Soon after the trial was over, Erza's mother—Isilith Vely Dragomir, the Queen of Atlantis—watched over her daughter and tended to her wounds. Day after day, she sat by Erza's bedside, feeding her broth, changing her bandages, brushing the ice from her hair. She did not speak much. She did not need to. Her presence was enough.
Erza thought, perhaps, that the elders would finally accept her. She had survived the Snow Forest. She had killed the bear. She had emerged from her cocoon stronger than before. Surely, they would see that she was worthy.
She was wrong.
"Their hatred spread even more," Erza said, her voice flat, her eyes fixed on some distant point that only she could see. "Word of my weakness traveled faster than the northern winds. Soon, every high noble and low noble in the kingdom was calling for my execution. They spread rumors that I was cursed, that I carried the blood of traitors, that I would bring ruin to Atlantis. My own father—from the left and right, everyone wanted me dead."
She paused, her hand moving to Elena's hair, brushing the silver strands with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place on her usually cold features.
"I was barely five years old. I could not understand what was happening. I spent most of my days crying in the corner of my room, curled into a small ball, pressing my face against my knees so that no one would hear me. I believed that I should never have been born. I believed that the world would be better if I had never opened my eyes."
Yuuta's heart cracked. He had known pain. He had known loneliness. He had known what it felt like to be unwanted, to be called a demon, to be pushed away by people who did not understand him. But to be a child—barely old enough to remember her own name—surrounded by enemies who wanted her dead, with only her mother standing between her and the abyss—he could not imagine it. He kept listening, even though every word cut deeper than the last.
"My mother forced the nobles and elders to meet in the Royal Hall," Erza continued. "Seven hundred nobles, from high to low. Seven great elders. Twelve elders. Sixteen council elders. And one saint elder, whose only purpose was to ensure that the queen's decisions were carried out, no matter the cost."
She looked at Yuuta, and he saw the weight of that memory pressing down on her shoulders.
"I was surrounded by countless enemies. People I had never seen, never spoken to, never wronged. They looked at me like I was a plague, a curse, a monster that had no right to exist. Their eyes were cold, colder than the winter winds, colder than the ice that had frozen my blood in the Snow Forest. My own siblings turned against me. My father stood with them. There was no one on my side. No one except my mother."
Yuuta's fists clenched in his lap. His knuckles were white.
"I saw my death coming," Erza said. "Even though I was just a child, I knew. I could feel it in the air, thick and suffocating, like smoke from a fire that had not yet been lit. I wept in the hall beside my mother, my small hands gripping her dress, my face buried in her side. The faces around me were filled with hatred, and I knew—I knew—that it was going to be my execution. I was sure of it."
She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost reverent.
"But my mother stood in front of them all."
Yuuta's eyes widened. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he did not wipe it away.
"From the nobles to the citizens, from the elders to the common folk, from her own husband to her own kingdom—she stood up for me. Alone. Against everyone."
He could see it in his mind—the great hall, the crystal walls reflecting the torchlight, the sea of cold faces turned against a small, trembling child. And at the center of it all, a mother, standing tall, her silver hair gleaming like a banner of defiance.
"She looked at me," Erza said, "and then she turned to face the crowd. Her voice was steady, calm, but it carried the weight of centuries. She did not shout. She did not scream. She simply spoke, and the entire hall fell silent."
Erza's voice shifted as she recited her mother's words, taking on a formal, almost regal tone.
"'It has come to my attention,' the Queen said, 'that this august body has convened not to deliberate matters of state, not to address the threats that gather upon our borders, but to pass judgment upon a child who has not yet seen her sixth winter. I find myself profoundly troubled—nay, deeply ashamed—that the nobles of Atlantis should stoop so low as to unite against one small girl whose only crime is being born weaker than your expectations would allow.'"
The words hung in the air, heavy and cold.
A noble stepped forward, his voice smooth and practiced, as if he had rehearsed his speech a hundred times. "'Your Majesty, live forever. None here wish harm upon the princess. We seek only to protect the integrity of the bloodline. The child is frail—diminutive in stature, lacking in aura, deficient in the very qualities that define our kind. Should the outside world learn of her condition, they would perceive it as a weakness. They would exploit it. They would strike at the heart of Atlantis. We speak not from malice, but from duty. We seek only to safeguard the realm.'"
Erza's voice hardened.
"My mother did not waver. Her reply was swift and sharp as a blade."
"'You speak of duty?' she said. 'You speak of safeguarding the realm? Then let me speak of duty. Do you know how many nights I remained wakeful, listening to her breathe, fearing that each breath might be her last? Do you know how many times I held her while she wept, powerless to ease her pain? I carried her beneath my heart for three years—three years of ice and storm and ceaseless vigilance. I brought her into this world screaming, and I have watched over her every moment since. You, who have never borne a child, who have never watched your own flesh and blood struggle for each breath—you dare speak to me of duty?'"
The hall fell silent.
"Then my father stepped forward. He was tall, even among dragons, his white scales gleaming in the torchlight. His voice was cold, measured, the voice of a warrior who had seen too much death to be moved by sentiment."
"'My Queen, live forever,' he said. 'You speak from the heart, and your words carry weight. But the cold calculus of rule does not yield to sentiment. The princess is weak—by every metric, every standard, every measurable quality. Her aura is faint. Her growth is stunted. Her form is diminutive. Should she ascend to the throne, should she bear heirs of her own, the royal bloodline would diminish with each passing generation. What then? What of our enemies? What of the history books? What of the mocking laughter of lesser kingdoms who will point to our line and say, "See how the mighty have fallen"?'"
The court echoed him. "'Please consider it. Please consider it.' Their voices rose like a tide, relentless and cold. 'Please consider it. Please consider it.' Seven hundred voices, united against one child.
"But my mother did not yield.
"'Enough,' she said, and the hall fell silent once more. 'You speak of bloodlines and history, of metrics and standards, of the laughter of lesser kingdoms. Then let me speak of blood. This child carries the blood of Seraphina—the Seraphina who carved this kingdom from the frozen wastes, who faced the gods themselves and did not blink. To kill her is to desecrate the memory of our founder. To kill her is to spit upon the grave of the one who made us what we are. You wish to speak of honor? Then honor her. You wish to speak of duty? Then protect her. But do not stand before me and pretend that murder is justice.'"
Yuuta's breath caught.
"The room went silent. Because my mother was right. They could not kill Seraphina's blood. They could not insult the founder of Atlantis. My mother had given them an argument they could not refute—a shield that no amount of hatred could pierce."
Erza smiled, a small, sad smile.
"They tried to argue, of course. They always try. Their voices rose again, desperate now, grasping for any excuse, any loophole, any way to convince her to change her mind. But before they could speak, the queen's advisor stepped forward."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"His aura alone—his presence—choked the strongest dragons in the room. These were dragons who could destroy nations with a single sneeze, and they fell to their knees, gasping for air. The torches flickered. The crystal walls trembled. The very stones of the floor seemed to groan under the weight of his power."
She looked at Yuuta.
"The advisor said, 'Behave yourselves. You are standing in the presence of the Queen of Atlantis. Do not make me kill you.'"
Yuuta felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"They were silent after that," Erza said. "For a minute, at least."
Yuuta sat in silence, his mind turning over the story Erza had just told him. The pieces were there, but something did not fit. He frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of it.
"Wait," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet morning air. "I do not understand something."
Erza looked at him, her violet eyes sharp and unblinking. "What do you not understand?"
Yuuta leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. "If you had older siblings—if the throne had other heirs—then why did the entire nation want to execute you? Why not simply let your elder sibling take the throne? That would have solved everything, would it not? No bloodshed. No scandal. No need for an execution."
Erza sighed, long and heavy, the sound carrying the weight of centuries. She set down her teacup and folded her hands in her lap.
"That is how it usually works," she said. "But there was an elder elf—a seer whose prophecies had never been wrong. He had lived for thousands of years, and in all that time, his visions had proven true. Centuries before I was born, he foretold that the one destined to rule Atlantis would be the youngest daughter of the royal bloodline. The one born smallest. The one born weakest. The one they would least expect."
She paused, her gaze drifting to the window, to the light streaming through the glass.
"He said that I was destined to sit upon the throne. That I would be the one to lead our people through the coming darkness. That my reign would be remembered for a thousand years."
Yuuta's eyes widened.
"That is why they could not simply let my siblings take the throne," Erza continued. "The prophecy was clear. If they tried to bypass me, if they placed another on the throne, the kingdom would fall. The elders knew this. The nobles knew this. Even my father knew this."
She looked at him, and for a moment, he saw the weight of that knowledge in her eyes—the burden of being chosen, the curse of being destined.
"And that is why they wanted me dead."
Yuuta sat back, his mind reeling. He was beginning to understand the dynamics of this world—a world where power was measured in inches, where height determined authority, where a small, weak child was seen as an existential threat to an entire kingdom. It was brutal. It was cruel. And it was utterly foreign to everything he had ever known.
"The court fell silent after my mother spoke," Erza said. "They could not argue with her logic. They could not refute her words. But they could not accept me either. The tension in the hall was thick enough to choke on—a stalemate that could have lasted for hours, for days, for years. Seven hundred nobles, seven elders, an entire kingdom, all holding their breath, waiting for someone to blink."
She paused.
"That is when my grandfather stepped forward."
Yuuta frowned. "Your grandfather?"
"Lord Theron Vely Dragomir," Erza said. "The queen's advisor. He was my mother's father, though he had never shown me any warmth. He was a cold man, calculating, the kind of man who saw people as pieces on a chessboard. But he was also brilliant. He had kept the kingdom stable through wars, famines, and plagues. And that day, he saved my life."
She leaned back against the sofa, her fingers tracing the edge of the cushion.
"He whispered something in my mother's ear. I could not hear what he said—no one could. But I watched my mother's face change as he spoke. I watched the tension drain from her shoulders. I watched her nod."
Yuuta leaned forward, his heart pounding.
"My mother raised her hand, and the hall fell silent. Then she spoke, her voice carrying to every corner of the room, echoing off the crystal walls."
Erza's voice shifted as she recited her mother's words, taking on a formal, almost regal tone.
"'Upon hearing the concerns of the nobles and elders who fear for the future of our kingdom, I, Isilith Vely Dragomir, Queen of Atlantis, do hereby issue this royal decree. The youngest princess shall be placed under the Edict of Silence. None shall speak to her. None shall acknowledge her existence. None shall approach her. She shall be removed from the line of succession and shall live in exile within the palace walls until she reaches her age of majority.'"
Erza's voice was flat, emotionless, as if she were reading from a history book rather than recounting her own life.
"The whole nation agreed. 'May the Queen's word be eternal,' they chanted. 'May the Queen's word be eternal. We shall follow.'"
Yuuta's blood ran cold.
The Edict of Silence. A child—barely five years old, who should have been learning about love and happiness and the warmth of a mother's embrace—was condemned to live in complete isolation. No one could speak to her. No one could acknowledge her existence. She was to be a ghost in her own home, a shadow in her own kingdom.
He thought about what that would do to a child. To be surrounded by people who would not look at her, who would not speak to her, who would act as if she were not there. To grow up in a palace full of life and noise, yet completely, utterly alone.
No wonder Erza was clueless about love. No wonder she did not understand affection, did not know how to express her feelings, did not know how to be soft. She had never experienced any of it. She had been raised in silence, starved of touch, deprived of the most basic human need—connection.
"After the court ended," Erza said, "everyone stopped speaking to me. They acted as if I did not exist. My father walked past me without a glance, his eyes fixed on some distant point that I could never reach. My siblings ignored me, laughing and playing with each other while I stood alone in the corner. Even the servants looked through me as if I were made of glass, as if I were a ghost haunting the halls of my own home."
She looked down at her hands.
"I lived my whole life alone. Without warmth. Without love. Without anyone to care for me."
Yuuta's throat tightened. He wanted to reach out and hold her, but he knew she would not accept it. She had spent too long building walls around herself, too long convincing herself that she did not need anyone.
"I had to learn everything on my own," Erza continued. "No one was there to teach me. No one was there to guide me. I taught myself to read by studying the books in the library, sounding out the words until they made sense. I taught myself to write by tracing the letters with my finger, over and over, until I could form them on my own."
She paused.
"But there was one person who helped me. My maid, Mira."
Erza's voice softened, just slightly, and Yuuta saw a flicker of warmth in her eyes.
"She was a fallen elf who worked in the palace. She had been exiled from her own kingdom for crimes I never learned, and she had found work in Atlantis as a servant. She was assigned to care for me after the Edict was passed, though she was forbidden from speaking to me."
Erza's lips curved into a small, sad smile.
"But she did not care about the Edict. She taught me in secret—late at night, when the guards were asleep, when no one was watching. She taught me to read and write. She taught me to draw. She taught me magic and philosophy and the fundamental principles of the world."
Yuuta could see it in his mind—a young Erza, huddled in the darkness of her room, listening to an elf whisper lessons that no one else would give her. A single candle flickering between them, casting shadows on the walls, the only light in a world of darkness.
"She was kind," Erza said. "She was patient. She was the only warmth I had in those long, cold years."
She paused, and her voice grew heavy.
"But she was discovered."
Yuuta's heart sank.
"The guards found her in my room one night, teaching me to read. They reported her to the elders, and she was found guilty of violating the Edict of Silence. Her punishment was exile from the kingdom."
Erza's voice cracked, just slightly.
"Exile meant death. The lands beyond Atlantis are filled with nightmare creatures—creatures that devour anything that moves. No one survived out there alone. Mira was sent away, and I never saw her again."
She looked at Yuuta, and for a moment, he saw the child she had once been—the small, frightened girl who had watched the only person who cared for her be sent to her death.
"I was alone once more," she said, her voice quieter now, almost fragile, like ice beginning to crack under the weight of footsteps. "But I had the knowledge she gave me. And I had the determination to survive."
She picked up her teacup and took a long, slow sip. The steam curled around her face, softening her features, making her look almost human. Almost reachable.
"Enough for today," she said, setting the cup down with a soft clink. Her voice trembled slightly, though her face remained composed, the mask she had worn for centuries still firmly in place. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "This is my childhood. The one you were so desperate to know."
Yuuta blinked, his mind still reeling from the story she had told him. The images were burned into his memory—the small dragon child, bleeding in the snow, wrapping herself in ice while the world watched and did nothing. He could not shake them. He did not want to shake them.
"What? No. Wait." He leaned forward, his hands gripping his knees. "I want to know more."
Erza raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. "What more is there? You asked for my childhood. I gave it to you."
"No, I mean—" He struggled to find the words, his hands moving as if they could catch the thoughts tumbling through his mind. "How did you become queen? How did you go from that—" he gestured vaguely, trying to encompass the horror of her past, the loneliness, the isolation, the cold, "—to ruling an entire continent? I want everything. The whole story."
Erza sighed, long and heavy. "That is a different story entirely. You asked me about my childhood. The road to the throne is not the same path. They are not equal."
"Then tell me," Yuuta said, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees, his red eyes bright with urgency. "At least tell me in short. Just enough so that I can understand how you became who you are."
Erza studied him for a long moment, her violet eyes searching his face. The mask slipped, just slightly, and he caught a glimpse of something beneath—something uncertain, something almost afraid.
"Why?" she asked, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "Why do you want to know more about me? I could tell you about my world—about the continents and the creatures and the magic. You could ask me anything about the wonders of Atlantis, about the secrets of dragonkind or humans, about the powers that shape the universe. And yet you keep asking about me. Why?"
Yuuta opened his mouth to answer, but the words caught in his throat. He had not thought about why. He had simply asked.
The questions had come from somewhere deep inside him, from a place he did not fully understand, from a part of himself he had only discovered since she came into his life.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.
"Because," he said, and his voice was rough, unsteady, "you have been carrying this alone for so long."
Erza did not move. Did not breathe.
"All those years," he continued, his words coming slowly, carefully, as if each one was a stone he was laying on a path. "The Snow Forest. The bear. The cocoon. The court. The Edict of Silence. Mira. You carried all of it by yourself. No one to share it with. No one to tell. No one to hold you while you remembered."
He looked up at her.
"And I cannot change any of it. I cannot go back and stand beside you in that hall. I cannot protect you from your father's fist or the elders' hatred or the cold of that cave. I cannot bring Mira back. I cannot undo the years you spent alone."
His voice cracked.
"But I can listen. I can hear your story and carry it with me. I can share the weight of it, even if just a little. I can be here, now, and let you know that you are not alone anymore."
He reached out, hesitating for just a moment, and then placed his hand over hers on the sofa.
"I want to know about you," he said, "because you matter to me. Not your kingdom. Not your power. Not your throne. You. The woman who survived all of that and still found a way to love. The woman who holds our daughter like she is the most precious thing in the world. The woman who almost destroyed a city because she thought she had lost me."
He swallowed.
"That is why I want to know."
The silence stretched between them, thick and warm, like honey dripping from a spoon.
Erza stared at their hands. His palm was warm over her cold fingers. She could feel his heartbeat through his skin, steady and slow, matching the rhythm of her own.
No one had ever spoken to her like that. No one had ever looked at her like that—not as the Dragon Queen, not as the Blade of Atlantis, not as a weapon or a threat or a ruler to be feared. He looked at her like she was a person. Like she was someone worth knowing. Like she was someone worth loving.
Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned. She blinked, and a tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.
"Do I really need someone to share my burden?" she whispered, more to herself than to him.
She did not know the answer. She had never asked the question before.
But looking at him—at this weak, mortal, impossibly kind man—she felt something she had not felt in a very long time.
Hope.
A small smile curved her lips. It was not her usual cold smirk, not the sharp smile she wore when she was mocking an enemy. It was something softer, something almost fragile, like a flower blooming in the snow after a long winter.
"Very well," she said, her voice cool, though the warmth in her eyes betrayed her. "I will tell you my road to the throne. But you must promise me something."
Yuuta nodded eagerly. "Anything."
"If you ever show any concern—" she began.
"Or any pity, you will kill me, Right?" Yuuta finished for her.
Then he paused.
His eyes went wide.
Oh no.
Erza's smile turned sharp. She cracked her knuckles, the sound echoing through the quiet room.
"How dare you cut off my words?" she said, her voice cold, her eyes gleaming. "You, a mere slave, dare to go beyond your master?"
Yuuta's face went pale. His hands flew up in surrender. "I am sorry! I am sorry! It was an accident—I did not mean to—"
She did not let him finish. Her fist connected with his head, and he tumbled off the sofa, landing on the floor with a thud that made Elena stir in her sleep.
"Ouch!" he yelped, rubbing his head.
Erza dusted off her hands and sat back, her posture regal, her expression satisfied.
"Now," she said, "where was I?"
Yuuta groaned from the floor. "You were about to tell me how you became queen."
"Ah, yes." Erza picked up her teacup and took a sip, savoring the moment. "The road to the throne."
She set the cup down and began.
To be continued...