The final test was about to begin. It was the personal family interview, the last hurdle before the scholarship, the thing that would decide whether Elena walked through these halls as a student or walked away forever. With one hundred families still in contention and no one willing to withdraw, the task before the judges was monumental. One hundred interviews, one hundred families, one hundred futures hanging in the balance.
The Konuari family was escorted to Classroom D. The hallway leading to it was lined with portraits of students who had come before—generations of children whose families had paid fortunes for the privilege of standing where Yuuta was standing now. He tried not to think about them. He tried not to think about the scholarship, or the risk, or the hundred ways this could go wrong. He focused on Elena's small hand in his, on Erza's presence beside him, on the door that was getting closer with every step.
The classroom door opened, and Yuuta forgot to breathe.
The room was unlike anything he had ever seen. The benches were carved from oak so old and so carefully polished that they seemed to glow from within, their surfaces reflecting the light that streamed through tall windows arched like something from a medieval cathedral. The walls were paneled in wood that had been harvested centuries ago, when this building was still a palace, when the people who walked these halls wore crowns instead of uniforms. Desks that had been sat at by princes and prime ministers, by children who had grown up to rule nations, by students who had come from nothing and become everything.
Elena gasped beside him, her eyes wide, her wings fluttering with excitement. She had never seen anything like this—this room that smelled of old wood and old books and old dreams. She pulled her hand free and ran to the nearest desk, her fingers tracing the carvings on its surface, her face full of wonder.
"Papa! Papa, look! It's so beautiful!"
Yuuta smiled, but his mind was elsewhere. He was aware, suddenly, of Erza's hand in his. They had not planned to hold hands. They had not discussed it, had not agreed to it, had not done any of the things that usually preceded two people walking into a room together. But somewhere between the Dancing Hall and this classroom, their fingers had found each other, and neither of them had let go.
Erza's face was cold, the way it always was. "I am only doing this because if I show any sign of anger, they will think this is a fake marriage, and your foolish chance will be lost," she said, her voice flat, her eyes fixed on the judges who were already settling into their seats at the front of the room.
Yuuta's face went red. He told himself it was the heat. He told himself it was the stress. He told himself it was anything but the feeling of her fingers intertwined with his, the warmth of her palm against his skin, the way her hand fit in his like it had always been there.
Her hand is so soft, he thought, and then immediately tried to unthink it. Why hasn't she let go? Maybe she—maybe she likes—
He stopped himself.
No. She would rather kill me than kiss me. She is doing this for Elena. That is all. That is the only reason.
He looked at her. Her face was still cold. Her eyes were still fixed on the judges. But her hand was still in his, and she had not let go.
They took their seats. Elena climbed onto the chair between them, her small legs swinging, her eyes still moving across the room, taking in everything. The judges sat at a table facing them—three of them, their faces neutral, their pens ready, their eyes already moving across the family before them.
Yuuta's heart was pounding. He tried to remember the things Erza had taught him. Sit straight. Do not fidget. Answer questions honestly, but not too honestly. Be yourself, but not too much of yourself. He had never been good at being anything other than what he was.
The judge in the center—a woman with gray hair and kind eyes—leaned forward. Her voice was warm, practiced, the voice of someone who had interviewed a thousand families and knew how to put them at ease.
"Elena," she said, "can you tell us what your favorite toy is?"
Elena did not hesitate. "Squishy!" She held up her hands to show the size. "He is a dragon. He is very small. Elena carries him everywhere. He sleeps with Elena. When Elena is sad, Squishy makes Elena feel better."
The judge smiled. "Squishy sounds like a very good friend."
"Squishy is the best friend," Elena said seriously. "Mama gave him to Elena. He is very old. Older than Elena."
The judge made a note on her paper. "And who do you like more, Elena? Your papa or your mama?"
Yuuta tensed. Erza's hand tightened on his under the table.
Elena considered the question with the seriousness of someone weighing the fate of nations. "Elena likes Papa more," she said.
Yuuta's heart soared.
"But Elena is more scared of Mama," Elena added. "So Elena is nicer to Mama. So Mama does not get angry."
The judge laughed. The other judges exchanged glances. Erza's face did not change, but her hand squeezed Yuuta's so hard that he had to bite his tongue to keep from yelping.
"And what is your hobby?" the judge asked.
"Elena likes to play chess!" Elena said. "Elena beat the Headmaster. He was very surprised. He gave Elena chocolate."
The judge's eyebrows rose. She looked at her notes, at the Headmaster's recommendation that had been attached to the Konuari file, at the notes about a four-year-old who had beaten their chess programs without breaking a sweat. "I see," she said. "And what do you do when you are angry?"
Elena demonstrated. Her cheeks puffed out. Her arms crossed. Her tail curled around her leg. Her wings pressed tight against her back. She sat there, a tiny, furious ball of silver hair and red eyes, and the judges stared at her with something that might have been amazement.
"I hold Squishy," she said, her voice muffled by her puffed cheeks. "Very tight. Until I am not angry anymore."
The judge nodded slowly, making another note. "And what do you do if you get lost?"
Elena's answer came without hesitation. "Elena finds an old man to ask for help. Old men are nice. They give Elena chocolate. They teach Elena games. They help Elena find Papa."
The judges looked at each other. The Headmaster's notes had mentioned an old man. A chess game. A child who had approached a stranger without fear and asked for help.
Yuuta felt Erza's hand loosen in his. He looked at her. She was watching Elena, her face still cold, but her eyes—her eyes were soft.
The judge turned to them. "Mr. and Mrs. Konuari," she said, "do you have anything you would like to add?"
Yuuta opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He looked at Elena, at her bright eyes and her silver hair, at the daughter who had changed everything. He thought about the interview, the scholarship, the risk. He thought about the year he had left, the death that was waiting for him, the future he would not see.
He looked at Erza. Her hand was in his. Her eyes were on his face. She was waiting.
He squeezed her hand.
"She is everything," he said. "She is everything we ever wanted. She is everything we never knew we needed. And we will do whatever it takes to give her the life she deserves."
The judge looked at him for a long moment. Then she smiled.
"That is all we needed to hear."
The judge looked at her notes, then at Elena, then back at the family sitting before her. Her voice was professional, measured, the voice of someone who had done this a thousand times and knew how to deliver difficult news without cruelty.
"The child has passed our evaluation," she said. "We have tested her ourselves, and despite being only four years old, her mind is exceptionally well developed. We would place her cognitive abilities at the level of a nine-year-old child."
She glanced at the papers in front of her, the recommendation from the Headmaster, the notes from the chess programs Elena had defeated, the observations from the dining hall where she had sat quietly for thirty minutes while adults lost their composure around her. She looked at Elena, who was sitting between her parents, her small hands folded on the table, her red eyes calm, her face patient.
"We also received a recommendation from the Headmaster stating that she is much more aware of the world than any child he has encountered," the judge continued. "We tested this ourselves, and it proved to be true. She answered every question without hesitation. She showed no fear of strangers—something unusual for a child her age." She paused, a small smile crossing her face. "Perhaps she is simply not afraid of anything."
The judges exchanged glances. They had seen children like Elena before—bright, precocious, advanced—but never one who sat in a room full of strangers and answered questions about her favorite toy and her hobbies and her parents with the calm confidence of someone who knew exactly who she was. They made notes on their papers, their pens moving quickly, their faces neutral.
"Now," the lead judge said, setting her pen down, "we will proceed with the parent interview."
Yuuta's stomach dropped. He had been so focused on Elena, on her answers, on the way she had charmed the judges without even trying, that he had forgotten about this part. The part where they asked about him. The part where they asked about Erza. The part where they asked about everything he had been trying not to think about since the moment they walked into this building. His palms were sweating. His heart was pounding. He could feel the weight of the past weeks pressing down on his chest.
He looked at Erza. She was sitting beside him, her back straight, her face calm, her hand resting on the table beside his. She was not nervous. She was never nervous. She was the Dragon Queen, and she had faced things far more terrifying than three judges in a classroom. She looked like she was waiting for a meal to be served.
The lead judge folded her hands on the table. "Mr. and Mrs. Konuari, we apologize, but we had to look into your background. It is standard procedure for all families being considered for admission. We found several things that do not line up."
Yuuta's breath caught. "What do you mean, line up?" His voice came out higher than he intended, sharper. He tried to steady it, to calm it, to be the man Erza had taught him to be, but the old fear was crawling up his throat.
The judge's face did not change. "Firstly, your age and your daughter's age. You are twenty-one years old. Your daughter is four. That means you had her when you were seventeen. Combined with the fact that we found no official record of your marriage in this country, we are concerned about the circumstances surrounding your family's formation."
Yuuta's leg began to shake under the table. He could feel it, the tremor running through his thigh, his knee, his calf. He tried to stop it. He could not. He looked at Erza, hoping for something—guidance, anger, anything. But she was sitting with her arms crossed, her face uninterested, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere above the judges' heads. She looked like she would rather be anywhere else.
"Well, you see," Yuuta said, his voice cracking, "it's kind of personal, and I can't—I mean, we can't—"
The judge raised her hand. "Please understand, Mr. Konuari. We believe that a child's development is shaped by their parents. Their stability. Their commitment to each other. Without documentation of your marriage, without a clear timeline of your relationship, we have concerns about whether that foundation exists. We are not trying to pry into your private life, but we need to understand how your family came to be."
She paused, leaning forward slightly. "If you cannot answer our questions, we will have no choice but to assume that your daughter was conceived in a way that does not align with the values of this academy. We will have to reject her application."
Yuuta's leg stopped shaking. His whole body went still.
The weight he had been carrying since the moment Erza appeared in his apartment pressed down on his chest. The guilt. The shame. The certainty that he had done something unforgivable, that he was a monster, that he did not deserve the child sitting beside him or the woman who had let him live.
He thought about that night. The dream he barely remembered. The way Erza had looked at him when she appeared in his room—cold, furious, carrying a child he had no memory of creating. He had spent weeks believing he had forced himself on her, that he had committed a sin so terrible that the only punishment was death. He had been waiting for her to kill him, and he had thought he deserved it.
But she had not killed him. She had given him a year. She had taught him to dance. She had let him wash her hair. She had held his hand.
He thought about what would happen if he told the truth. If he said the words he had been carrying in his chest for weeks. I assaulted her. I do not remember it, but I did it. I am a monster. The academy would reject Elena. They would throw her out. They would take away her future because of something he had done before he even knew she existed.
He could not do it. He could not ruin her life. He could not be the reason she lost everything.
He sat in silence, his head bowed, his hands flat on the table, his eyes fixed on the wood grain beneath his fingers. The minutes stretched. The judges waited. Erza waited. Elena waited.
The judge sighed. "Mr. Konuari, we cannot move forward if you do not answer. We understand that this is difficult, but we need to understand your family's situation. If you continue to remain silent, we will have to assume the worst and reject your daughter's application."
Yuuta's hands curled into fists on the table. His whole body was shaking now, trembling with the effort of holding himself together. A tear slipped down his cheek. He did not wipe it away. He could not move his hands. They were pressed flat on the table, useless, holding him in place while everything he had built crumbled around him.
The tear fell onto his hand, warm and small, and he watched it sit there on his skin, a tiny, perfect drop of everything he could not say.
The judge's voice was softer now, but no less firm. "We are sorry, Mr. Konuari. If this continues, we are afraid your daughter will be rejected."
Yuuta's head snapped up. "No. No, wait. Please. She did nothing wrong. She is perfect. She is—"
He could not finish. The words would not come. He looked at Elena, at her red eyes and her silver hair, at the face that held his whole world, and he thought about what he was going to take from her. What he had already taken. What he could never give back. His hands were shaking. His breath was coming too fast. The room was spinning.
Then Erza moved.
She slapped her hand on the table. The sound cracked through the room like thunder. The judges jumped. Elena looked up, startled. Yuuta stopped breathing.
Erza stood. Her chair scraped against the floor. Her dress caught the light from the windows, white and gold, and her hair fell around her face like a curtain of silver, and her eyes—her eyes were burning.
"Silence," she said.
The room went still.
Her voice was ice, but it was not the ice of anger. It was the ice of someone who had made a decision and would not be moved. She looked at the judges, and for the first time, they saw something in her face that made them lean back in their chairs.
The judges stared at her. The papers on their desks stopped rustling. The pens in their hands went still.
Erza looked at them. Her face was cold, the way it always was. But there was something underneath it now—something that had not been there before, something that made the judges lean back in their chairs without knowing why.
"You want to know about our relationship?" she said. "Fine. I will tell you."
Yuuta's blood went cold. This is it, he thought. She is going to tell them everything. She is going to tell them what I did. She is going to tell them the truth, and they will reject Elena, and it will be my fault, and—
Erza turned to look at him.
Her eyes met his.
And something in her expression shifted.
To be continued...