Vera’s POV
In earlier years, the royal infirmary smelled of burned herbs and blood scrubbed too late from stone, of survival paid for in agony.
Later, it became a place of recovery—Lucien’s bruises after duels fought for appearances, my shaking hands after rituals that demanded more than they promised to give, Celene’s hollow-eyed vigilance after nights spent translating curses that tried to crawl back into my veins.
Now it smelled of cleanliness.
That should have been reassuring. Instead, it felt like preparation.
The chamber was bright with ward-lamps and polished silver instruments arranged in immaculate rows. No urgency or visible danger. Three royal healers stood before me in pale robes stitched with crimson thread, their posture precise, their expressions trained into careful neutrality.
I sat on the narrow examination dais with my spine straight and my hands folded in my lap, as if this were a council session rather than an evaluation of my body.
Lucien stood to my left, silent and immovable, a presence that refused to soften into decoration. Celene waited behind the healers, a tablet of notes clutched too tightly in her hands.
The lead healer, Master Halvyr, inclined his head.
“Your Majesty,” he said evenly, “the Anchor has maintained stability for five years. The parasitic drain remains contained. There are no outward indicators of relapse.”
I nodded once. Stability was not a gift. It was a condition.
“Our examinations do confirm,” Halvyr continued, “that the reproductive threshold remains inactive.”
Inactive. Like a sealed vault.
“That,” I replied calmly, “is why I agreed to this audience. The court’s curiosity has grown teeth.”
“Our purpose is not political,” Halvyr said. “It is medical. You requested options, and we are obligated to present them honestly.”
“Then do so,” I said. “Without comforting language.”
He unrolled a scroll and spoke with the cadence of someone reciting inventory.
“One option is continued restraint. Avoiding conception preserves your current equilibrium but leaves succession unresolved. A second option involves external regulators, though without the Serpent’s Heart such methods remain insufficient.”
Lucien’s attention sharpened beside me. Celene did not move.
Halvyr inhaled once before continuing. “The third option is trial conception.”
The words hollowed the room. I did not flinch:
“Define the procedure.”
“It would involve attempting conception under controlled conditions,” Halvyr said. “Blood wards, sedative binding, and a measured Anchor surge. We would monitor the parasitic response continuously. If the drain exceeds tolerable parameters, the process would be terminated.”
Terminated. Clean and bloodless.
“And if the response exceeds tolerance too quickly?” I asked.
Halvyr met my gaze with professional calm. “Then the risk of fatality increases. However, the data obtained would be invaluable for future containment strategies.”
I felt Lucien’s anger through the Anchor, sharp and immediate beneath iron restraint.
“You are suggesting,” I said slowly, “that my death would be acceptable if it advanced understanding.”
Halvyr lowered his eyes, not in shame but in procedure. “It would not be sought, Your Majesty. But your bloodline is singular, and the realm’s stability is tied to understanding the limits of your condition.”
“You speak of my body,” I said quietly, “as if it belongs to the kingdom.”
Halvyr hesitated only a moment before answering. “It belongs to the crown.”
The fury rose then—cold, precise, and devastating. Not at the healers themselves, but at the idea that my worth could be weighed against usefulness, that my death could be classified as an acceptable outcome if it produced clarity.
I stood. The movement was controlled, deliberate, but inside me something ancient cracked open. Power surged outward before I could restrain it, responding not to command but to emotion.
The healers dropped to their knees. All of them, at once, with heads bowed. Palms pressed to stone. Their bodies obeyed a force that predated language.
I stared down at them, breath caught in my chest, horror eclipsing anger. I had not spoken. I had not ordered them.
My fury had done this. I forced myself to inhale, dragging the pressure back into myself with sheer will. The ward-lamps steadied. The air thickened again.
“Stand,” I said, my voice steady only because I refused to let it break.
They rose immediately, shaken and pale. Halvyr looked at me now with fear rather than professional detachment.
“I understand your intent,” I said, “but you have made one truth painfully clear. Without another solution, this court will eventually decide my death is an acceptable variable.”
I turned to Celene. “Begin the search,” I ordered.
Her eyes widened only slightly. “The Serpent’s Heart?”
“Exactly. Immediately.”
Lucien stepped closer, his voice low but firm. “Vera, you know what the Heart amplifies. You felt what just happened.”
“And that is exactly why we need another option.” I said. “If I do nothing, I will still become dangerous—only this time because I am cornered.”
Celene spoke then, precise as a blade. “What manifested was not ordinary dominance. It was a blood-law reflex, preverbal authority. It aligns with the older warnings Aldric recorded.”
The name of my father tightened something cold in my chest.
Lucien’s voice softened when he spoke again. “You are not unworthy. Not because you cannot conceive and not because you might. Not because your power responds to emotion.”
“Then why,” I asked quietly, “do I feel like I am failing something fundamental?”
“They taught you that worth is proven by what you can give the realm,” he answered. “And denied you the right to want safety.”
As we left the infirmary, stone and torchlight swallowing us, I pressed my hand to my stomach again, fear curling tight beneath my ribs.
“I want a child,” I admitted, my voice barely steady. “Not for politics. I want to know what it feels like to be a mother.”
Lucien did not hesitate. “And you will not be turned into an experiment to satisfy that longing.”
“What if being a mother awakens something worse?” I whispered. “What if the wanting itself is the trigger?”
Celene inclined her head. “I will find every reference—myth, treaty, prisoner testimony, forgotten temple. Nothing will be dismissed.”
The corridor stretched ahead of us, ancient and silent. Peace had not ended the war. It had only moved the battlefield.
Now, it was about my body. No matter what, I would not lose it.