CHAPTER 281: CHAPTER 280: SEED OF LABOR

Mortal Realm

The Capital of Birmingham

The palace.

The great hall of the king’s castle hummed with echoes of polished boots and murmured counsel. The meeting had broken, and courtiers drifted away like leaves scattered by wind. Henry walked out at the center of it, advisors at his shoulders, the pope gliding in solemn pace beside him, and the merchant queen trailing in a perfume cloud that clung to her silks.

The air smelled of wax and incense, heavy with the residue of arguments that had passed like storm currents. The king’s hand brushed the carved balustrade as he descended, the cool stone grounding him. Outwardly, he was smiling, face steady as carved oak. Inwardly, his thoughts were knives.

"We will not lose, folks," Henry’s voice carried, slow and reassuring. "Our alliance is still strong. Even the empire has found their coalition, but ours is built through camaraderie, not fear—unlike how the warmaster, not the emperor but Warmaster Arthur, stitched his power."

The pope nodded, lifting his jeweled staff faintly. "Indeed. However much he calls himself emperor, with the Empress alive and breathing, he cannot claim the title. That is our advantage. Even his nobles are not truly backing him."

Henry inclined his head, lips bending into that practiced smile. The smile that never touched his eyes. "Okay then..."

The merchant queen stepped forward, bracelets chiming like soft chains. "I heard Queen Isabella is still confined to bed with sudden sickness. I pray for her recovery."

The pope echoed, his voice calm but edged with priestly distance. "Indeed. I shall pray to God Almighty, who watches and blesses us, that she may heal."

Henry kept smiling, but in his chest the smile dissolved to ash. I hope that whore dies this time around, he thought, the venom lodged deep.

"Of course," he answered aloud, tone smoothed. "I will relay your words with heartfelt dignity."

They dismissed, leaving Henry with his commander, a man in armor that caught every flicker of torchlight like a mirror.

"Your majesty," the commander began, hesitant. "Are you sure? Her majesty seems... truly in pain."

Henry stopped, gaze sliding to the carved door ahead. Isabella’s chambers. A door gilded with symbols of union, once painted with hope, now nothing but a wall between him and loathing. His jaw clenched.

"Devid," Henry said slowly, "don’t utter such words to me. You already know. Because of her—she died. My queen. My beloved. Atlas’s mother." His voice caught, but only for an instant. His hatred was stronger than grief. "I was ready to put Isabella’s head on the guillotine the moment I found out. But..."

Devid lowered his gaze, muttering, "Lara... brought fruits of her genius talents."

Henry’s hand balled into a fist. "Indeed. If not for Lara, Isabella would be dead. As she is already dead to me." His words carried like stones in a river, heavy, unyielding.

He walked past the door, each step an act of denial, but his body burned with hate that memory alone could not quench.

Inside the chamber, Isabella writhed. Her body drenched in sweat, her breath shallow and ragged, her gown clinging to her like a second skin, green silk turned darker with dampness. She had been caught between ecstasy and agony for four relentless days.

Her lips parted, a name slipping out like a prayer. "...Aiden. Aiden..."

The noble with yellow hair. The man who had entered her life like fire breaking into a locked room. His touch, his girth, his merciless rhythm—he had unmade her. Her habits of chasing young men, of turning them into passing toys, had dissolved after him. He had left her with a hunger that tasted like addiction.

But now—now something inside her shifted, and it wasn’t mere lust. His seed had sparked something different. She had thought it was pregnancy. She had almost cherished the idea, despite the blood that proved otherwise. But the feeling had grown sharper, deeper, until she felt as though her very womb was reshaping.

The pain peaked, twisting her spine, her voice breaking into gasps that echoed against stone walls.

At last, something broke free. From her depths emerged.... light—not blood, not flesh, but light, burning, living, radiant.

It spilled from her with trembling heat, landing in her hands, heavy yet weightless. Her fingers shook as she held it, her sweat dripping onto it, steam rising faintly from the glow.

She stared, awe and fear mingled. "...This... this belongs to him. To Aiden. To that cursed noble."

Her lips trembled. "What are you, Aiden...? Are you a god of some kind?"

The light quivered, as though answering, then rose. Isabella panicked, reaching for it. "No—don’t leave me. Stay."

But it slipped, lifting from her palms, ignoring her pleas. It drifted toward the balcony, gentle but resolute.

"Wait!" Isabella lurched from her bed, knees buckling. Her gown tangled around her thighs, her legs too weak, but desperation fueled her. She stumbled, hit the floor hard.

"Wait!" Her hand stretched, fingertips clawing the air, but the light slipped through the curtains, through the open balcony doors.

Her heart sank with it, her chest hollowing. That light was hers. She had birthed it. To lose it now was to lose her last sense of belonging.

"Don’t leave me..." Her whisper cracked, thin as glass.

The light fled. It streaked across the afternoon sky like a star out of place, a comet blazing in daylight. Eyes turned up in the city, whispers breaking into the streets. Priests crossed themselves, children pointed, old men muttered omens. The palace’s banners fluttered as if they, too, felt the disruption.

The light traveled faster, darting like a messenger of fate, until it reached another palace. The palace of Claire—the Relentless. The queen who never was.

It descended gently, like dew falling from heaven, until it reached the stone walls. There a cat lay sprawled, sleeping in the sun. Its fur was dusted with gold where the rays touched, its tail flicking in dreams. The light fell onto it, entered it as easily as a drop enters the ocean.

The cat jolted awake. Its back arched, fur bristling, a low growl slipping out. Then silence. Its eyes changed—no longer the sharp slits of a beast, but luminous, molten gold. Not entirely human, not entirely feline. Something in between.

"...meow..." The sound was warped, resonant, as though carrying words it couldn’t form.

It leapt down, claws tapping stone, gaze locked onto the garden below.

Eli sat in the garden. Alone, but never truly alone. Servants lingered at the edges, their presence stiff, more observers than attendants. Her hands were delicate around a porcelain cup, steam curling from the tea like whispers of another world.

The cat’s eyes fixed on her. Or rather—on her stomach. It saw the echo of something within, something similar to the light that now pulsed in its own chest. Recognition flared, primal and undeniable.

The cat crept closer, each step silent but weighted, like an omen crossing the grass.

Eli sipped, unaware, her gaze distant as though she stared through the garden into futures yet to come.

And the golden eyes of the cat narrowed, patient, waiting, as fate unfolded.