Taste of ecstasy

Chapter 38

The royal bedchamber was half-draped in sunlight. Pale beams filtered through the sheer blue curtains, scattering over the velvet rugs and gold embroidery that marked Alexander's presence even when he wasn't in the room. Magnus stood in front of the mirror barefoot, shirtless, hair loosely tied with a silk ribbon the colour of dew. His ceremonial robes lay across the bed behind him: dark sapphire with silver-threaded patterns shaped like moon blossoms. A matching circlet rested nearby.

He stared at himself at the slight hollow beneath his eyes, the gentler curve of his belly, the way his body felt... different.

Soft. Full.

He turned to reach for the robe, but a sudden wave of dizziness blurred the edges of his vision. His hand went to the edge of the sink, steadying himself. And then it came swift and heavy.

He retched.

Stomach twisting. Hands gripping porcelain. The taste of acid and rose tea rising up his throat.

He barely made it to the basin. It wasn't violent, but it was unmistakable.

After, he coughed once, wiped his lips with a silk towel, and leaned heavily over the sink. His forehead pressed to the cool marble edge. Breathing ragged. It could've been nerves. That's what he told himself. Everyone was anxious today. The palace walls had practically been humming with emotion for weeks.

He rinsed his mouth. Swallowed. Tried to slow his breathing.

But then,

His eyes dropped to the tiny notches etched in the inside of his left wrist. His personal moon calendar. His way of tracking the fairy cycles the blessing and curse of being the only male fairy alive who could carry life.

He stared. One moon. Two moons. Three.

No crimson had marked his skin in weeks.

He sat down, too fast, too hard, on the edge of the bed, the silk of Alexander's robe brushing his bare thigh like comfort he didn't feel.

"No," he whispered aloud. "No, no, no..."

His heart thundered in his chest. He pressed a hand to his stomach not quite rounded, not quite flat.

He remembered Leila his mother once holding his hands in the garden, whispering in lullaby tones, "You are a rare bloom, my little firefly. Someday, you will carry the stars." He'd been six. He hadn't understood what she meant. He did now. Panic surged.

What would Alec think? What if it was real? What if it wasn't? Could it be wishful magic? Could it be his body playing cruel tricks again?

He didn't know. And that terrified him.

He covered his mouth with his palm to stifle the shaky breath threatening to turn into a sob. All the silk and gold in the room couldn't shield him from the truth blooming quietly inside him.

And yet, A strange flutter stirred in his chest. Not just fear. Something more dangerous.

Hope.

Magnus moved like a ghost through the chambers, his ceremonial robe flowing behind him in slow tides of sapphire and silver. He kept his head slightly bowed, the circlet of silver leaves resting in his loose hair, his face unreadable to most. But inside he was trembling.

He had been trembling since the moment his fingers brushed the notch marks on his wrist. Since the taste of nausea lingered on his tongue. Since he'd knelt by the window and tied the royal messenger dove with his own blue-threaded note:

"To Ruelle. Urgent. Before the ceremony. Alone. Please."

He had released the dove with a quiet prayer, watching it vanish into the pale blue sky like a secret. Then waited.