——When she found the bud of an unbloomed flower in that garden, she had stopped in her tracks without thinking.
It was a garden where flowers of every color bloomed in wild profusion.
She happened to know little about flower names or varieties, but she had heard that these were precious blooms, cultivated from seeds gathered from across the kingdom and coaxed into bud and blossom.
It was a grand, impressive flower garden. The gardener entrusted with its care must have found it a worthy challenge. The result spoke for itself.
Honestly, when she first set foot in the garden, she had held little expectation for its colorful display.
She had always lacked the sensibility to admire flowers, and had never taken much interest in the gardens of her family estate. Even after persuading her understanding father to let her enter this place—the royal castle of the
So, with nothing better to do while waiting for her father's business to conclude, she had wandered into the garden to kill time, and had been captivated by that bud entirely by chance.
"————"
Before her amber gaze was a large bud, its head drooping.
Its petals, tinged faintly with red, remained closed, and it was the flower yet to bloom that had drawn her in—because she, too, immature and restless, with nowhere to direct her frustrations, saw herself reflected in that bud. —Perhaps that thought was a touch too poetic, too self-indulgent.
Still, it was true that among the flowers already in full, magnificent bloom—each one flaunting its beauty as though the whole garden were theirs to claim—she felt kinship with the bud that had yet to reveal its true potential.
—What, in the end, could she do? What was expected of her?
"I am..."
She was proud of her birth, her lineage, her talent.
As someone blessed with those things, she felt a sense of mission—that she must answer with deeds worthy of them.
And she was also painfully aware that her pride and that sense of mission were catastrophically incompatible with what she truly desired.
"————"
Put simply, she was the only seed among all those planted in this garden that questioned how it should bloom, and so remained a bud.
The other flowers bloomed without hesitation, without doubt, knowing their place, understanding their role, and fulfilling it completely.
And yet she— "...What kind of flower will I bloom into?"
She asked the bud, and met only the silence of an answer that would never come. Wrapped in the sweet fragrance of flowers, she could not even find common ground with the bud she felt so connected to.
Because what this wretched self truly wished for was not to bloom into a beautiful, radiant flower, but to become a great and sturdy tree—one strong enough to shelter all those flowers from wind and rain.
Yes—she felt hollow and ridiculous for harboring an impossible wish, and— "Pffh!?"
——In that instant, accompanied by a terribly graceless shriek, something plummeted from above into the garden of swaying buds.
"—!"
Her eyes went wide at the sudden intrusion, and her feet seemed nailed to the spot.
In the white blankness of her stunned mind, the alarm bells of danger rang belatedly, along with all the lessons and preparation for such a crisis.
But before she could drag any of it from the depths of her mind, the figure that had fallen almost headfirst into the flower bed before her bounced back up— "Bwph! Bwah! Pehh! Wh—what is this? Dirt? It's dirt!?"
Shaking out a cascade of beautiful golden hair and blinking gemlike red eyes, the boy—filthy from head to toe with soil—crawled out of the flower garden like a newborn.
That was— "Oh ho, as expected of yours truly! To think I would fall headfirst onto the cobblestones and meet my end in a single chapter, only to brush aside even mortal peril with my innate fortune..."
—that was her first memory of the "last Lion King."
△▼△▼△▼△ "——Ah."
A ragged breath escaped, and consciousness returned.
Her senses stirred, one after another, flooding her brain with information. —In that instant, the most overwhelming thing she felt, body and soul, was an unbearable, ferocious thirst.
"————"
Thirst. It was not merely a dry throat. Not enough. Not enough. Not enough. Throughout her entire body, in every possible place, there was not enough water. She craved moisture, starved for humidity.
Both nasal passages and throat, which channeled the air she breathed, were parched. The stomach wall meant to absorb food was parched. Even blinking left her eyeballs parched. The vessels that should have been carrying blood throughout her body were parched. The very soul crying out in deficiency was parched.
Thirst. Thirst. Thirst was devouring that life.
"——Ah, a—"
Her mouth was so dry that her numbled tongue could not form proper sounds.
Desperate to do something about the thirst, she tried to call out. No voice came. Moving on her own would be faster than calling for help. —No. Even that thought didn't exist. Like a drowning person who clutches at their rescuer and drags them under, her mind was parched and blank.
Her thirst-ravaged body—from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet—pleaded with her, and she gathered what pitiful strength she had to try to rise. Rise. She tried to stand. Stand. She tried to walk. Walk. She tried to search. Search.
"——Oh."
Desperate. Utterly desperate.
Her thirst-ravaged mind warned her that this might be her last chance.
If her legs gave out, if she stumbled, if she got even one thing wrong, she could never do this again. She couldn't search. Couldn't walk. Couldn't stand. Couldn't rise.
She would sink into this immeasurable thirst and never, never, never again—— "————"
With the full might of her frail body, she forced open a heavy door and stumbled outside. Cursing how even the faint breeze threatening to topple her in her state of thirst, she let her gaze wander.
Her vision was blurred and murky. Narrow. She quickly realized one eye was blocked. But before she could take stock of her surroundings, that breeze carried a faint, sweet fragrance.
Drawn by it, she tilted her head and found it. —A vase filled with yellow and peach-colored flowers.
"——!"
There was no time to think. She collapsed toward it, lunging at the vase.
She tore out the arranged flowers as though ripping them free, cradled the vase in both hands, and tipped it. Then she drank—drank—drank—the water prepared for those flowers as though bathing in it.
Spilled water traced the corners of her mouth and cheeks, ran down her neck, and soaked through her black nightclothes. She didn't care. She coughed as she flung the vase aside; the sound of shattering porcelain rang through the corridor.
"Gkh, gkh..."
She wiped her mouth roughly with the back of her hand and turned around. More vases, set at even intervals along the hallway. Moving on legs that had regained some of their strength, she approached, discarded the flowers, and gulped down the water. She threw the vase away. Then moved to the next one.
She repeated this two, three times—showering her parched body with water, reclaiming her own existence from the grip of thirst—and reached for the next vase when— "—You mustn't!"
A sharp cry, and her wrist was seized. She spun around.
Gripping her wrist was a white-haired old butler, eyes wide and stern, who had caught her. Before she could drag his identity from the depths of her memory through the haze of thirst, a surge of raw emotion flooded out.
"Let go!"
Her right arm pinned, she swung her free left hand and struck the old butler with all her strength.
She held nothing back. It was a blow meant to shatter bone or tear flesh, but the old butler deflected it with his other hand as though swatting away a leaf, and both parties walked away unharmed.
She could tell it was a matter of physical condition, skill, and experience—and every other conceivable factor. —But she would not stop.
"Let go! Let goooo! Let me...!"
With every word, another strike. With every swing of her arm, the motion came back to her, and her strikes grew sharper.
But however keen her fingertips cut through the air, the old butler easily blocked every one. Gradually, the chills of her creeping thirst began crawling up from her feet once more.
"Please, just let me go! My throat—I'm thirsty—I'm so thirsty, so thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, I can't take it anymore—!"
"Please, calm yourself. I will have water brought immediately. And you mustn't walk around barefoot. You haven't even been treated yet."
"Water... you—really? There's water...?"
"There is. At once. But first, you need treatment."
The desperate force of her writhing weakened little by little in the face of the old butler's plea.
The thirst was still there. Slightly better than when she'd first woken, but still there. If there was water to quench it, she would be grateful. Relieved. Thankful.
"Treatment..."
As the strength slowly drained from her body, the incongruous word made her glance downward.
There, on the carpet of the hallway where she and the old butler stood, scattered red stains lay in a trail. They began somewhere midway down the hall and ended at the soles of her feet. —Blood. She hadn't noticed, but apparently she had stepped on shards from the broken vases and tracked blood across the corridor.
It wasn't just shards she'd trod on—it was the flowers she'd tossed from the vases too. Trampled and scattered petals had mingled with the spilled blood, painting a ghastly, mottled pattern across the floor.
A ghastly, mottled pattern. —In that instant, the sight of those dark, sinister blotches flashed through her mind.
"——Ah, aaaaahhhhh!!"
A thin scream tore from her throat, and she thrashed in agony.
Perhaps she had relaxed too much once she started to calm down. Her reaction made the old butler release his hold, and she swung her freed arms, tore at her soaked nightclothes, and looked at her own body.
Bandages wrapped around her, and gaunt, colorless, bluish-white skin—and beneath those bandages, covering her entire body, ghastly black markings that seemed to poison and curse this very flesh.
"No!
Her own body seemed beyond all hope of salvation—corrupted, unclean—and a scream tore from her lips.
She wanted to rip the bandages off, but she didn't want to see what lay beneath. Those ugly black patterns hidden under the bandages—she couldn't bear to carry them on her body for one second longer.
She didn't want to see.
She didn't want to touch.
She didn't want to be near them.
She didn't want to be defiled.
She wished, simply, that she could die—— "——Crusch-sama!"
Her ugly, revolting body was embraced from behind by a pair of slender arms.
It was not a hold like a headlock. Not some martial technique meant to restrain her. It was just—forceful, impulsive—arms wrapped around her from behind and pulled her close.
If she had truly wanted to break free, she could have. But not a single fiber of her being wanted to.
All she could do was feel herself vaguely enveloped by a faint, rising blue light, and surrender to it.
"It's all right. I'm here. Right by Crusch-sama's side, I'm right here..."
"Ferr...is..."
"Yes, yes. That's right. It's Ferris."
The arms encircling her tightened, but she felt no pain. No fear.
When she came back to herself, she had crumpled to the floor, sitting flat on the ground. Naturally, Ferris—the one holding her—had sunk to the hallway floor alongside her.
She tilted her head slightly, and there, close enough to feel his breath, was his dear face. His round eyes, trembling with tears, fought so hard to keep their expression steady—and it was so brave, so precious.
Without thinking, the revulsion toward everything that had been swelling throughout her body began to recede.
"...But I'm scared. I'm still scared. My body—those black markings—they're still there."
"Crusch-sama, about that, it has already been—"
"——Lord Wilhelm."
Ferris cut off the old butler, who had started to speak, with that name. Meeting Ferris's gaze, Wilhelm—that was right, Wilhelm. Wilhelm. The old butler was Wilhelm. The Sword Devil. An outstanding swordsman. A dependable man.
Wilhelm in front of her, Ferris at her back—she was caught between them.
"I..."
"Listen to me, Crusch-sama. There is no need to worry about your body. —Forgive me."
"——Ah."
As Ferris held her trembling body and gently soothed her unfocused gaze, his hands began to slowly unwind the bandages. She gasped at that gentle yet terrifying touch, and could only watch as the bandages gradually came loose.
From her neck to her chest, where she had torn open her nightclothes with her own hands, the exposed skin was laid bare—and there were no markings where she had feared them. Her eyes went wide.
"...?"
"That's not all. Your arms, your shoulders, your legs... the abnormality has been removed from all of them."
As he spoke, Ferris undid the bandages on her shoulder, and she numbly raised her arm. There it was—dry and rough-looking, perhaps, but the black, blotchy markings were gone.
Only then did she realize. —That searing pain—the agony of having boiling water poured through every inch of her body—had, at some point, stopped.
The thirst was there. Even now, its remnants lingered.
But that thirst was the kind that craved life itself—what the body, now freed from that ceaseless pain, demanded.
"Ferris... you removed that curse? From my body...?"
"————"
For the first time, she had the composure to consider herself, and the realization finally struck her.
Every morning and night, day after day, Ferris had stayed by her side as she was slowly consumed, and had done his utmost—bravely, earnestly—to heal that unending pain.
His wish had borne fruit, and he had rescued her from that prison of suffering—— "——No. That's not it. I couldn't do anything."
But her question and her hope were denied by none other than Ferris himself.
He shook his head, those yellow eyes clouded with disappointment—deep, devastating disappointment in himself. He gently touched her arm where the markings had vanished, his lips trembling.
He hesitated over what to say, steeled himself, hesitated again—repeating this many times before finally finding his resolve. And then Ferris spoke.
It was this— "To heal Crusch-sama's body, I sought the cooperation of the 'Dragon Church.'"
"...What?"
"A girl from the church who calls herself the 'Saint' lent her power. I... I couldn't save you, Crusch-sama. ...I'm truly sorry."
His eyes brimming with tears, his voice shaking—Ferris's words left her speechless.
Slowly, her mind—now free from the pain and the crushing thirst—began to understand the meaning of what he had said.
The Dragon Church—an organization that had long protected the Kingdom of Lugunica, that deeply, deeply revered the existence and grace of the Divine Dragon, and that dedicated itself to maintaining the peace and well-being of the kingdom's citizens.
To prevent its activities from gaining too much influence, the Dragon Church had sworn not to interfere in matters of state—a noble and understandable creed, and one she could nod along with in principle. But she could not embrace it comfortably. Because what the Dragon Church held above all else, and the way she and her companions chose to exist, were fundamentally incompatible.
"——The Dragon."
The Dragon Church revered the covenant between the kingdom and the Divine Dragon. —Which was to say, maintaining the covenant was the kingdom's highest priority, born from the same line of thinking that had viewed the royal family, lost to a merciless illness, as nothing more than cogs in the machine of that covenant.
—The same worldview that had digested the death of Foure Lugunica as a mere event.
"——!"
A formless emotion welled up, piercing her chest, and nausea gripped her.
The thoughts, images, and sentiments that surfaced in her mind assaulted her senses in a violent jumble—sound became sight, smell became vision, pain became taste, voices became touch, taste became smell, everything wired backward converging on her at once.
—Why had that name come up?
—Why had that smile surfaced?
—Why had she heard his voice?
—Why had she felt the face from that memory?
—Why did she still remember the taste of blood and tears from grieving his death?
—Why, of all people, had
"——Ah."
She felt it. The sensation returning.
Loss and duty. Affection and sorrow. Anger and joy. Warmth and coldness. —The good memories and the painful ones of that person now lost to her forever, all blending and dissolving into each other.
But there was one thing she understood, fatally.
"——The Royal Selection."
The word tumbled from her trembling lips, and she felt Ferris's shoulders shudder violently, and Wilhelm, who could not bring himself to look at her, stiffen.
They were incompatible with the Dragon Church. Absolutely, fundamentally incompatible.
They had chosen this themselves—decided it, declared it—that they could not walk in step, could not see the same things.
And yet—if they had been saved by the very entity they must never borrow power from— "Ferris—"
"Yes."
When she called his name, there was no tremor in Ferris's voice.
He gave a short nod, his gaze unwavering. Though his expression was rigid, he did not look away. Whatever she said, his yellow eyes declared—he had chosen this with full knowledge of what it meant.
"————"
She had to speak.
She knew the reason. She knew why he had been forced to make that choice.
It was, after all, to save her.
She had seen it with her own eyes—how many tormented days he had spent by her side as she was consumed morning and night, how acutely he had felt the helplessness of his healing hands unable to save the one thing he most wanted to save. She had witnessed it all, up close, from the nearest possible vantage.
That was why she had to speak.
*'I'm sorry for worrying you. I understand how you feel.'* "————"
That was why she had to speak.
*'I made you go through something terrible. But the responsibility for that lies with me.'* "————"
That was why she had to speak.
*'Please don't grieve. It's because of you that I'm able to stand here.'* "————"
She had to speak. She had to speak. She had to speak. She had to speak. She had to speak. She had to speak she had to speak she had to speak speak speak speak speak speak—— "——Why?"
It spilled out like a stumble.
The words that came out were nothing—nothing at all—like what she had meant to say, in warmth or in texture.
"You should have known that already."
Stop. Stop it right now. Close your mouth. Shut your eyes. Smear out your consciousness.
Don't look at what's in front of you. Don't look at what happened. Don't look at the choice that was made. Forget it all, look away, turn your back.
"Ferris—you should have been the same as me."
You mustn't say it. You mustn't let yourself hear it. You mustn't let him know.
Because he had tried to save her. Because he had offered his prayers. Because all he had wanted was to take away the suffering of someone precious.
That was why she mustn't say it.
"——Why?"
Don't.
"Why did you break your oath to Lady Foure?"
—Rather than betray her, I would rather have died.