Jeremy gasped—a sharp, choked hitch of pure medical horror that rattled against the cold stone walls. "What? Your Grace, that is... that is catastrophic! Why would you even ask such a—"
"Tell me," she growled.
Her voice wasn't just cold anymore; it was a low, lethal rumble, the sound of a predator whose patience had finally bled dry. "What happens to them?"
Jeremy swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully in his throat as if he were trying to swallow glass. He forced himself to find a voice, though it shook with a clinical, hollow dread.
"In most cases, the mother would perish from the sheer magical shock. The system simply cannot contain the contradiction of such a curse," he whispered, his eyes flickering toward the floor, unable to meet her gaze.
"However... since the dose is magically calibrated to claim only one soul, it behaves like a heat-seeking gale."
