The carriage rolled steadily over the cobbled streets of Norin, its wheels humming a rhythm that matched the heartbeat in Dorian's ears. Dawn had already bled into morning, and the city was stirring—the scent of warm bread drifted from a bakery on the corner, mingling with the sharper tang of horse and iron. Merchants called as they hauled crates to market, children wove through narrow alleys laughing, and clerks hurried with their ledgers clutched tight.
Norin was alive in its usual way, but to Dorian, the world felt unusually quiet. Or perhaps it was just the gravity of this morning making every sound sharper.
Inside the carriage, Elara sat beside him, her posture graceful as ever, gloved hands folded over his. Her emerald eyes were bright, but he could read the tension in them as easily as most read a page. She shifted once, then stilled herself, hiding it beneath a smile that was just a fraction too practiced.
"Do you think he'll approve of my choice in gloves?" she asked suddenly, tugging lightly at the lace cuffs that peeked beneath her sleeves.
Dorian tilted his head, studying her with both amusement and the sort of microscopic scrutiny only he possessed. He smirked, brushing back a golden strand from her cheek. "What? Wait why would he even judge?"
She laughed, softly. A warm sound—but behind it, there was hesitation. Dorian caught it like a predator catching the flicker of prey in tall grass. He felt her lean just a little more against him than usual. And that hand of hers—resting so naturally on his arm—tightened once, then released.
She's carrying something, he thought. Not just physically—emotionally. A secret she's afraid to disturb by naming aloud.
He didn't ask. Not yet. Elara was many things, but above all she was proud. If she wanted him to know, she'd tell him. In the meantime, he would watch, and wait, and catch her when she stumbled.
The clinic was a pale stone building on the edge of the square, ivy climbing lazily over its façade. Its tall windows reflected the sun, catching the city bustle in fractured panes. Dr. Viktor stood beneath the arch, posture as precise as the man himself. His sharp eyes scanned them in an instant, missing nothing, though his smile was polite.
"Dorian. Elara," he greeted evenly. "On time, as always."
"Her doing," Dorian replied. "If I were left to manage time, we'd arrive tomorrow—after I'd burned the house down attempting tea."
Elara's eyes rolled in mock exasperation, though her hand squeezed his just once.
Inside, Dr. Aria—young, bright, steady—prepared the room. Instruments gleamed under lamplight, the air carried faint traces of herbs and alcohol. Elara took her seat with practiced poise, though again her hand brushed at her side, feather-light.
Viktor adjusted his spectacles, scanning his notes. "You've both been patient with me," he said carefully. "The reports from your last test—diagnoses from the old methods—suggested infertility. But truth be told, those methods are unreliable at best. Too crude, too general. They don't account for variations, for subtleties."
Dorian's arms folded across his chest, but his eyes never left the man. His mind was already running at full speed, connecting every data point he'd noticed these past weeks—Elara's altered appetite, her softer exhaustion, her subtle hand resting against her abdomen when she thought no one saw.
"Go on," he said softly.
Viktor's eyes flicked to Elara, then back. His voice lowered, steady but carrying weight. "You are not infertile. Less fertile, yes—pregnancy would be more difficult for you than most. But impossible? No. And in fact…" He set his notes down, straightening. "You are with child."
The words seemed to still the room.
Elara blinked, her breath catching. Her lips trembled, forming a disbelieving smile. "Truly?"
Viktor nodded. "Truly. I was cautious before saying anything, but the signs are clear. You are carrying."
Dorian felt a strange, rare stillness inside his own head. His mind, always a storm of ideas, theories, deductions, suddenly stopped. He had known. On some level, his instincts had whispered it. But hearing it aloud was something else entirely.
He crossed to Elara's side, kneeling slightly, taking her hand between both of his. His voice broke with quiet wonder. "So it's true. You're pregnant."
Her emerald eyes filled with tears, relief spilling into them. "Yes. I wanted to believe… but I thought… what if it was just another misread? What if it wasn't real?"
Dorian's smile was incredulous, almost boyish, though his brown eyes shone with reverence. "It's real. Elara—you've defied every chart, every stale diagnosis, every limitation of those doctors. You've turned probability into certainty. Gods, you've made even me speechless."
She laughed through her tears, pressing her forehead against his. "I was afraid it would change everything."
His hand cupped her cheek. "Of course it will. Everything worth having does. But it won't change you. It won't change us. It just… expands what we are."
For a long moment, the three of them were quiet—Viktor watching with his clinical restraint, Dorian and Elara wrapped in their own fragile joy.
By noon, they were back at the Velhart estate, its tall windows glowing in the late sun. The staff moved quietly, though whispers already seemed to ripple through the halls—the way news always traveled faster than ink.
Dorian and Elara sat in the study, quills scratching across parchment. His letter to Alric was brief but precise: a balance of pride and reassurance, weaving legacy and joy together with deliberate control. Hers was warmer, lighter, laced with humor for her family, painting the news as a soft, natural blessing rather than a miracle to be gawked at.
Still, by the time the wax had cooled on the seals, a visitor was already at the door. Monsieur Philippe Carven, Elara's painting master, stepped into the studio. His keen eyes swept over their faces, lingering on their glow, before a knowing smile curved his lips.
"Congratulations," he said gently. "No brushes today. I must not intrude on such an occasion."
Elara flushed, laughing softly. Dorian remained quiet at her side, cataloguing how easily others noticed what they themselves had barely accepted.
Later, another visitor: Matthias Korrin, Dorian's oldest friend. He swept into the room with characteristic charm, embracing them both in his way.
"I hear rumors faster than the courier network," he teased. Then, with lowered voice: "You realize what this means. Every noble hall will be buzzing by dusk. Infertile, they said—and now you carry an heir, never did I imagine you being a father."
Dorian's gaze flickered, but his hand tightened around Elara's. "Let them. I don't live for their whispers."
Matthias studied him a moment longer, then grinned faintly. "Good. Because whether you like it or not, many people just took notice of you both."
That night, when the estate finally quieted, Dorian and Elara sat by the open window of their chamber. The city beyond glowed in faint lantern light, a soft hum rising from the streets.
Elara leaned into him, her voice a fragile whisper. "It's real, isn't it?"
He kissed the crown of her golden hair, his eyes soft. "As real as us. And as wonderful."
And in the silence that followed, the enormity of it finally settled—not with the thunder of destiny, but with the quiet pulse of new life, steady and undeniable, promising to reshape their world.