Chapter 93 A beautiful day, I guess.
Maureen Laskovic:
The soft rustle of fabric was the only sound for a heartbeat after the dressing-room curtain parted.
Nyxara stepped through.
“Oh my goodness…” The words slipped out of me before I could catch them. “You look beautiful, Nyxara.”
She really did.
Her dark skin caught the warm, diffused light in a way that made it look polished, almost luminous—like midnight stone kissed by starlight. The long dress clung and flowed at the same time, every subtle shift of her body sending tiny ripples across the deep charcoal fabric. A thin silver thread had been woven through the neckline and along the sleeves; it caught the glow and shimmered faintly with each breath she took.
Gods…
She was breathtaking.
Nyxara offered a small, shy smile—the kind that began in the crinkles at the corners of her eyes before slowly blooming across her lips. “Thank you, Maureen.”
Her voice came quieter than usual, almost hushed, as though the moment itself demanded reverence.
I blinked hard, fighting the sudden sting behind my eyes.
“I can’t—I can’t believe this is happening,” I whispered, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth to steady the tremor in my voice. It cracked anyway on the last word. “It’s such a beautiful day… such a perfect, perfect day.”
She let out a soft, trembling laugh. “I know.”
Then she reached for my hands.
Her fingers were warm, carrying the faintest tremor. She guided my palms with slow, deliberate care until they came to rest against the gentle, unmistakable curve of her lower belly.
At first I didn’t understand.
My brows knit together. I searched her face, confusion flickering through me.
But she was already smiling—wide and radiant, the kind of smile that swallowed her eyes into joyful half-moons.
“What…?” My breath caught. “Don’t tell me—”
“Yes.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, yet every syllable rang clear and bright, like a bell struck in stillness. “I’m pregnant.”
The word landed like cool spring water poured over fevered skin.
“What?!”
A wild, disbelieving laugh tore out of me. “What?!”
I clapped both hands over my mouth, then dropped them just as quickly, unable to contain the rush. “Oh my gods—thank you, Moon Goddess—thank you, thank you—”
“And to whatever dark gods might be listening in the shadows,” Nyxara added, her grin turning wicked and playful for a heartbeat.
That broke me open completely.
I surged forward and pulled her into my arms.
The embrace began fierce, almost desperate, as though I could hold the miracle itself against my chest. Then it softened, deepened, as the truth settled deeper into my bones. Her cheek pressed warm against mine; I breathed in the faint jasmine oil she always wore on days like this, felt the steady thump of her heartbeat echoing against my own.
Tears came whether I wanted them to or not.
They slipped hot and silent down my cheeks, soaking into her hair. I didn’t fight them. She didn’t pull away. Instead her arms tightened around me until I could feel the small, secret swell of her belly cradled safely between us—like a promise pressed against my heart.
“Beautiful,” I choked out against her shoulder. “You’re so beautiful.”
She gave a watery little laugh. “Oh no—Maureen, we have to stop crying. Today is supposed to be happy. We’re not allowed to ruin our faces before the ceremony.”
“I know, I know.” I sniffed hard, trying to drag myself back together. “But you just—you just told me the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
We stayed locked like that a little longer, swaying gently in place, breathing each other in, letting the moment stretch and hold us.
When we finally eased apart, her eyes were shining too—dark pools glittering with unshed light.
She took both my hands again, more gently this time, thumbs brushing over my knuckles.
“You’re the first person I’ve told,” she said softly. “Az doesn’t know yet. Eryz doesn’t know yet. I wanted you to be the first.”
My throat closed tight.
She squeezed my fingers.
“And… I want you to be the godmother.”
The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
“What?” I managed, voice barely a thread.
“Say yes, Maureen. Please.” Her voice cracked on my name, raw and pleading. “You’re the only one I trust with this—with them. You’ve been here through everything. Say yes.”
I stared at her.
Tears welled up again, faster this time, blurring her beautiful face.
“Of course,” I whispered. Then louder, the words breaking through a sob that tried to choke me: “Of course, you foolish, wonderful woman—of course I will.”
She let out a shaky breath that sounded like relief made audible, and then we were hugging again—laughing and crying in the same breath, arms wrapped tight, hearts pressed so close I could almost feel hers beating in time with mine.
Soon it was time.
I drew the black veil over Nyxara’s face with reverent fingers, the sheer fabric settling like midnight mist across her features. She squeezed my hand once—silent, grateful—before I led her out through the parted curtain into the ceremony hall.
We walked hand in hand down the wide aisle, steps slow and measured, the soft hush of gathered breaths wrapping around us like a living thing. At the altar I released her gently, stepped behind her, and took my place as witness and sister-of-the-heart.
Under the high golden light—sun and the watchful eyes of countless beings—the three of them were bound. Nyxara, Azrael, Eryz. Vows spoken in low, fervent voices. Rings exchanged. Hands joined. A new chapter sealed in light and promise.
I smiled through every glistening tear.
And still, something inside me quietly fractured.
Later—after the first cheers had faded, after the music rose and bodies began to sway—I slipped away to the shadowed edge of the gathering. The ache had grown teeth. It wasn’t jealousy of their happiness, not exactly. It was something sharper, more selfish: the hollow, clawing wish that it could have been my turn. My body rounded with life. My name whispered in that same reverent tone.
I had carried them once. Three tiny lives. I had felt them stir, had dreamed their futures in the dark hours of my coma. And then… nothing. Waking to emptiness. To Vuk’s careful, guarded eyes. To questions he answered with silence or soft deflections.
I sipped wine until the edges blurred. I laughed at jokes I barely heard. I told myself I was happy for her—truly, fiercely happy.
But the ache stayed. Gnawing. Whispering.
Am I terrible for this? For standing here in the glow of their joy and still mourning what was taken from me? Still wanting—needing—to hold what I once carried?
I pressed my palm to my chest as though I could cradle the phantom weight that should have been there.
“Are you okay?”
Vuk’s voice was velvet over steel. His hands found my waist and drew me gently but firmly against his side, the familiar heat of him grounding me even as my heart raced.
“I am…” I murmured.
“No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“No, princess.” He turned me fully toward him, thumbs brushing the undersides of my wrists in slow, soothing circles. “You’re not.”
The repeated words struck something fragile inside me. A memory flickered—half-formed, half-buried—like an echo of another shadowed moment when he’d said those exact words, refusing to let me hide. My head throbbed.
“No, Vuk—I insist I’m okay.”
He didn’t argue with words.
Instead he simply folded me into his arms, chest broad and warm, heartbeat steady beneath my ear. No questions. No demands. Just the quiet certainty of his embrace pulling me back from the edge of the void.
After a long moment he tilted my chin up with one careful finger.
“What is it, my queen?” His voice dropped to the lowest register, the one reserved only for when the rest of the world ceased to exist. “Tell me.”
I looked straight into his eyes—storm-gray, endless, utterly unafraid—and the truth rose like a tide I could no longer hold back.
“I want…”
He didn’t let me finish.
His mouth found mine in a kiss that tasted of salt and starlight, deep and unhurried. My tears slipped between our lips; he drank them like they were sacred. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against mine, breath mingling.
“You don’t have to carry that ache alone,” he whispered.
I gave a broken little laugh. “Am I selfish for feeling it here—now? While they’re glowing like the moon itself? While I’m supposed to be celebrating?”
He shook his head slowly, reverently.
“You’re not selfish, Maureen. You’re alive. You’re fierce—a creature of moon and shadow, with a heart vast enough to bleed for others and still burn for your own. You’re allowed to grieve what was taken. You’re allowed to want what was yours.”
He reached up—gods know where he found it—and drew a single pale flower from the air, or from some hidden fold of his coat, petals soft as moonlight, silver-edged. He tucked it behind my ear with aching care, fingers lingering against my temple.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known,” he said, voice rough with something deeper than tenderness. “Not because of gowns or veils or perfect days. Because your heart held three lives inside it once—three pieces of us—and even in the dark, even when they were taken from your arms, it never stopped loving them. That kind of heart doesn’t make you bad. It makes you extraordinary.”
I swallowed hard.
“But the wanting—it feels so greedy tonight.”
“Then be greedy,” he murmured, cupping my face in both hands. “Want with every bruised, brave piece of you. Want their tiny hands in yours. Want their laughter echoing through our nights. Want the fierce, messy, endless love we were always meant to give them. I want it too. With you. Only with you.”
His thumbs swept away fresh tears.
He pressed his lips to the center of my forehead, lingering there as though sealing an ancient vow.
“So cry if you need to. Ache if you need to. Rage at me if you need to. But never—never—think it makes you l
ess worthy of the light you give everyone else. You are not bad for wanting, my queen. You are beautiful for loving so fiercely that even silence cannot steal it from you.”