Chapter 45 THE DRAINING PREGNANCY
Later that evening, after the halls had quieted, Athalia walked through the eastern corridor toward her chambers. Lira followed behind her, carrying a lit lantern.
“Your Majesty,” Lira whispered, “you are walking too much today. Shouldn’t you rest?”
Athalia glanced at her briefly. “Do not sound like the stewards. I am fine.”
Lira hesitated, noticing how Athalia’s fingers trembled slightly as they brushed the wall for support. “Still… if the king sees...”
“The king,” Athalia murmured, “sees what I allow him to see.”
Lira said nothing more.
They reached the chamber doors. Once inside, Athalia dismissed her.
“Have a good night, Lira.”
“Good night, Your Majesty.”
The door closed and the room grew silent.
Athalia removed her earrings, then her necklace, placing each piece carefully into a rosewood box. Her movements were slow, deliberate. Her reflection in the mirror stared back—pale, thin, almost translucent under the candlelight.
She placed a hand on her stomach.
“They think I want to be king,” she whispered to herself.
The child inside her shifted. It was a faint, unsettling movement that felt far stronger than a normal flutter.
She inhaled sharply.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I suppose they should be afraid.”
That Night, Athalia woke drenched in cold sweat, her breath shaking. The child inside her drew on her strength, draining her like a candle burning too quickly.
She could feel its hunger, and its awareness.
It felt like a presence.
Sometimes, she heard whispers that did not belong to her thoughts and other times, she sensed people talking behind closed doors from across the palace.
The baby was listening and learning.
Athalia stood one night on her balcony, staring at the moonlit courtyard below. Her skin looked almost silver in the pale light, fragile and haunting.
Adrian stepped out behind her. “You’re awake again.”
She didn’t turn. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist gently. “You’re cold,” he whispered.
“I’m fine.”
“You are not,” he insisted softly. “ This isn’t like you.”
Athalia placed a light hand over his. “I’m simply adjusting to the child. Everything will settle soon.”
“I worry,” he said.
She leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. “Don’t.”
He kissed her forehead. “Come inside.”
She let him lead her back into the room.
But when he closed the balcony curtains, Athalia glanced once more at the dark courtyard.
She sensed movement but saw nothing. So, she turned away slowly.
That night, the drain was worse.
Athalia woke up gasping, her fingers cold and stiff. Her heart beat too slowly, as though it was struggling under invisible hands. She reached for the candle beside her, but her arm trembled too much to strike the match.
“Your Majesty?” Lira hurried in, carrying a small lamp. She must have heard the queen’s gasps. “You look faint, should I call the royal physician?”
“No.” Athalia forced herself upright. “No physicians.”
“But you can barely sit…”
“I said no physicians, Lira.” Athalia's voice cracked, but she steadied it. “This is not an illness.”
Lira swallowed hard. “Is it the child?”
Athalia closed her eyes. She did not want to admit it but there was no denying it anymore. “Yes.”
Lira knelt at her bedside. “I can prepare the herbs again, the ones you used before…”
“It will not work.” Athalia exhaled shakily. “I tried twice. The pregnancy refuses to end.”
Lira’s eyes widened. “Refuses…?”
“A child should not have a will of its own,” Athalia whispered. “But this one does.”
A silence filled the room, broken only by the distant echo of guards changing shifts on the lower floors.
“What will you do, Your Majesty?” Lira finally asked.
Athalia wrapped her hand around her lower abdomen. “What I must. I will endure it. Until I find a way.”
“But if anyone discovers…”
“They will not,” Athalia said firmly. “I will not allow that.”
The next morning brought a new problem.
Hunger.
A brutal, empty hunger that no food could satisfy. She ate twice her usual portion at breakfast. The servants exchanged puzzled looks but said nothing. At lunch, she asked for more bread, more fruit, more fish and anything within reach. Even Lira stared, confused and concerned.
“Are you…feeling well, Your Majesty?” Lira whispered.
“Yes,” Athalia answered without emotion. “I simply require more strength.”
Later that afternoon, she excused herself from court early. Adrain noticed, gaze filled with worry.
“Are you tired, Athalia?”
“A little.”
“You have been pushing yourself too hard,” he said gently. “I keep telling you to rest. Let me handle more duties.”
She managed a faint smile. “You are a king, Adrain. You cannot carry both our burdens.”
“I would if I could.”
His sincerity stabbed at her.
“I only need a short rest,” she assured him. “I will be fine by evening.”
He nodded, though not fully convinced. “Let me bring supper to your chambers tonight. We have not eaten alone in a while.”
Her heart tightened. He would notice her devouring food like a starved wolf. “Perhaps another evening,” she replied softly.
He kissed her forehead before she turned away.
Queen Athalia had grown used to waking in discomfort, but that afternoon the ache felt deeper than usual, as though something tugged at her from the inside. Her breath came in slow, uneven waves, and the simple act of lifting her arm felt heavier than lifting a shield.
The curtains in her chamber swayed gently with the breeze, scattering soft gold light across the marble floor. The palace was unusually quiet at that hour. Only the distant sound of servants talking in the courtyard could be heard through the partly open window.
Athalia sat on the edge of her bed, one hand pressed lightly to her abdomen. She had learned to endure pain ever since the day she realized she was pregnant, but the last few weeks had begun to push her beyond endurance. She felt drained almost every night, and each morning she woke paler, thinner, and colder.
She whispered to herself, “Not now… just give me a little strength.”
But the child in her womb did not listen.
A sudden sharp pull shot through her body and her breath hitched. She gripped the sheets tightly, with nails digging into the fabric. The sensation was not like normal pain but felt like her blood was being drawn slowly, inch by inch, by an invisible thread.
“Lira…” Athalia called weakly.
Her maid, Lira, stood on the other side of the room, folding some of the Queen’s robes. She turned quickly at the sound of her voice.
“Your Majesty?” Lira hurried to her side, her expression tightening with concern. “Is it happening again?”
Athalia nodded. She could not speak through the pressure building in her chest.
Lira placed a hand gently on her back. “I will call the physician at once. You cannot continue like this.”
She was walking out hurriedly.
“No,” Athalia whispered, her voice thin.