Her heart stopped.
It was Yuuta.
Her mortal.
He was kneeling in the grass, his hands digging into the soil, his face turned toward the ground, his body moving in the slow, rhythmic motion of someone who had been doing the same thing for so long that he had forgotten how to do anything else. His hands were raw. His nails were broken. The blood that covered the grass, that stained the soil, that marked every inch of ground between the palace and where he knelt—it was his.
She saw his hands. They were red. She saw his knees, stained with soil and blood, the fabric of his borrowed pants torn through in places, the skin beneath visible and raw. She saw his face—his ridiculous, impossible, infuriating face—lit by the moonlight, streaked with dirt and sweat and something that might have been tears.
He was searching for her ring.
The world stopped.
Erza stood at the window, her hand pressed against the glass, her breath caught in her throat. She watched him crawl across the field, watched him pull at the grass, dig at the soil, push himself forward on hands that should not be able to move. The night was cold, the field was vast, and he had been out there for hours. He had not stopped. He had not rested. He had not done anything except search, and bleed, and search again.
Why?
The question burned in her chest. Why was he doing this? She had told him the ring was old, nothing more. She had not told him what it meant. Had not told him about her mother, her grandmother, the generations of queens who had worn it before her. Had not told him about the night she placed it on Elena's finger in the palace, watching her daughter's face light up, watching her turn her hand in the candlelight. He did not know. He could not know.
And yet he was out there, in the cold, in the dark, destroying himself for something he did not understand.
He fell. She saw him stumble, saw his hands slip on the grass, saw him catch himself just before his face hit the ground. He stayed there for a moment, on his hands and knees, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking. She thought he would stop. She thought he would give up. He pushed himself up. He kept crawling. He kept searching.
Her hand moved to the window latch. She did not remember deciding to open it. Did not remember pushing the glass, or leaning out, or letting the night wind rush against her face. She only knew that suddenly she was there, at the window, watching him, and her voice was in her throat before she could stop it.
She did not call out.
She could not. Because if she called out, he would look up. He would see her. He would know she was watching. And she did not know what she would say to him. Did not know what words could possibly explain the thing that was happening in her chest, the thing that was breaking and mending and breaking again.
She watched him. He kept searching.
And somewhere in the darkness between them, the moon shone down on the field, silver and distant, witness to something neither of them had words for.
The night stretched on, longer than any night Erza could remember. The moon had crossed the sky and was sinking toward the mountains, the stars were fading one by one, and still Yuuta crawled across the field. Still he searched. Still he bled.
She stood at the window, her hands pressed flat against the cold stone, her face pressed close to the glass, her breath fogging the pane. She had been standing there for hours. She had not moved. She had not looked away. She had watched him pull grass from the ground with hands that should not have been able to move, dig into soil with fingers that should not have been able to feel, push himself forward on knees that had long since stopped bleeding because there was no blood left to give.
Stop, she wanted to say. Stop, you pathetic mortal. You will die if you keep going.
The words were in her throat. They burned there, hot and desperate, but they would not come out. She could not call to him. She could not let him know she was watching. She could not let him see her like this—weak, afraid, undone by the sight of a man who had no reason to give her anything, giving everything.
Stop it.
His hands slipped on the grass. He caught himself, barely, and for a moment he stayed there, on his hands and knees, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking. She thought he would stop. She thought he would give up. He pushed himself up and kept crawling.
Stop it.
Her voice was trembling now, though she was not speaking aloud. Her hands were trembling too, pressed flat against the stone, her fingers white with the effort of holding herself back. She wanted to go to him. She wanted to pull him up, drag him back to the palace, force him to rest, force him to stop, force him to see that the ring was not worth this, that nothing was worth this.
She did not move.
The sun began to rise. It was slow at first, a lightening of the darkness at the edges of the sky, a softening of the shadows that had covered the field for so long. The moon sank lower, its silver light fading, and the stars disappeared one by one, swallowed by the pale gray of approaching dawn. The field began to emerge from the darkness—the torn grass, the gouged soil, the blood that marked every inch of ground between the palace and where Yuuta knelt.
He was still searching. He had not slept. He had not eaten. He had not done anything except search, and bleed, and search again. His hands were raw. His face was pale. His body moved with the slow, mechanical rhythm of someone who had forgotten why he was moving, who had forgotten what he was searching for, who had forgotten everything except the need to keep going.
The Headmaster watched from his window, his hands clasped behind his back, his face gray with exhaustion and something that might have been shame. Beside him, Zeak shifted uncomfortably, his eyes fixed on the figure in the field.
"Headmaster," he said, his voice low, "do we have to go this far? To test them like this?"
The Headmaster did not answer immediately. He watched Yuuta crawl across the field, watched his hands dig into the soil, watched the blood that stained the grass behind him. He had seen many things in his years as head of this academy. He had seen parents who would do anything for their children, who would lie and cheat and steal to give them a future. He had seen parents who would give up everything they had, everything they were, for a chance at this school. He had never seen anything like this.
"We do," he said finally. "And I have seen enough."
He reached into his robe and pulled out a small velvet pouch. It was the pouch that had held the offerings, the pouch that had been lost with the rocket, the pouch that had been found hours ago, intact, hidden in a corner of the field where the rocket's blast had not reached. The rings were inside. The lockets. The brooches. All of them safe. All of them waiting to be returned.
He handed the pouch to Zeak. "Take the Konuari ring. Put it where he will find it. And call the elders. I have decided to give them the scholarship. I have seen enough."
Zeak took the pouch without a word. He descended from the window, crossed the courtyard, stepped out onto the field. The grass was wet with dew, cold against his shoes, and the air was sharp with the smell of blood and torn earth. He walked to the edge of the field where Yuuta had not yet reached, where the grass was still whole, still green, still untouched. He reached into the pouch and pulled out the ring—a delicate thing, silver, two bands twisted together, a gem that pulsed with a light of its own.
He threw it.
The ring sailed through the air, silver and bright, catching the first light of dawn, scattering it like a star falling to earth. It landed in the tall grass at the edge of the field, where Yuuta had not yet searched, where the grass was still fresh, where the ring would wait for him to find it.
Zeak turned and walked back to the palace without looking back.
Erza did not see the ring.
She was watching Yuuta. She had been watching him for hours, watching him crawl across the field, watching him dig into the soil, watching him bleed into the ground that had already taken so much from him. She could not look away. She could not stop watching. She could not do anything except stand at the window, her hands pressed flat against the stone, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her eyes burning with tears she had not allowed herself to cry.
He stood up.
It was a slow movement, clumsy, the movement of someone who had been on his hands and knees for so long that he had forgotten how to stand. His legs shook. His arms hung at his sides. His hands, raw and bleeding, hung open, empty. He stood in the middle of the field, surrounded by the torn grass and the gouged soil and the blood that marked where he had been, and he looked up at the sky.
The sun was rising. The first light hit the field, spreading across the grass like water, like fire, like something that had been waiting all night to be seen. It touched the torn earth, the bloodied grass, the man who stood in the middle of it all with his hands empty and his face turned toward the light.
And then the light hit the ring.
It was a small flash, a spark, a gleam of silver and gemstone caught by the rising sun. It came from the tall grass at the edge of the field, where Yuuta had not yet searched, where the grass was still whole, still green, still untouched. It was brief, barely a moment, but Yuuta saw it.
He ran.
His legs, which had been shaking, which had been barely able to hold him, carried him forward. His hands, which had been bleeding, which had been empty, reached out. He fell, crawled, pulled himself forward, and then his fingers closed around something small and cold and bright.
He lifted his hand to the sky.
The ring caught the light of the rising sun and held it, scattering it across the field in fragments of silver and gold, and Yuuta held it there, in his bleeding hand, and he screamed.
Not a scream of pain. Not a scream of grief. A scream of joy, of relief, of something that had been building in him all night and had finally found release. He held the ring up to the sky, and he screamed, and the sound of it carried across the field, across the palace walls, across the valley, to the window where Erza stood with her hands pressed against the glass and her face wet with tears she had not known she was crying.
She saw the ring. Her mother's ring. The ring she had given away, the ring she had lost, the ring she had thought she would never see again. It was in his hand, in his bleeding, broken hand, and he was holding it up to the light like something precious, something worth searching for, something worth bleeding for.
She covered her mouth with her hands. Her tears fell, hot and fast, and she did not try to stop them. She was the Dragon Queen. She had not cried in centuries. She was crying now, because a man she had known for two weeks, a man she had threatened to kill, a man she had called pathetic and useless and disgusting, had crawled across a field all night, bleeding, breaking, refusing to stop, for her ring.
He collapsed.
His legs gave out. His arms fell to his sides. His body, which had been held together by nothing but will and desperation, finally gave up. He fell to the ground, his face in the grass, his hand still closed around the ring, his body still.
He lay on the ground, his face pressed into the grass, his body still. The dawn light spread across the field, gold and pink and the pale blue of morning, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his breathing, slow and ragged, and the distant cry of birds waking in the forest.
Then the guards came running.
They had been stationed by the Headmaster, watching from the walls all night, waiting for this moment. They reached Yuuta before Erza could move, their hands gentle, their voices low, their movements practiced. One lifted his head, held water to his lips. Another tore bread from the loaf they had brought, pressed it into his hands. A third checked his wounds, his torn hands, his bleeding knees, the places where the thorns had cut and the stones had broken and the long night had taken everything he had.
Yuuta drank. He chewed. He swallowed. His eyes were open, fixed on the sky, on the light that was spreading across the field, on the faces that hovered above him, asking him questions he could not hear.
Erza stood a few feet away. She had stopped running when the guards reached him, had stopped moving, had stopped breathing. She stood in the torn grass, in the blood he had spilled, in the dawn light that was turning everything gold, and she watched them tend to him.
Her hands were at her sides. Her face was still. Her heart was pounding in her chest, so loud she was sure they could hear it, so loud she was sure the whole world could hear it. She watched him drink, watched him eat, watched him try to sit up, try to stand, try to be something other than the broken thing lying in the grass.
He saw her.
He was sitting up now, pushing aside the hands that tried to help him, refusing the arm that reached for him. His face was pale, his hands were bleeding, his whole body was shaking with exhaustion and pain. But he was looking at her. His eyes, red in the dawn light, were fixed on her face.
He stood.
The guards tried to stop him. They reached for him, tried to hold him down, tried to make him rest. He pushed them away. His legs were shaking. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking with the effort of standing, of staying upright, of moving toward her.
She did not move. She could not move. She stood in the grass, in the blood, in the light that was turning everything gold, and she watched him come.
He walked slowly. Each step was a struggle, each step was a victory, each step brought him closer to her. The guards stepped back. The dawn light surrounded him, lit him from behind, made him look like something she had never seen before, something she did not have words for.
He stopped in front of her.
They were close now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to see the blood on his hands, the dirt on his face, the exhaustion in his eyes. Close enough to see that he was smiling.
She could not speak. She could not move. She could not do anything except stand there, in the dawn, in the field, with her hands at her sides and her heart pounding in her chest and her eyes fixed on his face.
He stepped forward.
His arms went around her. His hands, raw and bleeding, pressed against her back. His face, dirty and exhausted, pressed against her hair. His body, broken and shaking, leaned into hers.
She hugged him back.
Her arms wrapped around him, pulled him close, held him against her. Her hands found his head, cradled it, pressed it against her shoulder. Her face buried itself in his hair, in the dirt and the blood and the smell of him, and she held him like she had never held anyone.
"You idiot." Her voice was shaking. "You stupid, pathetic, idiotic mortal. Who told you to dig all night? Who told you to search for a piece of jewelry? Who told you to—" Her voice broke. Her hands tightened in his hair. "Who told you to do this?"
He did not answer. He could not answer. He was barely conscious, barely standing, barely holding on to the last thread of awareness that had kept him going through the night. But his arms were around her, and his face was pressed against her shoulder, and his heart was beating against hers.
He pulled back. Just enough. Just enough to see her face, to look into her eyes, to let her see his.
His hand rose. It was shaking, bleeding, barely able to close. But it closed around something small and cold and bright.
He opened his fingers.
The ring lay in his palm. Her ring. Her mother's ring. The ring she had given away, the ring she had lost, the ring she had thought she would never see again. It was there, in his hand, in the dawn light, shining.
The Eternal Flower Ring
To Be Continue,,,