Chapter 13: Qazaethel’s Memory of Eiravelle On The Spring Festival (2)

After Liv withdrew to conduct her inquiries, Qazaethel remained stationed within the shadowed alcove of the provision shop, her gaze was fixed upon the young omega who had crouched upon the polished floorboards to attend to her modest earnings.

The afternoon light filtered through the dusty windows in pale, slanted columns, illuminating the delicate movements of Eiravelle’s fingers as she sorted through the golden Kanaia coins with a concentration that spoke of one accustomed to counting each blessing, however small.

There was something in the set of her shoulders—focused, diligent, yet entirely devoid of the arrogance that often accompanied those who handled wealth—that arrested Qazaethel’s attention and held it with unexpected firmness.

The sovereign found herself studying the subtle curve of Eiravelle’s profile, the way her pink lashes cast faint shadows upon her cheeks as she bent to her task. Here was a creature of contradictions: an omega of evident learning and gentle hands, reduced by circumstance to vending egg sandwiches in a common marketplace, yet bearing herself with such quiet dignity that the indignity of her position seemed almost faded into irrelevance.

Qazaethel’s fingers tightened imperceptibly upon the hilt of her concealed blade, not from threat, but from the strange disquiet that stirred within her chest—a sensation she had not experienced in her three decades of rule.

It was then that a small figure emerged from the entrance outside, a wisp of a child in threadbare garments that spoke of hunger and exposure. The beggar girl approached with the hesitant face, one who had learned too early that the world often met outstretched hands with blows rather than bread.

She drew near to where Eiravelle squatted, her tiny fingers are trembling as they reached out to touch the omega’s shoulder with the lightest, most tentative of pressures.

Eiravelle’s head lifted at once, and upon her face bloomed an expression of such genuine warmth that Qazaethel felt her own breath catch unbidden in her throat. The omega’s eyes, pink rubies, softened instantly as they saw the child, and her lips parted in a smile that seemed to carry within the light of a kinder world than the one they inhabited.

"Well, well," Eiravelle murmured, her voice was carrying the melodic lilt of the southern provinces, "what do we have here? A little sparrow come to visit me?"

The child shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other, her thin arms are wrapping about her own ribs as though to hold in what little warmth her body possessed. "Sister," she began, her voice was barely above a whisper, "can I ask for your kindness? I just need five Kanaia coins—no more, I swear it upon my ancestors."

Eiravelle’s delicate brows arched with gentle curiosity, though no shadow of suspicion crossed her features. "Five coins, you say? What purpose drives such a specific request. Why five, and not three, nor ten?"

The girl’s lower lip trembled, and she cast her gaze toward the floor where the polished marble floor had been smoothed by Thane’s wealth. "I am very hungry," she confessed, the words were breaking forth like water from a cracked vessel.

"I wish to buy rice and fried pork from the vendor across the way. Just a small portion, enough to fill my belly for one evening."

Qazaethel observed the subtle shift in Eiravelle’s posture, the way her spine seemed to soften as though the child’s hunger were a physical weight pressing upon her own shoulders. The omega’s expression transformed into something—compassion without condescension, pity without presumption.

She reached into her coin pouch with deliberate care, her fingers moved with a measured grace that belied the urgency of the child’s need.

"Five coins, you said," Eiravelle repeated softly, her voice was carrying the cadence of a lullaby. "But five coins would barely secure you a mouthful of decent rice, little one. Here—" She counted out a larger sum, the golden coins caught the afternoon light as they passed from her palm to the child’s trembling hands.

"Take fifty golden Kanaia coins. Go now, and eat your fill. Buy not only for yourself, but for any brothers or sisters who are waiting for you."

The child’s eyes widened to circles of disbelief, her small fingers closed convulsively about the unexpected amount of coins. "Fifty? But sister, I cannot—this is too much, far too much for one such as I—"

"No, don’t say that" Eiravelle interrupted gently, her laughter was like the chiming of small bells. "Money is just metal, little sparrow, whereas hunger is a fire that consumes the soul. Go now, before the vendors close their stalls. And mind you return tomorrow if your belly grows empty again—I always carry bread with me if you want."

The beggar girl stood frozen for a moment, her eyes are brimming with tears that traced clean paths through the grime upon her cheeks. Then, with a suddenness that spoke of overwhelming gratitude, she pressed her forehead to Eiravelle’s offered hand in the traditional gesture of deep respect before darting away into the marketplace crowd, clutching her fortune as though it were the sun itself.

Qazaethel found herself moving forward before conscious thought could restrain her steps. She stood now above the crouching omega, her shadow fell across the smaller woman’s form, her mind churned with a confusion that bordered upon agitation.

The sight of those fifty golden coins—coins earned through honest labor, through the vending of humble sandwiches that offered no luxury—given freely to a stranger who had offered nothing in return, stirred within her that demanded voice.

"Tell me," Qazaethel began, her tone was sharper than she had intended, the edge of the command that characterized her speech in the throne room creeping unbidden into this common shop. "Tell me why you would surrender such wealth to a child who didn’t give you anything, who stands in no debt to you?"

Eiravelle lifted her gaze to meet the alpha’s, and in those dark eyes Qazaethel saw no defensiveness, no shame, only a serene patience that seemed to look through the mask and into the woman beneath. The omega rose from her crouched position with fluid grace, smoothing her worn skirts as she settled herself into a posture of quiet dignity.

"Does giving few coins away is really a terrible loss?" Eiravelle asked, her head tilted in genuine curiosity. "Does charity kill the one who extends it?"

The question struck Qazaethel like a physical blow, for it touched upon arguments she had heard in her own council chambers, philosophies she had said herself when distributing the royal treasury. Yet hearing it from this omega, spoken with such uncomplicated sincerity, her usual defenses somehow felt inadequate.

"One cannot be certain of their intentions," Qazaethel persisted, aware even as she spoke that her objection rang hollow. "How can you know she will buy food as she claimed? How can you be certain she speaks truly?"

Eiravelle’s smile was gentle, untouched by mockery. "What she does with the golden coins is her own responsibility, not mine. The coins I gave had no taint of ill-gotten gain; they came from honest labor and honest exchange. Once they leave my hand, their purpose belongs to the one who receives them."

"But if she employs your charity for wickedness?" Qazaethel pressed, her voice dropped to a lower register, the question was a half-challenge and half-genuine inquiry. "If she doesn’t buy bread but poison, not sustenance but sin, how will you say you did good?"

For a long moment, Eiravelle remained silent, her gaze drifted toward the doorway through which the child had disappeared. When she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of quiet certainty. "Then the burden of that choice rests upon her conscience, not mine. She may go into the world and beg from a thousand generous souls, gathering good intentions to fuel evil deeds, but we should also remember that consequences is evident. Every choice, its reckoning. I am responsible for the generosity of my own heart; she is responsible for the use she makes of it."

Qazaethel felt the words settle within her, heavy with a truth she had long known but somehow forgotten in the corridors of palace intrigue. She opened her mouth to respond, to offer some counter-argument that would restore the comfortable certainty of her cynicism, but found no words coming.

Eiravelle’s expression shifted subtly, her eyes dropped to observe the proper distance between an unmarried omega and an unknown alpha. "My Lordess," she said, her tone was carrying a gentle reprimand wrapped in courtesy, "it is most improper for you, an alpha, of your standing to approach an unmarried omega without the formalities of introduction. Such familiarity invites speculation, and speculation invites ruin."

The words recalled Qazaethel to herself with the force of cold water. She stepped back, her hand was rising unconsciously to ensure her mask remained secure, and felt the heat of embarrassment—an emotion she had not experienced since childhood—creep up her neck.

"You speak with wisdom," Qazaethel acknowledged, her voice modulated now to a more appropriate register. "Forgive my forwardness. I was... Moved by your actions, and in that movement, I forgot the boundaries of proper conduct."

"There is nothing to forgive," Eiravelle replied, though her eyes held a warning that spoke of self-preservation as much as social propriety. "Yet I must remind you to withdraw from further discourse with me. I am an omega of unfortunate reputation in this place, and being with me may stain your honor and draw upon you the gossip of those who traffic in scandal. I would not see an innocent dragged into my troubles."

"Innocent?" Qazaethel repeated, the word caught in her throat. She stepped closer once more, propriety was forgotten, and her voice dropped to a fervent whisper. "Do not speak like that. The world may name you unfortunate, but I have seen your true measure this day. You are not the one who should fear scandal."

The omega’s lips curved in a smile that held more sadness than joy, yet her eyes sparkled with a warmth that seemed to reach across the space between them and touch something deep within Qazaethel’s guarded heart. "You are kind to say so, my Lordess. Perhaps, then, you might wish to sample the wares of this humble vendor? The egg sandwiches are freshly prepared, and I have been told they possess certain restorative properties."

She gave Qazaethel a small paper, acting as her business car. Her movements were graceful despite the roughness of her attire. The offer struck Qazaethel with the force of a revelation.

"I..." The sovereign’s voice failed her, her throat tightened around a lump that seemed to materialize from nowhere. She stared at the omega before her—this creature of impossible innocence, this paradox of poverty and nobility—and felt the foundations of her understanding shift beneath her feet.

"Perhaps... Perhaps next time," she managed at last, the words sounded foolish even to her own ears. "I have... Pressing matters that require my attention. Another time, certainly."

"Of course," Eiravelle replied, her smile was untainted by disappointment or judgment. "Another time, then. The offer remains open, my Lordess. Egg sandwiches are poor company for the solitary heart."

She turned away then, resuming her crouched position upon the floor, her attention returned to count her earnings. Qazaethel stood frozen for a moment longer, her mind was a whirl of unfamiliar sensations, her heart was beating in a pace that seemed to synchronize with some distant, half-remembered melody of possibility.