Silence fell like a sudden weight.
Athalia gripped the edge of her vanity table, breath unsteady.
"No…" Her voice cracked. "That cannot be."
"It is true," Lira whispered gently. "I have seen it before."
Athalia stepped back, shaking her head as if denying reality might undo it.
Her voice lowered to a tremble. "Lira… you do not understand. I cannot be pregnant."
"Why, Your Majesty?"
Athalia's eyes glazed with fear. "Because..."
For the first time in many months, Athalia felt the walls closing around her. She remembered the voice of the old sorceress in the hut deep within the forest, a voice she had followed when desperation pushed her beyond the boundary of caution.
"You will have beauty, influence, admiration and everything you desire," the sorceress had said. "But the price must be bloodless. No child shall pass through your womb. For power and new life are never permitted to dwell together."
Athalia had agreed.
She had wanted so much then.
And now…
Her hand trembled over her abdomen.
"No…" she whispered again. "It was not supposed to happen."
Lira, confused but loyal, stepped closer. "Your Majesty, a child is a blessing."
Athalia's eyes hardened. "Not this time."
Lira paled.
"Is there a reason for the unhappiness, your majesty."
Athalia ignored the question.
She turned away, voice cold with panic. "I must go back to her."
At dusk, cloaked and silent, Athalia slipped out of the palace through the lower gardens. Lira followed at a distance, equally disguised.
They reached the forest path, the one Athalia remembered all too well. The hut stood beneath gnarled branches, exactly where it always had.
But when Athalia pushed the door open, her breath stopped.
The hut was empty.
Completely abandoned.
"No," Athalia whispered, frantic. "This cannot be."
She searched the shelves which had dust-covered vials, broken jars and scattered herbs. The air felt wrong and hollow. The sorceress's presence was gone, as though wiped clean.
"She's not here," Lira said softly.
Athalia slammed a palm against the wall. "She promised she would remain where I could find her."
Lira stepped toward her cautiously. "We must leave before someone sees us."
Athalia didn't move
Her voice dropped to a broken murmur. "Maybe, she knew."
"Your Majesty?"
"She knew this would happen," Athalia said, eyes wide with realization. "She knew I would come back and she hid herself."
Lira's breath trembled in confusion. "What does that mean?"
Athalia swallowed, throat dry.
"It means i'm doomed. And now… I don't know what becomes of me."
Unknown to both of them and hidden beyond the edge of the clearing, a faint silhouette watched.
"You mean "You", right grandma?". One of the Child asked.
"Yes, smart one. The Sorceress said. "I was draped in shadows and observed silently. But eyes glowed with something unreadable. It wasn't malice, nor pity, but inevitability. I had a feeling she will break the rule."
Then i vanished into the dark.
Athalia returned to the palace, Athalia moved like a ghost. She hid her sickness, her fear and her trembling hands. Adrain noticed her change almost immediately.
"You are distant," he said one afternoon as they reviewed council matters.
"I am tired," she answered simply.
"You have carried much responsibility these past months," he said gently. "Take rest. The kingdom is in good hands."
She closed her eyes briefly
Athalia opened her eyes, masking her fear with a smile. "You are proving yourself a capable king."
Adrain didn't quite believe her, but he let it rest.
For a time, the kingdom continued to prosper. But whispers began soft at first.
"Her Majesty seems pale again."
"She seldom attends the markets now."
"The Queen grows quieter each week."
And though the people still admired her, their confidence which was so easily given became just as easily unsettled.
Athalia's reflection troubled her. Her once luminous complexion seemed dimmer. The edges of her beauty felt strained, as though a hidden decay tugged from beneath the skin.
She touched her cheek, whispering, "Not yet… please, not yet."
Yet, the nightmares worsened.
One night she dreamed of a child crying in a cradle of thorns. When she reached for it, the child lifted its head with eyes dark and face twisted with something not human.
She awoke with a scream.
Lira rushed in, finding her Queen drenched in sweat.
"It's the same dream," Athalia whispered, shaking uncontrollably. "Every night now… the same child."
Lira hesitated. "Perhaps the physician…"
"No," Athalia snapped with sudden desperation. "No one must know. Not yet."
Tears welled in Lira's eyes. "Your Majesty… this secret is breaking you."
Athalia covered her face.
"I think it is too late to save me."
Over the next weeks, Athalia withdrew from daily activities. She appeared for important councils but spoke little. She walked the palace gardens alone, hands clasped over her stomach and eyes unfocused.
Adrain approached her gently one evening.
"Athalia… are you unwell?"
She hesitated. "Only tired."
"Then rest," he said softly. "I worry for you."
She turned away, unable to bear the sincerity in his voice.
Athalia couldn't explain the faint restlessness at night. The heaviness in her limbs when she rose in the morning. And the certain dryness around her eyes that powder could not fully conceal.
"Athalia darling." Adrain called out.
Athalia turned in shock.
"I'm fine. I just need rest."
Adrain nodded and kissed her forehead.
But the nightmares were impossible to ignore.
It all started the first year after Adrain's coronation passed in a flourish of victories, banquets, and newfound prosperity. The second year followed with even greater hope. But amid all the celebration, one whispered expectation lingered like a shadow behind every feast, every parade and every festival.
The kingdom wanted an heir.
And they waited.
When the queen walked through the palace halls, heads bowed in respect, but eyes lingered curiously, expectantly, and quietly wondering whether her figure might someday grow with the promise of a royal child.
Athalia ignored the whispers. She carried herself with grace, elegant and confident, her voice calm in councils and her presence steady beside Adrain. But after their second anniversary as ruling monarchs, even she felt the growing tension.
One afternoon, after a long council meeting, Adrain escorted her to the balcony that overlooked the palace gardens. The sun painted the sky in muted gold.
King Adrain was not a man who easily voiced disappointment. He carried himself with dignity, measured in action and temper.
"Athalia," he began gently as he reached out for her hands, "you must know what they're saying."
She rested her hands on the balcony railing. "I know."
"They want a child."
She didn't look at him. "Do you?"
He hesitated for only a moment. "I do."
The breeze rustled her hair. She turned only slightly.
"And if the child takes longer than they hope?"
Adrain sighed. "Then we wait. However, an heir stabilizes a kingdom. Without one, advisors may begin to imagine… alternatives."
Athalia closed her eyes briefly, suppressing the knot of dread tightening inside her.
"You are king," she said softly. "No advisor will dare replace you. Not under my watch."
"You know it's not that simple."
She did know. And yet she offered him a small smile.
"We will find a way," she murmured. "I promise."
But in her heart, she whispered another truth entirely:
I cannot risk breaking the pact.
That night, as Athalia lay beside Adrain in their great bed of carved sandalwood, her mind drifted unwillingly back to the memory she buried deep beneath the crown's weight.
The night she had traded the right to conceive for beauty, charm, and influence. They were tools she believed she needed to survive in a palace filled with doubtful eyes.
The bargain had been clear.
"You may rise," the sorceress had whispered, "but you will bear no child. For charm and new life cannot coexist. Choose wisely."
And she had chosen desperately and recklessly.
A choice that now stood between her and the king she had grown to care for more than she expected.
She opened her eyes in the dark.
Adrain slept peacefully beside her, unaware.
Unaware of the pact. Unaware of the price.
Unaware that she swallowed herbal infusions every night not to cure, not to ease discomfort, but to prevent conception entirely.
She turned her face away so he would not sense her guilt.
Inside her private chambers, hidden behind tapestries embroidered with Seatopia's crest, Athalia kept a small chest. It was made of dark wood, carved with symbols she pretended not to understand.
Only Lira knew it existed.
One morning, after the queen finished dressing for a diplomatic visit, she spoke quietly to her maid.
"Bring the chest."
Lira hesitated only a moment before retrieving it. The queen opened the lid, revealing small sachets of dried leaves, powders, and roots carefully wrapped in soft cloth.
Lira whispered, "Your Majesty… how long must you take them?"
"As long as necessary."
Lira's hands twisted together. "The king is troubled by the wait."
Athalia's voice hardened with an edge of fear she tried to hide. "I know, but he cannot know about this."
Lira lowered her eyes. "I understand."
Athalia selected the day's packet and dropped it into her tea.
The bitter scent rose to her nose.
She drank.
Then she said quietly, "Prepare the carriage."
But before Lira could step away, Athalia added, "And Lira… not a word to anyone."
Her maid bowed. "Never, Your Majesty."
Athalia watched her leave, heart sinking.
She hated the herbs.
She hated the secrecy.
She hated the fear that crawled under her skin every time she imagined the sorceress's cold smile.
So, she drank them because she had made a promise, especially a forbidden one.
By the third year of their reign, the longing for a child no longer hid behind political necessity, it had become personal.
The palace physician visited frequently to inspect Adrain's health after long war campaigns.
One afternoon, after another victorious return, the physician remarked casually:
"Your Majesty appears in excellent condition. A fine state to father heirs."
Adrain had smiled politely, but his eyes moved to Athalia, who froze, then recovered her composure.
Over the months, Athalia continued her internal struggle caught between fear and desire, between a secret she could not confess and a future she could not know.
She watched Adrain grow more distant, though he never stopped trying to reach her.
Later that night, he entered her chamber not in frustration, but with quiet vulnerability.
"Athalia," he said softly, "have you been unwell?"
She blinked in surprise. "Unwell? No."
"You have seemed… distant. Perhaps even fearful."
Her breath caught. "Fearful?"
"Yes," he said. "I cannot explain it, but you often look at me as though it pains you to speak the truth."
She lowered her gaze.
"Athalia, don't you want a child?"
Her throat tightened.
"I want what is best for the kingdom."
"That is not an answer."
She folded her hands, fingers trembling slightly.
"What if the kingdom is not ready?"
Adrain shook his head. "It is ready. And so am I."
His eyes softened.
"I want a family with you."
The sincerity in his voice pierced her like a blade.
She forced a steady voice. "It will happen, Adrain. When the gods will it."
He held her gaze a moment longer, studying her as though trying to pierce the walls she built around herself. But finally, he nodded.
"Very well." He said calmly grabbing her by the waist. "I hope I can sleep with my wife tonight?
Athalia smiled. "Ofcourse. My lord".
The next morning, as he left the room, Athalia buried her face in her hands.
She had lied again.