"I am leaving the palace."
"But.."
"My son needs me," Queen Elizabeth said, her voice firm despite her trembling. "Eric must not suffer alone. And Emelia… she must feel the presence of family beside her."
The handmaiden hesitated. "Will you speak with King Adrian before departing?"
"No," Elizabeth said. "He would not understand."
The queen mother's departure was swift.
By dawn, whispers echoed through the corridors.
"She is gone from the palace."
"She went to the exiled prince."
"She left without permission!"
"She couldn't bear the Princess losing her grandchild."
But the truth was more complex.
That morning, King Adrian heard of his mother's departure while meeting with his advisors.
"What do you mean she left?" Adrian demanded, his voice echoing sharply through the council chamber.
The advisor bowed nervously. "Your Majesty, the queen mother departed before sunrise. She left a single message in her chamber."
"Where is it?"
The advisor handed him a sealed parchment. Adrian opened it and read silently:
"Son,
I failed your brother and his wife when they needed me most. I cannot fail them again. I'll be with them to provide comfort.
Forgive me,
Mother."
He lowered the letter slowly.
"The rumors have reached her as well," said Lord Blaythe, one of the senior advisors. "She must be afraid for the Prince."
"Or she feels guilt," another advisor said. "The people believe she had a hand in Prince Eric's downfall."
Adrian's expression turned cold. "My mother is not a traitor."
But the room remained silent.
He slammed the letter on the table. "No one is to pursue her. She is still royalty and will not be treated like a fugitive because of rumors."
The advisors bowed.
Still, Adrian could not deny the growing unease in his chest. His mother had not left because her grandchild was killed. She left because her conscience was drowning her.
"But why?" Adrain thought to himself
Queen Elizabeth traveled for two days, stopping only when the horses needed rest. Along the way, villagers greeted her with respect, though with confusion in their eyes.
"Why is the queen mother so far from the palace?" they whispered after she passed.
She ignored the questions, pressing on.
The road leading to Eric's place of exile was harsh with rocky paths, sparse trees, and thick silence. The world felt colder the closer she came, as if the land itself remembered the injustice done there.
On the third day, just before sundown, Queen Elizabeth
She reached the small cottage where Eric and Emelia lived. She stepped down from the carriage, steadying herself with trembling hands.
The cottage door opened slowly.
Prince Eric stood in the doorway.
His hair was longer, his face leaner. He looked older, not in years, but in pain. Suffering had carved lines along his eyes. His posture held quiet resignation, but also strength forged through hardship.
When he saw his mother, he froze.
"Mother?" he whispered.
Elizabeth's lips quivered.
"Eric… my son…"
Emelia appeared behind him, her face pale, her expression gentle. She wore a simple gown, her hands folded protectively over her stomach, a habit she had not yet unlearned, even after the loss.
Tears blurred Queen Elizabeth's vision. She had not seen them in years, even though she sent them items.
"I came to you," she whispered. "I should have come long ago."
Eric did not move. Not at first. The wound of betrayal had not healed quickly, and his mother's presence brought back memories he fought hard to bury.
But Emelia stepped forward softly.
"Mother, please come in," she said. "She shouldn't be standing here, Eric"
Eric looked at his wife, then back at his mother.
Slowly, he stepped aside.
Queen Elizabeth entered the small home, overwhelmed by its simplicity that was far removed from the palace's grandeur, yet filled with warmth she had not felt in years.
She turned toward them, her voice cracking:
"I know you have suffered more than anyone should. And I… allowed it. And now you've lost the only thing that makes you happy. I'm so sorry, I was weak when you needed strength."
Eric's eyes softened, but pain still lingered.
"Mother," he said quietly, "why are you here now?"
"Because," Queen Elizabeth whispered, tears falling freely, "I learned of your loss, Emelia. Of the child you carried. Of the pain you endured. And I could not remain in that palace another moment knowing I contributed to this agony."
Emelia stepped closer, her eyes shining with grief. "Mother, It was not your fault."
"It was," She insisted. "It was… in part. I see that now. And I have come not only to ask for your forgiveness but to stay with you and make sure to protect you, if you will have me."
"But the palace, the people..?"
"I have already informed your brother." She said,
"And he agreed?"
"He's not as cold hearted as you think." She said
Eric inhaled deeply, looking between his wife and his mother.
Emelia gently touched his arm. "She is still your mother, Eric."
And for the first time in years, Eric reached for her slowly, hesitantly embracing her with a fragile forgiveness.
Queen Elizabeth cried into her son's shoulder.
From that day on, the queen mother remained with them. She cooked meals with Emelia, helped her heal physically and emotionally, tended to the garden, and sat with Eric in the evenings as he repaired tools or read by the fire.
Rumors continued in the palace but more twisted than ever.
"She has joined Eric's rebellion!"
"She wants to dethrone Adrian!"
But Queen Elizabeth paid them no mind. In exile, she found something she had not known in years.
Peace and though it lingered, it wasn't satisfying as speaking the truth.
Meanwhile, in the palace, King Adrain moved on. His mother's visit to exile had saddened him, but Athalia's aura had a way of comforting him.
Weeks passed, and the palace was now filled with warmth that had developed between Adrain and Athalia, something gentle but not overly sentimental.
Adrain cherished her, took pride in her poise, and admired her counsel. Athalia, in return, gave him loyalty, companionship, and the image of stability a king needed.
After breakfast, she attended to her duties: receiving noblewomen, reviewing palace finances, monitoring repairs, addressing minor disputes among the servants, or sitting beside Adrain during council meetings.
She moved gracefully through all of it. She smiled when expected, listened when required and ruled when needed.
But on some days, which were too many lately, something scraped at the back of her mind. A quiet discomfort and a creeping sense of fatigue. A pressure that felt subtle but persistent. And then there were the herbs.
The herbs had been her secret for years. It was made of dark green leaves and tiny bitter seeds crushed into a drink. They prevented pregnancies, a condition she had been required to maintain because of the pact she had sworn long ago.
Lira was the only one who knew, not the full truth, but enough to understand their purpose.
"Your Majesty," Lira said one afternoon while arranging dresses in the queen's wardrobe, "shall I prepare the mixture for today?"
Athalia hesitated at her mirror, brushing her hair. "Not today," she murmured. "I am expected in the south hall in a moment."
"I can bring it there, if…"
"No, Lira. Leave it for now."
Lira bowed quickly. "Yes, Your Majesty."
The problem was simple: Athalia was busy. Too busy and too distracted. Too consumed by the burdens of ruling beside Adrain, the councils, the nobles, and the unrest at the borders.
And perhaps… a part of her wanted to forget.
A part of her was tired of denying the possibility of a child. A part of her wondered what life might look like without the constant fear of consequences.
This wasn't the first time she failed to take the herb. Yet, although she had felt the pact was real, she couldn't believe its punishment couldn't have ended.
Still, the herbs were forgotten again, and again, and again. Well, until the day she realized it was too late.
The nightmare came without warning.
Athalia was lying beside Adrain, the palace silent around them. A soft breeze slid across the curtains. The night was peaceful until it wasn't.
In her dream, she stood in a forest drenched in fog. A woman cloaked in tattered black beckoned her from between the trees.
"Athalia…" the voice whispered, thin and stretched. "You broke the pact."
"I did not!" Athalia tried to speak, but her voice was swallowed by cold air.
"Life grows where death was demanded."
The ground cracked beneath her feet. Dark roots wrapped around her ankles, pulling her down. She struggled, gasping, clawing the air.
Then she heard an infant crying. It sounded like a shrill, that was unnatural, and echoing as though inside a cavern. When she turned, she saw a cradle made of twisted branches, rocking slowly. Inside it was a baby.
Its skin was darkened and rough, its eyes glowing faintly like embers. Its cry was unlike anything she had heard. And then she woke up.
She shot up, gasping, clutching her chest. Adrain stirred beside her, half asleep.
"Athalia?" he whispered. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," she lied. "Just a dream."
He reached for her hand and hugged her. "It's okay, I'm here. Let's go back to bed."
She lay beside him, staring into the darkness until morning broke.
Three nights later, it happened again.
This time, she stood in the throne room. Torches flickered against the stone walls. She saw Adrain sitting on the throne, but his eyes were hollow, his skin pale as marble.
"You brought ruin," he whispered. "You let it grow."
"What are you talking about?" she cried out.
There was no answer. Then looked towards Adrain.
"Adrain…" she tried to move toward him, but blood began dripping from the ceiling, pooling at her feet.
The cradle appeared again, but now the baby's arms reached out to her, longer than human, and clawed at the ends.
The torches extinguished one by one and darkness swallowed everything.
She woke with a scream that startled Adrain upright.
"Athalia! What is it?"
"Nothing," she insisted, cold sweat trickling down her back. "Nothing but another dream."
He wrapped his arms around her, trying to soothe her trembling. "What is it about? If something is troubling you, tell me."
"You worry too much,I'm fine. It's just a dream" she whispered.
But she was the one who worried.
Desperately.
The third nightmare was worse.
This time she was crawling. Her hands were bleeding. She was trying to reach the cradle but her arms wouldn't move right. They stretched farther than they should have. Her fingers bent backward and her skin darkened.
She wasn't herself but was becoming the thing inside the cradle.
The sorceress appeared then, her face hidden, and her voice sharp.
"You were warned."
Athalia tried to speak and to plead. But her mouth wouldn't open and her jaw had fused shut.
The sorceress knelt beside her, whispering into her ear:
"The child will take everything."
Athalia jolted awake, her throat burning with a silent scream.
Lira was at her door moments later. "Your Majesty? I heard…"
Athalia shook her head violently. "I am fine."
But Lira's eyes were sharp. "You are not, my lady."
Athalia pressed a hand to her forehead. "Its a dream and nothing more."
But Lira did not look convinced. "You've had many such nights lately."
Athalia forced a steady voice. "It will pass."
Still, after Lira returned to her bedding, Athalia whispered to herself:
"It must pass. I have earned too much for it to crumble now."
But Lira wasn't satisfied. She saw Athalia look pale and dizzy sometimes. Lira stood behind her, watching her carefully with curiosity.
"Your Majesty," she said quietly, "may I ask a question?"
"Of course."
"When was the last time you took the herbs?"
Athalia paused. Her brush stopped mid-stroke.
"I… don't remember."
Lira stepped closer. "Forgive me, but I must ask, have your cycles come this month?"
"No," Athalia whispered.
"And last month?"
Athalia's breath halted.
The room felt colder. The mirror seemed too reflective, and too revealing. She set down the brush and placed a hand against her stomach, her fingers trembling.
Lira gently took her wrist. "Your Majesty… I think you are with child."
The words hit her like a blow.