Aurelia's violet eyes opened slowly, reluctantly. The room was too bright. Dawn had broken with a pale, unforgiving light that seeped past the edges of the curtain and fell directly across her pillow, stinging her tired gaze.
Her head throbbed—not a sharp pain, but a deep, sick, hollow drumming behind her eyes, as if her very thoughts were too heavy to carry. She lifted a trembling hand to her temple, her fingers cool against the fever-warm skin.
But the ache… the real ache was lower. In her chest.
A persistent, tender soreness had settled deep in her breasts overnight. The soft linen of her nightgown, which usually felt like nothing, now scraped like rough wool with every slight shift of her body.
Her breasts felt swollen, unfamiliar—heavier, as if weighted with something dense and warm. A sensation both foreign and unnerving.
Exhausted?
The word didn't begin to cover it. This was a weariness that had seeped into her marrow. She pushed herself up on unsteady elbows, the movement sending a fresh wave of nausea rolling from her stomach to her throat. The ghost of rose wine—sweet and cloying—haunted her senses, making her swallow hard against a sudden, acidic rise.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the stone floor cold beneath her bare feet, and tried to steady her breathing.
It must be because of Tenebrarum last night visit, she reasoned, her mind grasping for an anchor in the strange, bodily revolt. Perhaps that's why my body feels so heavy… so wrong.
She brought her arms up, crossing them tightly over her chest in a protective, almost defensive hug. The pressure of her own arms against the tender flesh brought a strange, dull comfort—a way of holding herself together when she felt on the verge of spilling apart.
There was no reason for the swelling. No reason for this leaden fatigue, this hollow sickness.
But her body knew a truth her mind was not yet ready to hear.
"Good morning, my lady. I have prepared your bath." Sorana bowed, then slowly lifted her head. Her eyes, usually calm, sharpened as they settled on Aurelia's face—the pallor, the slight sheen of clammy sweat at her hairline. "Is there a problem, my lady?"
"This room is choking," Aurelia breathed, her voice thin with strain. She pressed the back of her hand to her nose. "There's too much… flowers."
Her words struck Sorana like a physical blow. The room had always been like this—lavish with fresh-cut roses, gardenias, and sprigs of lavender in every vase. In fact, it was often far more fragrant, especially after evenings when Aurelia would request entire bouquets to be brought in. She had never once complained. Why now?
Sorana's gaze flickered from Aurelia's pale, tense face to the delicate pink roses blooming innocently on the side table. A cold, quiet understanding began to thread through her concern.
Why is she so sensitive to smell now?
"Perhaps I could remove a few of them, my lady? To ease the air."
"No," Aurelia said, her voice tight. "Take them all away. Every vase, every petal." She waved a trembling hand toward the window, where the morning sun streamed in like liquid gold. "And there is too much… light. Draw the curtains. All of them."
Sorana paused, her hands still clasped. The request was not just unusual—it was a reversal of Aurelia's very nature. This was a woman who had always sought light, who filled her space with blooms as if to ward off the palace's pervasive shadow.
"At once, my lady," Sorana murmured, bowing again.
She moved swiftly, gathering armfuls of blossoms, their scent now seeming cloying and oppressive even to her. As she pulled the heavy velvet drapes closed, plunging the room into a deep, muted twilight, she stole another glance at her mistress.
What is going on with her?
"Why are you still staring?" Aurelia's voice was thin, edged with an unfamiliar sharpness. "I thought you said you prepared the bath."
"Yes, my lady," Sorana said quickly, dropping her gaze. "I was… just awaiting your order."
She approached, her steps soft on the rug. Aurelia stood, her movements slow and heavy, and raised her arms. Sorana's fingers were careful, practiced, as she helped her mistress shed the thin nightgown. The fabric slipped from Aurelia's shoulders, then pooled at her feet, leaving her skin bare in the dim, curtained light.
Sorana kept her eyes down, but not before she noticed—the new fullness in her lady's breasts, the faint, bluish veins tracing delicate paths beneath pale skin.
Her hands stilled for only a heartbeat before she reached for the waiting robe.
Oh, my lady, she thought, the realization settling in her stomach like a stone. What have you gotten yourself into?
---
In the bathroom...
The steam rose in thick, silent clouds.
Aurelia stepped slowly into the scalding water of the tub, her skin flushing pink on contact. She sank down until the water lapped at her collarbones, her eyes drifting shut.
"I can't smell enough flower," she murmured, her voice muffled by the steam. "Pour the oils. The strong one."
The words struck Sorana like a physical contradiction. Moments ago, her lady had ordered every bloom removed from the bedchamber, calling the air choking. Now she wanted to drown in fragrance.
It doesn't make sense.
But Sorana did not question aloud. She paused, her fingers tightening around the crystal bottle of jasmine oil, then tipped it liberally into the water. The scent bloomed instantly—heavy, sweet, almost narcotic.
Aurelia rested her head against the cool edge of the tub, her body limp. Sorana's hands moved with practiced gentleness, washing the long strands of white hair, lathering soap over the slopes of her shoulders, the curve of her back, the unfamiliar softness of her abdomen.
Aurelia did not move. She did not sigh or shift or speak. She stayed as still as carved wood, her eyes closed, surrendering to the touch as if she were already somewhere else—somewhere the scent of flowers could mask whatever truth was taking root inside her.
"Perhaps you have a fever," Sorana ventured softly, her hands stilling in Aurelia's hair. The words felt inadequate, a shallow cover for the deeper, unspoken suspicion coiling in her own mind. "After breakfast, I will take you to a healer."
Aurelia's eyes remained closed. "There is no need for a healer," she said, her voice flat and final. "It is only tiredness. The palace air… it weighs on me. Nothing else."
But Sorana had already made up her mind. She had seen the signs before—not just in passing, but in her own mother.
The sudden aversions. The tender swelling. The bone-deep weariness that no amount of sleep could touch. And she remembered how it ended: her mother, pale and still, the baby never taking its first breath.
I am sure this is a child...
The certainty settled in Sorana's chest, cold and heavy. This was not just illness. It was a turning point—a secret that could either protect her lady or get them both killed.
"Don't worry," Sorana murmured, her voice carefully gentle as she continued to wash Aurelia's back. "It won't take long. It's just a small check. Better to be certain, my lady. For your peace."
And for your survival, she did not dare to add to her words.
-----------------------------
To be continued...