The Queen of Atlantis.
The one known as the proudest being in all the Nova world. Even the lesser gods had praised her kind for their stubbornness, for their refusal to bow to any being in existence—except the True God himself.
She was the well-known embodiment of pride, the living symbol of a bloodline that had never bent, never broken, never yielded to anyone or anything.
And now she was kneeling.
The world itself seemed to stop. The wind, which had been howling through the shattered windows, fell silent, as if it too could not believe what it was witnessing. The dust that had been floating in the air settled gently to the floor, as if afraid to disturb the moment. Even the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to hold their breath.
The proudest being in the world was bowing her head like a peasant begging for mercy. Like a prisoner awaiting judgment. Like a sinner seeking absolution.
Her tears fell onto the cracked wooden floor. She did not know when they had started, did not know how they had escaped her iron control, but they were there—warm and wet and undeniable. The proudest being in the world was weeping.
Isvarn's world crumbled.
He had seen many things in his centuries of life. He had seen wars and famines, births and deaths, the rise and fall of empires. He had seen his granddaughter fight for her life in the Snow Forest, emerge from her cocoon of ice with blood on her claws, claim her throne and crush her enemies beneath her heels. He had seen her cold and ruthless and untouchable.
But he had never seen this. He had never seen her bow.
Erza was the proudest being he had ever served. Not even her late mother had possessed this much ego, this much arrogance, this much sheer, unyielding pride. It was woven into the fabric of her being, into the core of her soul. It was what had kept her alive when the world had tried to kill her. It was what had made her unstoppable.
And yet she had laid it all down. For a mortal.
Her voice was soft, trembling, stripped of all its usual coldness and authority. It was the voice of a woman, not a queen. The voice of a granddaughter, not a ruler. The voice of someone who had nothing left to bargain with and was offering the only thing she had left to give.
"Please," she said, her words barely audible. "Spare him... Grandpa. I am begging you."
Isvarn fell to his knees.
Not from her power. Not from her aura. Not from any force she had exerted. He fell because his legs could no longer hold him. Because the weight of what he was witnessing was too much for his ancient body to bear. Because the proudest being he had ever known had just done the one thing he had never thought possible.
His aura vanished. Completely. Utterly. Gone. The pressure that had been filling the room, that had been crushing the walls and splintering the floor, dissipated like mist in the morning sun.
And Yuuta collapsed.
He had been standing on the edge of unconsciousness for what felt like hours, held upright only by the pressure that was crushing him from all sides. Now that the pressure was gone, his body gave way. He crumpled to the floor, his face pale, his breath shallow, his eyes closed.
Erza did not wait. She did not look at her grandfather. She did not care what he thought or what he might do next. She dispelled the ice barrier with a wave of her hand and rushed to Yuuta's side.
The vomit was spread across the floor around him, the result of his body's desperate attempt to relieve the pressure that had been crushing him from the inside. Most people would have recoiled. Most people would have been disgusted. Erza did not even notice. She knelt in it without thinking, her hands already reaching for him, her magic already flowing from her fingertips.
She dragged him to a cleaner part of the floor, her arms wrapped around his chest, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. She could feel his body beneath her hands—the organs that had been crushed, the bones that had been fractured, the fragile mortal frame that had somehow survived an encounter with two dragons.
She began to heal him. Her magic flowed into his body, warm and gentle, seeking out the damage and repairing it piece by piece. She did not think about her grandfather. She did not think about the future. She did not think about anything except keeping Yuuta alive.
Isvarn watched her.
He could not believe what he was seeing. Erza—the strongest being in recorded history, the one who wielded both Mana and Zani equally, the most powerful existence in the universe who rivaled the lesser gods themselves—had bowed her head. Had begged. Had submitted.
For a mortal. For a human. For the man who had not only violated her but made her carry his child.
It was absurd. It was impossible. It was madness.
And yet it was happening right in front of him.
His fists clenched. His jaw tightened. His ancient heart pounded with a rage he had not felt in centuries. He could not let this continue. He could not let this man live any longer. He had to end this suffering—his granddaughter's suffering, the kingdom's suffering, the bloodline's suffering.
He raised his hand. Ice began to form around his fingers, sharp and deadly, aimed at Yuuta's heart. Erza did not see. She was too focused on healing, too focused on keeping him alive, too focused on the man she loved.
Isvarn's spell gathered power. He would end this now. He would kill the mortal, and then he would take his granddaughter home, and he would erase every memory of this cursed world from her mind. She would wake up on her throne, and she would not remember that she had ever loved anyone at all.
He released the spell.
And then a voice stopped him.
It was not the voice of a queen. It was not cold or commanding or filled with authority. It was small and sleepy and confused, the voice of a child who had just woken from a long nap and was still trying to understand where she was.
"Great Grandpa?"
The voice was small, sleepy, and confused—the voice of a child who had just woken from a long nap and was still trying to understand where she was. But it was also familiar. Deeply, painfully familiar. It was the voice of the little girl he had raised, the little girl he had taught to walk, to talk, to fly.
Isvarn's spell faltered. His hand dropped to his side. His eyes, wide with shock, turned toward the bedroom doorway.
Elena stood there, her silver hair messy from sleep, her red eyes blinking in the dim light. She was wearing the same clothes she had been wearing all day, wrinkled and slightly smudged with crayon marks. Her small hands were rubbing her eyes, and her wings were folded against her back.
She looked at the shattered windows, at the cracked walls, at the vomit on the floor. She looked at her mother, kneeling in the mess, her hands glowing with healing magic. She looked at her father, pale and unconscious, his breath shallow.
And then she looked at Isvarn.
Isvarn stared at her. At her silver hair—the same silver as his own, as Erza's, as generations of dragons before them. At her red eyes—not violet, not dragon, but red. The red of the mortal who lay bleeding on the floor. At the wings folded against her back and the tail curled around her leg—the wings he had helped her learn to use, the tail he had teased her about when she was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand.
He knew this child. He had raised this child. He had held her when she was born, had watched her take her first steps, had taught her to speak her first words. He had read her stories before bed and tucked her in at night and wiped away her tears when she fell. He had been the one constant in her life, the one who had never left, the one who had loved her when her mother was too cold to show it.
And he had not seen her in months. Not since Erza had taken her and disappeared into this cursed world.
"Great Grandpa?" Elena said again, her voice soft and uncertain. She tilted her head, her red eyes studying his face. "Why are you making Mama cry?"
Isvarn paused.
His hand, which had been raised to strike, fell slowly to his side. The ice that had been gathering around his fingers—sharp and deadly, aimed at the mortal's heart—dissolved into mist, as if it had never been there at all. The rage that had been burning in his chest, hot and uncontrollable, cooled into something else—something that felt almost like shame.
He had been ready to kill. He had been ready to end the mortal's life, to erase every trace of him from existence, to take his granddaughter home and rewrite her memories so that she would never remember the pain of loving someone so unworthy. He had been ready to do all of this, and he had believed—truly believed—that he was doing the right thing.
But now, looking at the small figure standing in the doorway, he was not so sure.
Elena ran toward him.
Her small feet padded across the cracked wooden floor, her silver hair streaming behind her like a banner, her wings fluttering with each hurried step. But then, just a few feet away, she stopped. She stood in front of him, her red eyes fixed on his face, her small hands planted firmly on her hips.
She was not smiling. She was not running into his arms the way she used to, not wrapping her tiny hands around his neck and calling him Great Grandpa in that sweet, innocent voice. She had seen the broken windows. She had seen the cracked walls. She had seen her mother kneeling in the mess on the floor, her hands glowing with healing magic, her face wet with tears. She had seen her father pale and unconscious, his breath shallow, his body broken.
She knew something was wrong.
And she was angry.
Isvarn's heart broke.
Isvarn's eyes filled with tears. It had been weeks since he had seen her—weeks of searching, of worrying, of wondering if she was safe.
Weeks of sleepless nights and endless travel, of following faint trails and dead ends, of hoping that he would find her before it was too late.
And now here she was, standing in front of him, alive and healthy and glaring at him like a tiny, furious queen.
"Elena," he whispered, his voice cracking. "My little one. I have missed you so much."
But Elena did not run into his arms. She did not hug him. She did not do any of the things he had dreamed of during those long, lonely weeks of searching.
"Great Grandpa," she said, her voice sharp. "On your knees."
Isvarn, who was equal to the previous queen in terms of strength, who had advised three monarchs and faced down armies and gods, who had never knelt for anyone except his sovereign—fell to his knees.
He did not hesitate. He did not question. He knelt before the four-year-old child who had been raised in his house, who had learned to walk in his halls, who had called him Great Grandpa since she could speak. He knelt because she asked him to, and because he could not deny her anything.
He was still tall—even kneeling, his head was level with hers. So he bowed lower, leaning forward until his forehead was almost touching the cracked wooden floor. His silver hair brushed the ground, and his ancient joints protested the movement, but he did not care.
Elena reached up and grabbed his ear.
Isvarn winced but did not pull away. He had been grabbed by this ear before—many times, by many people, in many different contexts. But never like this. Never by a child who was scolding him for hurting the people she loved.
"Great Grandpa," Elena said, her voice stern and serious, "bullying is bad. Bullying Papa and Mama is not a good thing. Elena does not like it."
Isvarn nodded his head, his ear still in her grip. "I am sorry, Little Princess. I am sorry. Please let this old grandfather have mercy."
"No," Elena said, puffing out her cheeks. "Elena is angry at you. Elena does not want to talk to you."
Isvarn's heart clenched. He had faced death without flinching. He had stood before the Queen's wrath without trembling. He had watched armies crumble and empires fall, and he had never once felt the kind of fear that gripped him now. The thought of his little princess being angry at him—of her refusing to speak to him, of her turning away from him—was more than he could bear.
"Please, Princess," he said, his voice soft and emotional, almost begging. "If you do this, where will this old man go? Who will he have to love?"
Elena's expression softened, just slightly. She remembered the stories Great Grandpa used to tell her, the way he would hold her on his lap by the fire and read to her until she fell asleep. She remembered the way he would sneak her sweets when Mama was not looking, pressing a finger to his lips and whispering, "Our little secret." She remembered the way he would kiss her forehead before bed and whisper that she was the light of his life, the joy of his old age, the reason he still woke up in the morning.
But she was still angry. Her papa was hurt. Her mama was crying. And Great Grandpa had done this.
"If Great Grandpa apologizes to Papa and Mama," she said, "then Elena will forgive you."
Isvarn did not hesitate.
He turned to where Erza was kneeling, still healing Yuuta, still focused on keeping him alive. Her hands glowed with magic, warm and golden, and her face was wet with tears she had not bothered to wipe away. She had not looked up once. She had not acknowledged his presence. She had not done anything except pour her power into the broken body of the mortal she loved.
Isvarn bowed his head—not as a subject bowing to a queen, but as a grandfather bowing to his granddaughter. As a man who had done wrong, asking for forgiveness.
"I am sorry, my Queen," he said, his voice low and sincere. "Please punish this fool for breaking something precious to you."
Erza did not look up. She did not respond. Her hands continued to glow with healing magic, her attention fixed entirely on Yuuta. His safety was more important than anything else—more important than her grandfather's apology, more important than her pride, more important than the shattered walls and the broken windows and the chaos that had filled her home.
But she heard him. And somewhere deep in her heart, she felt a small measure of relief.
Elena giggled. The sound was bright and cheerful, chasing away the shadows that had filled the room, melting the tension that had been pressing down on them like a weight.
"Okay, Great Grandpa," she said, her anger gone, her smile returning. "I guess you learned your lesson."
Isvarn nodded, his head still bowed. "Yes, I have learned. I will never harm your papa again."
Elena tilted her head, considering. "Hmm. But Papa says that when someone agrees to something, they should make a promise. Because a promise makes a sacred bond."
Isvarn's eyes widened. A promise was not something to be made lightly. Among dragons, a promise was sacred—a bond that could not be broken without great shame. It was not something you offered casually. It was not something you accepted without thought. Once spoken, it bound you forever, and to break it was to lose your honor, your pride, your very sense of self.
But Elena was looking at him with those red eyes—his Elena, his little princess, the child he had raised, the child he had held when she was born, the child he had taught to walk and talk and fly. She was looking at him with trust, with love, with the absolute certainty that he would do the right thing.
And he could not say no.
"Promise me," Elena said, "that you will not bully Papa."
Isvarn tried to resist. He tried to find a way out, a loophole, a way to preserve his pride while still satisfying his granddaughter. He opened his mouth to speak, to argue, to explain why a promise was not necessary, why his word should be enough.
But Elena was too cute. Her puffed cheeks, her crossed arms, her determined expression—they were irresistible. She looked like a tiny, silver-haired general commanding an army, and he was her first recruit.
He sighed, long and heavy, and bowed his head.
"I promise, Little Princess," he said. "I will not harm your papa. On my honor as a dragon, on my blood as a member of the royal family, on my love for you—I promise."
Elena smiled. It was the same smile that had always melted his heart—bright and innocent and full of love. The same smile that had made him sneak her sweets and read her stories and kiss her forehead every night before bed.
"Good," she said. "Then Elena forgives you."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him, her small body pressing against his chest, her silver hair tickling his chin. And Isvarn felt the last of his resistance crumble. He held her close, his tears falling into her silver hair, and he thanked whatever gods might be listening that this child existed. That she was alive. That she was safe. That she had saved him from himself.
And that was how Elena saved Yuuta's life—again—from the most powerful creature in the Nova world.
To be continued...