VELARA's POV

I had just eased my baby boy into his crib, his tiny body finally succumbing to sleep against my chest. His soft breaths puffed rhythmically against my skin, a moment of peace that felt borrowed in this cold, indifferent hospital. As I turned away from the crib, adjusting the thin blanket over his legs, I noticed someone passing the doorway. A nurse. I instinctively raised my hand in a small wave, hoping to ask for something warm to drink, maybe a little comfort in a paper cup. She noticed me and stepped inside.

Her presence was different from the others. Her uniform was crisp and neatly pressed, the color subtly darker than the others I'd seen. She must have ranked higher, head midwife, perhaps. Her straight, glossy hair grazed her shoulders, partly covering the ID clipped neatly to her chest. I squinted at the name beneath the laminated tag: Jane. The letters underneath her name were too small to decipher, but she didn’t look much older than me. Maybe mid-twenties at most. I was only eighteen, barely an adult by most standards, but something about her seemed more polished, more confident.

Still, her eyes weren’t unkind, at least not at first.

She reached for the clipboard hanging at the foot of my bed and began flipping through my chart. I decided to speak up, keeping my voice calm and polite.

“Pardon me… might I trouble someone for a glass of water? Or perhaps a bit of tea, if it wouldn’t be too much inconvenience?” I asked, trying to sound less desperate than I felt.

“Please,”

Her eyes flicked up from the chart, cold and sharp. The way she stared at me sent a strange chill through my stomach. My request, so simple and human, seemed to offend her. She didn’t say a word. Instead, she reached behind my head and pressed the call button on the wall.

The silence between us stretched painfully as I clutched the edge of my blanket. My son stirred in his sleep, and I quickly leaned over to lift him before he woke completely. The movement pulled at my abdomen, sending a wave of pain through my healing body, but I gritted my teeth and held him close.

Another nurse appeared at the door, eyes wide with uncertainty as she stepped inside. The head nurse didn’t acknowledge her right away, her gaze still pinned on me like I was a stain in the wrong place.

“Why is she still here?” the head nurse asked sharply, turning slightly toward the other woman.

I blinked, stunned. Still here? What did she mean by that? I had just given birth. Where else would I be?

The younger nurse hesitated, visibly nervous. Her hands twitched as she tried to formulate a response, but the older woman didn’t give her a chance.

"Do see that she is taken to the unmated wing at once," Jane said sharply, her tone leaving no room for objection. "We mustn’t allow her presence to distress the other mothers."

With that, she turned and strode out of the room, her back straight, her heels clicking without remorse.

My chest tightened. Shame flushed across my face like heat from a slap. I stood there frozen, holding my baby close, as if shielding him from her words. My throat burned with the urge to speak, to defend myself, but what was the point? To them, I was just a mistake in a maternity ward reserved for the bonded and beloved.

I heard the rustle of a curtain nearby, followed by a voice, soft but clearly meant to be overheard.

“I figured something was odd about her. Her mate never came. Not even once,” the woman whispered to her partner. “Now it all makes sense.”

Her words hit me harder than they should have. She was right. I was alone here. I wasn’t blind. I’d seen her mate doting on her since the moment I arrived. The girl across from me had a stream of visitors coming in and out, offering gifts, food, and warmth. Her mate had stayed overnight, curled beside her bed like a guardian.

And me? I sat here alone, clutching a child I would raise on my own, receiving nothing but stares, muttered gossip, and a growing sense of isolation. No flowers. No partner to squeeze my hand. Just judgment wrapped in sterile sheets and fluorescent lights.

As I held my son closer, I bit back the sting in my eyes. I wasn’t going to cry. Not here. Not for them.

The bed trembled slightly beneath me as the nurse began to wheel it forward. Sitting upright, I instinctively clutched the cold metal bar running along the side, steadying myself to avoid toppling backward. She pushed the bed through the quiet hallway of the maternity ward, the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the occasional beep from distant monitors the only sounds accompanying us. But soon, she veered down a side corridor, steering away from the familiar ward. A sense of unease coiled in my stomach. It felt like I was being removed entirely from the maternity unit.

Eventually, she brought the bed to a halt beside a curtained-off corner and positioned it against the wall. Without a word, she turned and walked away.

“Excuse me... could I have a glass of water?” I asked, my voice dry, barely above a whisper.

She didn’t answer. She was already gone.

A bitter silence followed, only to be broken by a voice from behind the curtain.

“Don’t waste your breath. They don’t really care what we need.”

Startled, I turned just as the curtain was yanked open with a brisk motion. Two girls sat there, the fluorescent light casting a pale glow over their faces. One of them looked like she was in her mid-twenties. She had long, dark curls framing her face and vivid green eyes that held both weariness and quiet defiance. The other looked younger, perhaps sixteen or eighteen. Her dark blonde hair was tied into a messy knot on top of her head, and there was something guarded in her expression, like she’d learned not to expect kindness.

I looked between them, sensing that I wasn’t alone in this strange, forgotten corner of the hospital.