Seraya’s POV
The paper felt heavier than it should.
The seal was thick with wax, the mark of the High Council pressed into it deep enough to scar. I broke it without ceremony. There was no point in delay. The words were as I expected. Worse in ink than they had been in my mind.
Five days. That was the time they allowed me. They wanted confirmation—of blood, of magic, of life. Whispers no longer sufficed. Not even my silence could stall them. The court wanted proof.
I found no comfort in my chambers, no stillness in the throne room. So I went where I could breathe.
The temple garden was walled by stone and high hedges. I ordered it locked and dismissed the priestess who had come to offer incense. The gravel path was narrow, bordered by wilted lavender and slow-turning ivy. I paced it again and again, my boots leaving uneven marks in the dust.
I knew the truth.
My body had betrayed me. The timing was off. There was no child.
I stopped when I reached the edge of the basin. It stood waist-high, carved from pale stone, its surface worn smooth with time. The water inside was still. I knelt beside it, hands braced against the edge, arms trembling more than I wanted to admit.
I couldn’t breathe. I had not failed in action or word, yet still, the lie was slipping through my fingers. If the council uncovered the truth, the treaty would collapse. My title would vanish. Theron would have every right to replace me fully, and there would be no path left for me but silence and exile.
My vision blurred. My throat tightened. I did not speak. I did not cry. But I could feel the panic clawing beneath my skin, sharp and hot.
I didn’t hear Caelum approach, but I felt him. But when he spoke, his voice pulled me back.
“Seraya,” Caelum’s voice came low, careful.
I did not move to face him. My grip tightened on the stone. My name sounded too gentle in his mouth.
He stepped closer, his presence folding around me without touch. He said nothing more. He waited. I hated that about him sometimes—that quiet patience. But it kept me upright.
“They’ve sent a demand,” I said, forcing the words past the weight in my chest. “Five days. They want confirmation.”
His silence pressed in, but not like judgment. It steadied me more than my breath did.
“I’m not—” The words stuck. I swallowed. “I’m not with child.”
The truth landed between us. Heavy. Unforgiving.
He didn’t curse. He didn’t move away. He didn’t offer comfort I didn’t ask for.
“There’s a spell,” he said. His voice was low, measured. “Old Virelian work. It binds shadows to mimic life.”
I turned then, just enough to glance over my shoulder.
He met my gaze, calm. Measured. But not cold.
“It can create the rhythm of a fetal heartbeat. Just enough for mages or midwives to detect,” he explained. “But it’s temporary. A few days at most.”
I studied him. His face held no doubt. Just calm. As if he had already accepted that we would do this. That there was no other way.
“What does it require?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “Shared breath. Shared energy. Physical contact. Sustained, and uninterrupted.”
I looked down at my hands. They were still shaking.
“Tonight,” I said. “We’ll do it tonight.”
He only nodded.
When night fell, I kept the fire low in my chamber. The lamps were unlit. The heavy curtains had been drawn shut, and the door locked from within. I did not call for attendants. I let no one see him enter.
He brought a small bowl with him, filled with a mixture of ash and ground salt. I watched from the bed as he stirred it slowly with two fingers, murmuring the incantation under his breath. His sleeves had been rolled. His tunic loose at the collar. He did not look at me until he approached.
I lay back against the bed, robe loosened, parted at the front. The air felt too cold against my skin, though my body was already warm.
He knelt beside me, holding the bowl.
“May I begin?” he asked.
I nodded, unsure if I could speak.
He dipped his fingers into the mixture and drew the first mark across the center of my chest. The ash was cool. His touch was not.
He traced downward—between my breasts, along the curve of my ribs, down the center of my stomach. His fingers moved with purpose, steady and slow. I watched him, barely blinking, unable to ignore the way my breath shortened with each line he drew.
He paused once, looking up at me as his fingers hovered above my hip. I gave him a slight nod. He finished the last symbols near the base of my abdomen, close enough to make my stomach tighten.
He set the bowl aside and climbed onto the bed. He hovered over me, his chest inches from mine. I felt the heat of him more than I saw him. My eyes adjusted to the dark, but it was his breath I followed.
“Ready?” he asked again.
I nodded, unable to find my voice.
We began to breathe together. At first it felt unnatural—too forced, too practiced. But then the rhythm settled. His chest rose. Mine followed. His exhale warmed my neck. Mine broke against his shoulder.
The room thickened. The air pulled tight. The marks on my skin began to tingle, first faint, then stronger. A pulse began beneath the surface of my belly. Not mine. Not his. Something crafted, something alive in the way lies sometimes were.
“It’s holding,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
He looked at me for a long time. Then he kissed me.
It wasn’t part of the spell. It wasn’t a gesture of thanks or obligation. It was something else entirely.
I kissed him back.
Because I wanted to.
We undressed each other slowly. Not for ritual. Not for performance. Because we needed to. Every piece of fabric removed felt like an act of honesty neither of us had dared before.
When he slid inside me, I didn’t gasp or cry out. I simply closed my eyes and felt it—every part of it. He moved slowly, but not weakly. His hands stayed on my hips, his mouth near my neck, his body pressed to mine like we belonged together.
I arched into him, not for show. I wanted him deeper. I wanted to feel something real.
Our pace stayed even. He didn’t rush. I didn’t turn away. I held his arm, his shoulder, anything I could find to keep him with me just a little longer.
When it ended, neither of us moved. The air still pulsed with the remnants of magic, but it wasn’t what kept me still.
His hand lay over my stomach, where the rhythm still echoed. My hand rested over his.
We didn’t speak. He didn’t ask what it meant. I didn’t either.
But I stared into the dark and wondered—if it wasn’t real, why did it feel like it was?
30
