s face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds. "Really?! You are so cool, Lord Thane! I will make sure to prioritize my deliveries to you!"

The genuine joy in her voice was infectious, and Qazaethel found herself smiling despite her suspicion. She watched as Thane chuckled warmly, his earlier curiosity about her was forgotten in the face of the omega’s enthusiasm.

"You do not have to prioritize me," Thane said, his tone was gentle. "Just be careful in the streets. And this wooden basket is too heavy—if your sister finds out I am making you carry it, she might send me to the interrogation office."

His words were light, but there was an undercurrent of genuine concern beneath them.

Eiravelle’s expression flickered with something that might have been worry. "Ah? N-No! No. Please rest assured that my sister is fair and just."

She continued to speak to Lord Thane, her voice filled the shop with warmth and energy. But Qazaethel was no longer listening to the words.

Her mind had seized upon something far more significant.

Her sister.

Eiravelle had a sister, and from the sound of it, this sister was someone powerful enough to threaten a wealthy shopkeeper with interrogation.

Someone who enforced the law, who had authority over the very institutions that governed the divine realm.

Qazaethel’s gaze sharpened as she studied the omega more closely. Everything about Eiravelle seemed ordinary—her clothes were simple, her manner was unassuming, her presence was barely noticeable in the opulence of the shop.

And yet, if she was connected to someone of power, then why was she delivering egg sandwiches through the streets like a common vendor?

"Liv," Qazaethel whispered, her voice was barely audible above the continued conversation between Eiravelle and Thane. "Investigate this omega."

Liv leaned closer, her expression was carefully neutral. "Your Majesty, she is Prime Minister Arielle’s little sister."

The revelation hit Qazaethel like a physical blow. Prime Minister Arielle was one of the most powerful figures in the divine realm, second only to the Sovereign herself in matters of law and governance.

The woman was known for her iron will and her unwavering commitment to justice.

And her sister was... This? A humble omega delivering egg sandwiches to shopkeepers?

"If she is the Prime Minister’s sister," Qazaethel whispered back, her voice was sharp with confusion, "why is she selling egg sandwiches?"

Liv’s expression grew pained, and she looked away for a moment before answering. "Your Majesty is probably not aware... She is the plague that everyone is talking about. A being born from a disgraceful act of her <anno data-annotation-id="ac743d62-0784-424f-9e86-ebc1b0194647" data-title="Oma">Oma¹</anno>."

Qazaethel’s expression faltered.

She had heard whispers, of course—rumors that circulated through the palace and the streets, stories of an omega child born under circumstances that had shamed her powerful family.

But she had never paid them much attention. The affairs of noble families were not her concern, not when she had a realm to rule and conspiracies to unravel.

Yet now, looking at Eiravelle, at the bright smile and warm eyes, Qazaethel found herself strangely affected by the revelation.

"Still," she said, her voice was hardening with purpose, "do a deeper background check. Now."

Liv nodded and bowed subtly, her movements are so slight that no one watching would have noticed. "Yes, Lordess."

She turned and slipped away, disappearing into the crowds of the festival without another word. Qazaethel remained in the jewelry shop, her gaze was fixed on the omega who continued to chat with Lord Thane, unaware that the Sovereign of the entire divine realm was watching her.

Eiravelle laughed at something Thane said, the sound was bright and genuine, and Qazaethel felt her heart twist with an emotion she could not quite name.

There was something about this omega.

Something that drew Qazaethel’s attention in a way that nothing and no one had managed to do in years.

<annotations style="display: none;">A term used to describe a female omega parent.</annotations>