"This wasn't anger." Ivy's voice is gentle but firm. "I was watching his face, Sera. Something happened when you kissed him. He saw something. And whatever it was terrified him."
The bond. I felt it too — a surge of emotion so intense it nearly knocked me backward. Joy and longing, a desperate hope that made my chest ache with its rawness. And then... darkness. Crushing, consuming darkness, and grief so old it had calcified into something harder than stone. The echo of a scream that wasn't mine. The ghost of blood on hands that weren't my hands.
"You think it was about the pregnancy?"
"I think his instincts know, even if his conscious mind hasn't caught up." She tugs a strand of my hair gently. "The concealment spell hides the scent, but you're his fated mate. Some things go deeper than scent."
The children's laughter still echoes in my memory — little Thea's delight when I showed her how to make butterfly shadows, Eren's serious concentration as he perfected his dragon, the way they crowded around Malakai begging for more. The way he'd obliged with surprising patience, his shadows dancing to create wonder instead of fear.
I'd imagined our own child among them. I'd been so certain, in that moment, that this was the future we were building together.
Now I'm not certain of anything.
"What happened to his first mate?" The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
Ivy's wings still, her expression turning grave. "Julia." It's not a question. "So the whispers were true then."
"What whispers?"
"That she was his fated mate. That whatever happened to her..." She trails off, shaking her head. "What did he tell you?"
"That she died. Not much else." The admission tastes bitter. "He shut down after that."
Ivy's quiet for a moment, processing. "That... explains a lot, actually."
We've reached the palace now, the familiar corridors stretching before us in ribbons of shadow and candlelight. Servants pass with bowed heads, their whispers following in their wake. I catch fragments — "the Shadow Lady," "her arm," "did you see the frost in the garden?" News travels fast in this court.
I pause at the junction that leads to my chambers, exhaustion settling into my bones. This new fatigue that comes with early pregnancy is unlike anything I've experienced before — a bone-deep weariness that descends without warning.
"What are the whispers?" I ask. "What do people say about Julia?"
Ivy glances around, ensuring we're alone, before answering. "That she was his fated mate. That she died under mysterious circumstances—some say madness, others a curse. The records of her death are sealed, which only feeds speculation." She meets my eyes, her expression troubled. "And there are whispers about the eastern wing. That something terrible happened there. That he lost control somehow. But no one knows the truth—just rumors and fear."
My blood chills despite the warmth of the corridor. "Do you believe that?"
"I believe something terrible happened. I believe he blames himself for it, whatever it was." She lands on my shoulder again, her small hand pressing against my neck in comfort. "I believe he would rather die than let it happen again. Which might be exactly the problem."
Because if he suspects I'm pregnant — if his instincts are telling him what his mind refuses to accept — what will he do? Push me away? Lock me up for my own protection? Or will the fear of history repeating drive him to something worse?
The image of his face in the garden surfaces unbidden — the raw terror in his eyes when he saw my blood. The way he turned and walked away without meeting my gaze, his shadows billowing behind him like storm clouds. Running from me. Running from whatever future he glimpsed when our lips touched.
"I need to know what happened," I say quietly. "Before I tell him about the baby. I need to understand what I'm walking into."
"The archives might have something. Medical records, court documents..." Ivy glances toward the window, where afternoon light still filters through. "But we should wait until deep night, when the corridors empty and the guards grow complacent."
I want to argue, to rush there immediately, but she's right. "Fine. Tonight then."
Later that night we move through the corridors in the deepest part of night, when even the most diligent servants have retired. Ivy's wings provide just enough light to navigate by, a soft glow that doesn't carry far in the darkness.
"The archives are in the eastern wing," she whispers as we move through the shadows.
The archive lock yields easily — apparently they're more concerned with keeping dangerous books in than keeping curious fae and wives out.
Inside, the space stretches into darkness. Rows upon rows of shelves, centuries of records gathering dust.
"Medical records should be this way." Ivy leads me deeper, her wings dimming to barely a flicker.
We search for over an hour, hoping the sealed records might still be physically here, just restricted. Death certificates, healers' notes, household records. I look for Julia's name, for any documentation from that time period.
