The morning sun fractured through the marketplace canopies, casting kaleidoscope patterns across Ryaz's skin that couldn't quite mask the subtle glow of his fertility cycle still humming beneath.

"You have to try this," Ryaz said, tugging Michael's reluctant arm toward a stall. A selkie merchant with salt-crusted hair offered them two tiny cups. "It's fermented kelp nectar. They say it brings prophetic dreams."

Michael's face remained set in stone as he watched Ryaz accept the sample with diplomatic grace, raising it in a small toast before sipping. The Fae prince's eyes widened with genuine surprise.

"It tastes like... minted stars," he breathed, turning to Michael with excitement that faltered when met with his partner's unrelenting scowl.

"I'm not thirsty," Michael muttered, scanning the crowded marketplace with the vigilance of a bodyguard rather than a lover enjoying the festival.

Ryaz pressed the tiny cup back into the selkie's webbed hands with a polite nod of thanks. The Cultural Exchange Bazaar stretched before them in a riot of color and sound—the beating heart of the Accords renewal. Sylphs performed aerial acrobatics above them. Dragon artisans breathed controlled flames to shape molten glass into impossibly delicate forms. Human musicians played instruments that shouldn't logically work together but somehow created harmony that made the soul ache.

Any other year, Ryaz would have lost himself in the wonder of it all. Now, he felt Michael's tension like a physical tether, anchoring him to the nightmare they couldn't escape.

"Could you at least pretend to enjoy yourself?" Ryaz asked. 

Michael's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Forgive me if I'm not in a celebratory mood."

Ryaz pulled them into a quieter space between stalls, the relative privacy allowing his diplomatic mask to slip. "I understand this is difficult—"

"Difficult?" Michael's laugh held no humor. "That's what we're calling it?"

"What word would you prefer?" Ryaz hissed. "A catastrophe? A nightmare? I'm living it, Michael. Every moment."

Michael's expression softened fractionally, guilt flickering across his features. "I know. I'm sorry."

They continued through the marketplace in strained silence, Ryaz forcing himself to engage with the cultural displays with something approaching his usual diplomatic grace. He accepted a small brass figurine from a desert dweller—a miniature sand horse rearing up on its hind legs in majestic form. He admired woven tapestries that told ancient stories through threads that changed color with the viewer's emotions. He even managed a genuine laugh when a mischievous sprite offered him a candy that temporarily turned his tongue blue.

Through it all, Michael remained a shadow at his side, present but unreachable.

When they reached a quiet corner with cushioned seating arranged around a small fountain, Ryaz sank down gratefully. The morning sickness that had plagued him since dawn was worsening, though he'd hidden it well behind centuries of diplomatic training.

"You look pale," Michael said, finally breaking his sullen silence. "Do you need to go back to the suite?"

"I'm fine," Ryaz lied, though the scent of spiced meat from a nearby stall made his stomach roll treacherously.

Michael sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Almost, but not quite—the small space between them felt vast as an ocean.

"Ryaz," Michael began, his voice dropping to ensure privacy, "have you... considered all options?"

Ryaz stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean." Michael leaned closer, his eyes intense. "The pregnancy is early. There are ways to... end it."

The words hit Ryaz like a physical blow. His hand moved instinctively to his abdomen, where that tiny spark of life continued to grow. "You want me to abort the child?"

"It would solve everything," Michael whispered urgently. "The marriage, the political complications—all of it would disappear. We could go back to how things were."

For a moment—just a moment—temptation flared in Ryaz's chest. To be free of this burden, this unwanted life growing inside him. To return to the future they'd planned together. The fantasy beckoned, shimmering like a mirage.

Then the reality crashed back. The spark within him—innocent, vulnerable, his. Despite everything, despite how it came to be, the child was his. He felt its presence like a tiny flame, delicate but persistent.

"No," Ryaz said, the word soft but final. "I can't do that."

"You can't?" Michael's voice sharpened. "Or you won't?"

"Both." Ryaz met his gaze steadily. "This child is innocent, Michael. Whatever happened between Kovax and me, however it was conceived—the baby bears no guilt."

"It's his spawn," Michael spat quietly. "A dragon's offspring growing inside you. How can you want that?"

"I didn't say I wanted it," Ryaz replied, his own anger rising now. "But it exists. It's alive. And it's as much mine as it is his."

Michael stood abruptly, pacing the small area in front of the fountain. "So you'll marry him? Bear his child? And what about us? What happens to everything we planned?"

"I don't know," Ryaz admitted, the words like ash in his mouth. "But killing an innocent life isn't the answer."

"It's not killing," Michael insisted. "It's barely more than a collection of cells at this point."

"It's a soul," Ryaz countered. "I can feel it, Michael. Its energy, its essence. It's already connected to mine."

Michael's face darkened with frustration. "That's just Fae superstition."

"It's my reality," Ryaz snapped, patience finally breaking. "And I'm done discussing this. The child stays. That's final."

He stood, intending to walk away before saying something truly unforgivable, but a wave of dizziness crashed over him. He swayed, vision darkening at the edges.

Michael caught him, strong arms steadying him despite their argument. "Ryaz?"

"I'm fine," he managed, though the marketplace seemed to tilt and spin around him. "Just stood too quickly."

He felt Michael guiding him back to the cushioned seat, felt cool water pressed against his lips. He drank automatically, the dizziness receding slightly.

"Better?" Michael asked, concern momentarily displacing anger in his eyes.

Ryaz nodded, not trusting his voice. The water left a strange aftertaste—slightly bitter, like unripe berries. He took another sip, trying to wash the taste away.

"I think we should go back to the suite," Michael said, his hand lingering on Ryaz's shoulder. "You need to rest."

"No," Ryaz insisted, straightening his posture through sheer force of will. "The Sylph air dance is happening soon. I promised Ambassador Zephyria I'd attend."

Michael's expression hardened again. "Always duty first."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Michael stood, offering his hand with reluctant courtesy. "Come on, then. Let's not keep the ambassador waiting."

Ryaz accepted the help, rising more carefully this time. As they made their way toward the central plaza where the air dance would take place, he felt Michael's hand slip into his pocket, then withdraw. Checking that something was still there, perhaps.

The tiny spark within him fluttered, as if sensing his distress. Ryaz placed a protective hand over his abdomen, a silent promise to the life growing there.

Michael walked beside him, his face once again a mask of barely contained resentment. The weight of the vial in his pocket felt heavier with each step, his resolve hardening like cooling metal. If Ryaz wouldn't make the right choice, he would make it for him.

The drops he'd already added to Ryaz's water were just the beginning. A few more doses, spread carefully over the coming month, and nature would take its course. The child would be gone, and with it, the necessity for this unholy union with the dragon prince. Ryaz would grieve, of course—but eventually he would see that it was for the best.

As they reached the plaza, Michael slipped a supportive arm around Ryaz's waist, ignoring the voice in his head that whispered of betrayal and deception. Some lies were necessary. Some wounds had to be inflicted to prevent greater suffering.

He would be Ryaz's salvation, even if Ryaz himself couldn't see it yet.

The sylphs ascended into the air above the plaza in perfect synchronization, their translucent wings catching the sunlight as they spiraled upward. Michael watched as Ryaz's face transformed with wonder, the tension momentarily forgotten as the aerial dancers began their performance.

The sylphs moved like living poetry, their bodies twisting and turning in impossible arcs. They created elaborate patterns in the sky—first a blooming flower, then a soaring eagle, then a cascade of stars falling toward the audience only to disperse at the last moment. Some sylphs trailed gossamer ribbons that painted ephemeral colors against the blue sky, while others released handfuls of luminescent pollen that hung suspended in their wake.

Despite himself, Michael felt his breath catch at a particularly daring maneuver—three sylphs plummeting toward the ground before catching each other's ankles to form a living chain, pulling up mere feet from the cobblestones.

"It's magnificent," Ryaz whispered.

Michael almost responded, almost allowed himself to share in this moment of beauty, when movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. A familiar silver-haired figure stood in the shadows of an alleyway between market stalls, one elegant finger raised in a beckoning motion.

Pharraseus.

Michael's heart skipped a beat. He glanced at Ryaz, who remained transfixed by the aerial display, then back to the alley where Pharraseus waited, face partially obscured by shadow.

For the remainder of the performance, Michael found himself torn between watching the spectacular aerial feats and stealing glances toward the alley where Pharraseus lingered, patient and unmoving. By the time the sylphs completed their finale—a breathtaking spiral that collapsed inward before exploding outward in a shower of light—Michael had already decided what he would do.

The crowd erupted in applause as the sylphs descended to take their bows. Ryaz clapped enthusiastically.

"That was incredible," Ryaz said, turning to Michael with the first genuine smile he'd seen all day. "The way they manipulated the air currents to—"

"I'll get us something to drink," Michael interrupted, already taking a step back. "You look flushed."

Ryaz's smile faltered slightly. "Oh. Yes, thank you. I am a bit thirsty."

"Wait here," Michael said, gesturing to a nearby bench beneath a flowering tree. "I'll be right back."

He didn't wait for Ryaz's response, threading his way through the dispersing crowd toward the alley where Pharraseus had stood. The Fae lord was gone from the entrance, but Michael knew he would be waiting deeper in the shadows, away from curious eyes.

Sure enough, Pharraseus stood at the junction where the alley bent behind a row of market stalls, his silver hair gleaming even in the dimness.

"You're taking a risk," Michael said by way of greeting.

Pharraseus smiled thinly. "The risk grows greater by the hour. My brother has placed a bounty on my head—secretly, of course. The official story is that I've taken ill and returned to the Fae realm for treatment."

Michael felt a chill run down his spine. "A bounty? Why?"

"Surely you can guess," Pharraseus replied. "My brother suspects my involvement in Ryaz's... unfortunate situation."

"Everything you told me was true," Michael said. "About the dragons, about their plans for me once the marriage takes place."

"I’m sorry," Pharraseus confirmed with a solemn nod. His eyes fixed on Michael's with unsettling intensity. "Have you administered the potion?"

Michael swallowed hard, the weight of his actions pressing down on him. "Yes. Once last night in his water, and again just now."

"Good," Pharraseus said. "The sooner we end this, the sooner you and Ryaz can return to the life you planned, and I can be free of suspicion."

"How long?" Michael asked, the question burning in his throat. "How long until the... until it happens?"

Pharraseus sighed, "There's no guaranteed timeline. The weaker pregnancies tend to miscarry around four months with one to two doses a day." He paused, his expression calculating. "But with dragon spawn, I imagine three doses daily would rid him of the child by month five without risking his health too severely."

Michael's attention sharpened at those last words. "What do you mean 'without risking his health too severely'? You said the potion was safe."

"And it is," Pharraseus assured him quickly. "The side effects are minimal—migraines, stomach upset—the usual symptoms of early pregnancy that he would endure anyway."

Michael ran a hand through his hair, doubt gnawing at him. "This is harder than I thought it would be."

"Of course it is," Pharraseus said. "You love him. You don't want to cause him pain. But sometimes, a healer must cause temporary discomfort to cure a greater ailment." He placed a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Three doses a day, as consistently as you can manage. Can you do that?"

Michael nodded reluctantly. "Yes. It seems like you've thought of everything."

"I've had centuries to perfect the art of contingency planning," Pharraseus replied with a humorless smile. "Now go. Your absence will be noticed if you linger too long." He glanced toward the market entrance. "And I must be away from here before my brother's hunters pick up my trail."

Michael turned to leave, then hesitated. "Lord Pharraseus... thank you. For helping us."

Pharraseus inclined his head slightly. "We all deserve a chance at happiness, Lord Forrester."

The unexpected acceptance in those words warmed something in Michael's chest. He nodded once more before heading back toward the marketplace, the weight of the vial in his pocket balanced by new resolve. He would do what needed to be done. For Ryaz. For their future.

At a beverage stall near the central plaza, Michael purchased two cups of chilled fruit nectar, his movements mechanical as his mind continued to process everything Pharraseus had told him. Three doses a day. Minimal side effects. Month five at the latest. He could do this. He had to do this.

As he made his way back to where he'd left Ryaz, Michael rehearsed his expression, smoothing away the guilt and uncertainty. Ryaz would be watching for him, those perceptive lilac eyes missing nothing. He needed to appear normal. Untroubled.

For just a moment, Michael allowed himself to imagine their future once this was over—the wedding they had planned, the life they would build together. No dragon prince, no political marriage, no unwanted child. Just the two of them, as it should be.

With that image firmly in mind, Michael plastered a smile on his face and headed toward Ryaz, drinks in hand and poison in his pocket.

Except, Ryaz wasn’t where he’d left him.