Yuuta stood in the kitchen, carefully measuring dried herbs into a small ceramic pot that Elena had painted Yesterday.
The kettle hissed on the stove, steam curling toward the ceiling, and the warm, earthy scent of chamomile and lavender filled the air.
He had been making tea for Erza all morning—ever since he had foolishly agreed to become her slave in exchange for knowledge about her world. She had not made it easy. In just a few short hours, she had already found countless ways to torment him, each one more creative and infuriating than the last.
But this tea was different. This tea was special.
He had learned, over the past weeks, that Erza preferred her tea at a specific temperature—warm enough to soothe but not hot enough to burn. He had learned that she liked honey, but only a drop, and only if it was clover honey from the farmer's market. He had learned that she hated when the tea was too strong or too weak, too sweet or too bitter, too hot or too cold.
He had learned these things not because she had told him, but because he had watched her. He had paid attention to the way her nose wrinkled when something was not to her liking, the way her eyes softened when something was perfect. He knew her. Perhaps better than anyone ever had.
He poured the steaming water over the herbs, watched them swirl and steep, and carried the cup to the living room.
Erza was lounging on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, her book open in her lap. Elena was curled against her side, her silver hair spread across her mother's thigh, her small face peaceful in sleep. Dozens of drawings surrounded them—castles and dragons and stick figures holding hands—the scattered evidence of a child's imagination set free.
Yuuta set the cup on the table beside her and bowed.
"My Majesty," he said, "here is the tea."
Erza set down her book and lifted the cup to her lips. She took a slow sip, her eyes closing, her expression shifting from mild annoyance to genuine pleasure. Her shoulders relaxed. Her breathing deepened. A soft sound escaped her—something between a sigh and a hum.
"Oh my," she said, her voice warm and satisfied. "That is so refreshing. Ahhh."
She stretched, rolling her shoulders, and Yuuta noticed for the first time how tense she had been. Her muscles were tight, coiled like a spring, as if she had been holding herself together for so long that she had forgotten how to relax.
Yuuta watched her enjoy the tea, and a small smile tugged at his lips. He had made her happy. For all her threats and torments, he had made her happy.
"Well," he said, "it seems like you should tell me about your world now. You promised."
Erza closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the sofa. A small smile played at the corners of her lips.
"Hmm," she said, drawing out the sound. "Not so fast. I have not enjoyed myself yet. The day is still young, and you still have much to prove."
Yuuta sighed. "Now what can I do for you?"
Erza opened one eye and looked at him. Her gaze was playful, almost mischievous.
"Hmm," she said again. "Well, for now, I would say... massage my shoulders."
Yuuta's teeth ground together. She was going too far. She had been going too far all morning, pushing him further than he thought possible, testing the limits of his patience and his pride. But he loved her. He loved her more than he had ever loved anyone, and that was why he did not complain. That was why he kept serving her, kept pleasing her, kept trying to make her happy even when she made it impossible.
He moved behind the sofa and placed his hands on her shoulders.
Her muscles were hard, solid as ice, as if she had been carved from a glacier and left to freeze for a thousand years. He pressed gently at first, then harder, working his thumbs into the tight knots that had formed beneath her skin. The warmth of his hands seeped through her dress, spreading across her shoulders, down her back, into her chest.
Erza's breath caught.
She had not expected this. She had expected clumsy fingers and awkward pressure, the kind of fumbling touch that annoyed her more than it helped. But Yuuta's hands were warm, and his touch was gentle, and the more he pressed, the more her muscles began to loosen. The ice that had been frozen inside her for so long began to melt.
She could feel his heartbeat through his fingers. Thump. Thump. Thump. Steady and strong, pulsing against her skin like a second heart. And beneath her own chest, her own heart began to beat in time with his.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
They were synced. Together. Like two halves of the same whole.
Her face turned red. Her breath came faster. She had never felt anything like this—this warmth, this connection, this sense of being held without being trapped. It was terrifying. It was wonderful. She wanted to run from it, and she wanted to drown in it.
Yuuta felt it too. Her heartbeat through his fingers, her warmth spreading through his palms, her breath quickening beneath his hands. He was her slave—he knew that—but this did not feel like slavery. This felt like love.
Why am I feeling so different today? Erza thought, her mind spinning. It is happiness. And an urge to bite him. What is this feeling?
She tried to push it away, to retreat behind her walls of ice and indifference, but the more she struggled, the deeper she fell. She felt protected. She felt safe. She had never felt safe in her life—not as a child, not as a queen, not as the most powerful being in any world she had ever walked through. But here, in this cramped apartment, with this weak, mortal man, she felt safe.
Her eyes fluttered closed. Her head fell back against the sofa. She let herself relax, let herself enjoy, let herself be held.
The minutes passed in silence. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. They were lost in their own world, a world of warmth and touch and the quiet, steady rhythm of their hearts beating together.
And then Elena stirred.
"No," she murmured in her sleep, her small face scrunching. "My Papa is strong."
She settled back into slumber, her breathing evening out, her small hand curling into a fist against her mother's thigh.
The spell was broken.
Erza sat up abruptly, pulling away from Yuuta's hands, her face burning red.
"Enough," she said, her voice sharp. "Enough. I am pleased by your service for now."
Yuuta stepped back, his own face flushed, his hands tingling where they had touched her.
"Then," he said, his voice eager despite himself, "are you going to tell me about your world?"
Erza looked away. She could not look at him. He was too attractive today, too warm, too close. She needed distance. She needed time. She needed to remember who she was.
"I suppose so," she said. "But not the full story. Not yet. You have only served me for a few hours. There is still much of the day left, and you still have much to prove."
Yuuta nodded eagerly, like a child who had just been promised a treat.
"Yes," he said. "Yes. That is fair. Anything you say, my queen."
Erza rolled her eyes, but she could not hide the small smile that tugged at her lips.
Idiot mortal, she thought. My idiot mortal.
Erza settled back against the sofa cushions, her tea cup resting on the armrest, her eyes half-closed in contentment. The warmth of the herbal blend still lingered on her tongue, and the tension that had been coiled in her shoulders had loosened under Yuuta's careful hands. She was relaxed—more relaxed than she had been in a very long time—and the morning light streaming through the window painted everything in shades of gold and amber.
Elena slept peacefully between them, her small body curled into a ball, her silver hair spread across Erza's lap like a pool of moonlight. Her breathing was soft and steady, and every few seconds, her tiny fingers twitched as if she was chasing something in her dreams.
Yuuta sat on the edge of the sofa, his hands folded in his lap, his red eyes bright with anticipation. He had been waiting for this moment all morning—ever since he had foolishly agreed to become her slave in exchange for knowledge about her world. He had endured her torments, her demands, her endless games. He had brought her water and juice and tea. He had massaged her shoulders until his fingers ached. And now, finally, she was going to tell him something.
"Let me tell you," Erza said, her voice slow and deliberate, "that I can only tell you about one thing, and only half of that story. As I mentioned earlier. A queen does not reveal all her secrets at once."
Yuuta nodded eagerly, leaning forward. "Yes, yes. I understand."
Erza took another sip of her tea, watching him over the rim of the cup. His eagerness was almost palpable, vibrating off him like heat from a stove. She could see the questions bubbling behind his eyes, dozens of them, each one fighting to be the first.
"So," she said, setting down her cup, "tell me what you want to know about."
Yuuta's mind raced. He had so many questions—too many to count, too many to choose from. What was Nova? How many continents existed in her world? Were there humans there, and if so, how did they survive in a world ruled by dragons? What did her castle look like? How big was it really? How did the seasons work? What did the sky look like at night?
He thought for a long moment, his brow furrowed, his lips pressed together. Erza watched him in silence, sipping her tea, enjoying the rare sight of him struggling to contain his curiosity.
Finally, he looked up at her.
"I have decided," he said.
Erza raised an eyebrow. "Oh? So you have decided what to ask?"
"Yes," Yuuta said. "I have decided my first question."
Erza set down her cup and folded her hands in her lap. "Good for you. Tell me, then, before I change my mind."
Yuuta took a deep breath. His heart was pounding. His palms were sweating. He had been thinking about this for weeks, ever since she first mentioned the bear, ever since he saw the shadow of pain in her eyes when she spoke of her childhood. He wanted to know. He needed to know.
"I want to know about you," he said.
The words fell into the quiet room like stones dropped into still water.
Erza's hand, which had been reaching for her tea cup, stopped mid-motion. Her fingers hovered above the handle, trembling slightly, frozen in place. The cup itself wobbled on the armrest, then tipped, then fell.
It hit the floor with a soft thud, the remaining tea spreading across the wooden boards in a dark brown puddle. Neither of them looked at it.
Erza's face turned red. Not the pale pink of mild embarrassment—the kind that came and went with a passing compliment. This was deeper, richer, a crimson that spread from her cheeks to her ears to the base of her neck like wildfire racing across dry grass.
"Wha... what?" she stammered.
Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear her own voice. Her ribs felt too small for her heart, as if it might burst through them at any moment. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, feeling the heat radiating from her skin.
"What did you say?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
She needed to confirm. She needed to be sure. Surely, she had misheard. Surely, he had asked something else—something about her world, her kingdom, her power. Not about her. Not about her.
Yuuta met her eyes, his face completely serious. There was no hesitation in his voice, no doubt in his gaze.
"I want to know you," he said. "And I am serious."
Her heart stopped.
For a single, terrifying, wonderful moment, it simply stopped—frozen in her chest like the ice she commanded. Then it resumed, faster than before, pounding against her ribs like a caged animal desperate to escape.
He was serious, she thought. Serious about me. Does he really want to know me? He could ask anything—about my power, my kingdom, my enemies—but he wants to know me. Wait.
Her thoughts spiraled, tangling around each other like threads pulled from a loom. What does that mean? He wants to know about me? About what? Does he want to know about my... my chest? Or my tastes? Or something else? Why would he want to know that? Why am I even thinking about this?
She shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts that swirled inside her like leaves in a storm. Her face was burning. Her hands were trembling. She had never been so flustered in her life.
Why am I thinking lewd thoughts? she demanded of herself. He is just asking about my past. My childhood. Nothing more. Stop being an idiot.
She took a deep breath, then another, trying to steady herself.
"Well," she said, her voice shaking with embarrassment and nervousness, "a promise is a promise. As queen, I will... I will try my best to answer you."
She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. Her face was still red, her heart was still pounding, and she did not know what to do with either of them.
Yuuta's face lit up like a child on Christmas morning.
"That is great!" he said, leaning forward eagerly. "Then please tell me about your childhood, Your Highness."
Erza blinked.
The heat in her cheeks cooled. The pounding in her chest slowed. The strange, unfamiliar flutter that had been building inside her faded into something else—something closer to disappointment.
"Ehh??..... My What.." Erza said.
"Childhood...your Majesty." Yuuta replied.
"My childhood?" she repeated.
"Yes," Yuuta said, nodding eagerly. "I have been so curious about your life. I remembered what you told me about the bear that hurt you, and I wondered—how was your childhood? What was it like growing up in your world?"
Erza stared at him for a long moment. Her expression shifted—from embarrassment to confusion to something that looked almost like exasperation.
"Oh," she said, her voice flat. "That is what you meant."
Yuuta felt a chill crawl up his spine. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. He looked at her, at the sudden shift in her demeanor, and realized that he had somehow stepped into dangerous territory.
Yuuta felt a chill crawl up his spine. Wait, he thought. Did I ask something wrong? Why did her personality just switch like that?.
Yuuta swallowed hard. "I just thought... I was curious about your life. Your childhood. I remembered what you told me about the bear, and I wondered... how was your childhood? What was it like?"
Erza sighed. A small smile tugged at her lips. She had almost thought—for a moment—that Yuuta was going to ask something lewd, something inappropriate, something that would have made her want to freeze him solid. But she had forgotten. Yuuta was an idiot. A lovable, infuriating, completely oblivious idiot.
"Very well," she said. "I will tell you about my childhood. But—" her eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, "if you laugh at me, even once, I will skin you alive right where you stand. Do you understand?"
Yuuta nodded frantically, his hands raised in surrender. "Yes, my queen. I swear on my pride. I will not laugh at your story."
Erza studied him for a moment, searching his face for any sign of mockery. She found none. Only curiosity. Only sincerity.
She took a deep breath as she was preparing to unfold unknow lore.
Erza sat in silence, her fingers wrapped around the empty teacup, her violet eyes fixed on something far away—something that existed beyond the walls of this small apartment, beyond this world, beyond the years that had shaped her into the woman she had become. The morning light had grown warmer, painting golden stripes across the floor, and Elena's soft breathing filled the quiet spaces between their thoughts.
She was not looking at Yuuta. She was looking through him, past him, into a place that had no light and no warmth. Her fingers tightened around the cup, knuckles whitening, and for a moment, she looked less like a queen and more like a child—small, uncertain, afraid.
Yuuta noticed.
He did not push.
He did not prompt.
He simply sat on the floor near her feet, his back against the sofa, his red eyes turned toward her face. He could see the war raging behind her eyes—the weighing of words, the measuring of truths, the fear of something he could not name.
She was deciding how much of herself to give him. How much of her past to reveal. How much of her pain to share.
Where should I start? she thought. From my birth? From the first moment I drew breath in a world that wanted to destroy me? From the tragedy that carved me into the woman I became?
She had never told anyone her story. Not fully. Not completely. There were pieces she had shared with Elena—softened versions, bedtime tales that left out the blood and the screaming and the long, cold nights when she had curled into herself and prayed for death. But the truth? The whole truth? That was a weight she had carried alone.
What would he think when he heard it? Would he judge her for the choices she had made? Would he criticize the path she had walked, the blood she had spilled, the lives she had taken? The road to her throne had been paved with corpses. Her name had been written not in ink, but in the blood of her enemies. She had killed to survive. She had killed to protect. She had killed because there was no other way.
And now she sat before a mortal—a man who flinched at the sight of blood, who cooked for his family with gentle hands, who smiled at his daughter like she was the sun and the moon and the stars all wrapped into one. What would he think when he learned what she really was? What would he see when he looked at her after she told him the truth?
Her heart pounded in her chest. She had faced armies without flinching. She had stood before gods and demons and never once looked away. But now, sitting on a worn sofa in a cramped apartment, she was afraid. Afraid of what one human would think of her.
I have never been afraid of my past, she thought, her mind racing. I have never doubted my decisions. My path was absolute. My will was iron. But watching him—his gentle heart, his kind eyes, the way he looks at me like I am something worth looking at—it makes me question. It makes me wonder if I could have been different. If I should have been different.
Her stomach churned. She wanted to look away, to retreat behind her walls of ice and silence, to protect herself from whatever was coming. But she could not. She had promised. And more than that, she wanted him to know. She wanted him to see her—all of her—and still choose to stay.
I cannot hide forever, she decided. I have to take the risk. I do not know how he will react. He may hate me. He may criticize me. He may look at me with disgust and walk away.
She looked at him—at his red eyes, his messy hair, his patient silence. He was waiting. He was always waiting.
But I do not want to hide from you, she thought, and the words felt like a confession. Whatever happens, you are still mine.
She set down the teacup and folded her hands in her lap. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet but steady, like the surface of a frozen lake that held depths no one had ever seen.
"Very well," she said. "I will tell you. From the beginning."
To be Continue....