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The imperial bedchamber greeted the dawn in silence, steeped in the mingled glow of candlelight and early sun. Gold traced the mouldings high above, pale against the white, while arches and columns rose in measured symmetry, lending the space a solemn dignity befitting the consort who occupied it. The chandelier hung unmoving, its crystals catching the light like fragments of a fractured morning, scattering it across the polished floor.
At the heart of the chamber stood the bed—broad, elevated, inescapable. Its gilded frame gleamed faintly, crowned by a painting whose figures gazed down in eternal witness, as though even the walls themselves were aware of the life unfolding beneath them.
Cale Henituse shifted, breath catching as discomfort dragged him from sleep once more.
A strained sound escaped him before he could stop it. He turned onto his side, then back again, sheets tangled beneath restless hands, his body refusing him any position of ease. The weight of his swollen belly pressed insistently forward, heavy and unrelenting, each movement answered by a slow roll or sharp kick from within. His red hair spilt across the pillows, disordered, catching the light in flashes of ruby.
Sleep, it seemed, had abandoned him entirely.
At the writing desk near the window, Emperor Alberu Crossman paused mid-line, quill hovering as his gaze lifted. He had long since learned the sounds of Cale’s unrest—the sharp exhale, the subtle shift, the frustration barely contained—and he rose at once, setting his work aside as though it no longer held meaning.
He crossed the chamber without haste, his presence quiet but assured.
“You need not force yourself,” he murmured, already bracing Cale’s back, guiding him upright with careful hands. Pillows were adjusted, drawn closer, until Cale could lean against the headboard, shoulders slumping the moment he was supported.
Only then did Alberu sit beside him.
His hand came to rest over the curve of Cale’s belly, reverent in its stillness, as though listening rather than touching. Beneath his palm, life stirred—slow, insistent.
“How fares our child?” he asked, voice low. Cale exhaled through his nose.
“Unreasonably energetic,” he replied. “And wholly inconsiderate.”
Alberu smiled faintly. He lifted Cale’s face, fingers warm against cool skin, and pressed a kiss to his brow, lingering there as if to anchor him. “Then it thrives,” he said. “That is no small mercy.”
Cale did not answer. He leaned forward instead, resting his forehead against Alberu’s shoulder, exhaustion finally outweighing pride. An arm circled him at once, firm and unyielding, a silent promise of steadiness. Alberu’s other hand traced slow, grounding paths along Cale’s back. “Only a little longer,” Alberu said after a moment. “You have endured much. I know.”
Cale’s fingers curled into the fabric of his robes. He had never intended to endure this—not the weight, nor the constant vigilance, nor the way his body no longer belonged wholly to himself. If the gods listened, he had long since made his displeasure known, cursing the God of Death with every restless night and breathless moment.
Yet the world, it seemed, refused to leave him be.
Since the truth of his condition had become evident, solitude had turned into a rare and fleeting thing. Ron’s sharp gaze followed him wherever he went, unyielding in its watchfulness, while Choi Han’s quiet presence lingered like an unspoken vow. Even the smallest tasks were no longer his alone.
As if summoned by the thought, footsteps paused beyond the chamber doors.
“Your Majesties,” Ron called, composed as ever. His usual benign smile plastered on his lips.“The physicians have arrived. They await your word.”
A brief silence followed, broken only by Cale’s weary sigh.
“They never leave,” he muttered.
Alberu rested his cheek briefly against Cale’s hair. “Nor will I allow them to,” he said. “Not until you and the child are safe.” Cale closed his eyes. The chamber loomed around them—vast, radiant, unyielding—but within Alberu’s hold, he allowed himself, just for a moment, to rest.
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The dining chamber lay heavy with various scents of dishes. It featured extensive, intricate gilded moldings and carvings that cover the pale walls and frame large mirrors, which help to multiply the space. The ceiling featured a dramatic fresco painting of a cloudy sky and allegorical figures, with more gilded ornamentation surrounding it. A large crystal chandelier was suspended from the center of the ceiling, illuminating a very long dining table draped in a white tablecloth and set with numerous chairs for a banquet or event. Tall, multi-pane windows lined one side of the room, providing natural light and a view, while a light-colored wooden parquet floor completes the elegant setting.
The delicacies laid in front of him only made him feel more nauseous. His morning sickness had been his companion for the entire pregnancy.
Rosalyn seemed to catch his pale complexion at the sight of the table full of food and gently looked over at Beacrox who merely nodded before gathering all the plates back to take them far away from Cale.
“Is there something you desire to eat in particular?” Rosalyn asked him with a smile and Cale merely shook his head as he looked down at his baby bump. She sighed under her breath before adding, “You should eat, for the babe relies upon you for its nourishment.”
Cale gave her a look which reminded her of her younger brothers and she chuckled which made Cale scoff.
“You are to be a mother, and you ought to cherish your own health more dearly,” Rosalyn stated as she gently patted his head. Cale said nothing in reply, just hummed.
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The study of Emperor Alberu Crossman lay steeped in a restrained, watchful silence, broken only by the steady whisper of pen against parchment. The chamber was vast yet orderly, dressed in white and cream, its walls and ceiling adorned with intricate gold carvings that caught the light without flaunting it. Built-in shelves lined the room from floor to arching crown, burdened with volumes both ancient and recent, their spines arranged with careful intent rather than excess.
At the center stood the emperor’s desk—gold and white, richly decorated, immovable in its authority—paired with a single white chair that bore the weight of the man seated upon it. Sunlight filtered through tall arched windows of leaded glass, spilling across the marble floor and illuminating the careful script forming beneath Alberu’s hand.
He paused, pen hovering.
There had been, he mused, precisely one advantage to Cale’s condition: the empire had, for once, required less of him. Councils shortened, audiences postponed, petitions filtered long before they ever reached his desk. What time had been reclaimed from governance, however, had been entirely consumed elsewhere—by quiet mornings, restless nights, and the unspoken vigilance demanded by a single, stubborn red-haired man.
A soft breath escaped him, almost a laugh. His gaze lifted to the wall before him, where a single portrait had been pinned without ceremony—a captured moment from their wedding day. Cale stood in the image with his head slightly turned, lips drawn into a thin line, irritation barely concealed beneath ceremonial finery. Alberu could still hear the scoff, remembered the sharp mutter about unnecessary extravagance.
“You endured it regardless,” Alberu murmured, amusement warm beneath the fondness.
The moment lingered—then shattered. The study doors burst open without warning, wood striking wall with a sharp crack.
“Cookie Prince!” came the panicked cry, high and urgent.
Alberu’s head snapped up.
The three children Cale had taken in stood clustered in the doorway, eyes wide, breath uneven. Raon hovered forward, wings flared slightly in agitation, while the other two crowded close behind him.
“The human consumes nothing!” Raon declared, voice trembling with distress. “No food. No water. Nothing passes his lips!”
The pen fell from Alberu’s hand.
He was on his feet before the echo faded, chair scraping sharply against marble. In three swift strides he reached them, kneeling only long enough to gather all three into his arms—On balanced against his side, Hong clinging to his sleeve, Raon hovering close at his shoulder.
“Show me,” he said, calm forged by necessity rather than ease.
The children did not need to be told twice. Alberu turned at once, robes sweeping behind him as he strode from the study and into the corridor beyond, his pace unyielding. The grandeur of the palace blurred past—arches, banners, torchlight—reduced to irrelevance beneath the single thought pressing sharp and insistent against his mind.
Cale had been enduring too much already. And this—this would not be ignored.
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What greeted Emperor Alberu Crossman upon crossing the threshold of his consort’s chamber brought him to an abrupt halt.
There sat Cale—very much alive, very much conscious—wrapped in an excessive number of blankets, his expression twisted into one of unmistakable annoyance. His red hair spilled messily over the pillows, eyes sharp despite exhaustion, while the curve of his swollen belly strained against the layers of fabric piled upon him. Around the bed clustered the entire household, hovering as though awaiting a calamity yet to strike, their faces drawn tight with concern.
Alberu blinked once.
Then again.
Slowly, he turned his gaze toward Choi Han, who stood rigid at the bedside, hands folded as though bracing for judgment.
“What, precisely,” Alberu asked evenly, “is amiss with him this time?”
Choi Han leaned closer, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might overhear. “This morning, he cast forth his breakfast,” he said. “Since then, no food has passed his lips. For many hours he has remained in hunger.”
Alberu stared at him.
“…Hours?” he repeated.
Silence followed—heavy, expectant.
Then Alberu laughed.
The sound rang out bright and sudden, cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. Several heads snapped toward him in disbelief. Ron’s brow twitched. Raon stiffened mid-hover. Cale’s glare sharpened.
“So that is it,” Alberu said, amusement threading his voice. “A skipped meal.”
He pressed fingers to his temple, laughter subsiding into a breathless sigh. Of all the disasters he had been prepared for—fever, pain, omens, divine interference—this had not been among them. Still, as his gaze swept the room once more, understanding followed swiftly after mirth.
This was Cale.
And Cale was pregnant.
Perhaps panic was inevitable.
He crossed the chamber at an unhurried pace and seated himself beside the bed, careful not to disturb the precarious fortress of blankets. “Tell me,” he said gently, “what weighs upon you, sweetling, that nourishment no longer tempts you?”
Cale scoffed at once, eyes narrowing. “Do not call me that.”
“Humor me.”
“I feel no hunger,” Cale replied flatly.
Alberu studied him for a moment, then spoke again, patient but unyielding. “You ought to eat nonetheless. Tell me, then—what would you care to have?”
“I know not.”
The words landed final and absolute. Alberu exhaled and glanced over his shoulder.
At once, chaos ensued.
Ron summoned trays with clipped efficiency. Choi Han offered broth, then porridge. Lock suggested fruit. Rosalyn suggested soup thickened with herbs. The room filled with overlapping suggestions, dishes appearing and disappearing in rapid succession, each refused with increasing irritation.
Cale turned his head away, unimpressed. It was Raon who finally stepped forward. His eyes shimmered, wings drooping as he reached into his spatial pouch with trembling claws. “Human,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “You must eat.” He withdrew a small bundle wrapped with care.
Apple pies—slightly misshapen, edges crimped unevenly, still warm.
The room stilled.
Cale paused, gaze shifting at last. Something in his expression softened—just barely. Without a word, he accepted the pie and took a bite.
Then another.
And another.
Relief swept the chamber like a held breath finally released. Shoulders eased. Expressions softened. Even Ron allowed himself the faintest smile.
As Cale ate, crumbs dusting the blankets, Eruhaben watched from the side, eyes narrowed with weary disdain.
“Unlucky bastard,” the dragon muttered. Alberu, watching his husband eat at last, could not disagree.