Isvarn knew how mixed-blood dragons were treated in the world of Nova. He had seen it with his own eyes—centuries of prejudice, of discrimination, of violence. Mixed-bloods were slaves to the royal dragons, servants to the purebloods, beings without rights or honor.
They could not own property. They could not hold titles. They could not marry outside their station. Their children were taken from them at birth and raised in state-run facilities, indoctrinated to believe that they were less than nothing.
If Yuri ever discovered that he was not a pureblood royal dragon but a mixed-blood—half human, half dragon—it would destroy him. Everything he had worked for, everything he had achieved, everything he believed about himself would crumble.
The nobles would strip him of his title. The court would turn against him. The kingdom that should have been his would reject him.
He would fall into dragon grief. And dragon grief, once it took hold, was almost always fatal.
Isvarn understood this. He understood why Erza had hidden the truth from Yuri, why she had spun the story of a magical accident, why she had protected her son from a reality that would have broken him. But he did not understand why she had hidden the truth from Yuuta.
"Why did you hide it from him?" Isvarn asked, his voice softer now, almost gentle. "It does not make sense, my Queen."
Erza looked away. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely audible, fragile in a way he had never heard before.
"I do not know why I did it. Every time I tried to tell him, my mouth would not open. The words would not come. My heart... my heart would not let me."
Isvarn studied her for a long moment. The moonlight had faded, and the room was growing dark, but he could still see her clearly. He could see the conflict in her eyes, the pain in her expression, the weight of the choices she had made.
"When did you start listening to your heart?" he asked.
The question hung in the air between them.
Erza had never listened to her heart. She had spent her entire life listening to her head—to logic, to strategy, to the cold calculus of power. Her heart was a muscle she had ignored for so long that she had forgotten it existed. She made decisions based on what was necessary, not on what she wanted. She ruled based on what was best for the kingdom, not on what was best for herself.
So how had she started thinking with her heart? How had she started feeling emotions she had long since buried?
"You have changed, Erza," Isvarn said.
She paused. "What makes you say that?"
Because to Erza, change meant weakness. Change meant a flaw in her armor, a crack in her foundation, a vulnerability that her enemies could exploit. She had spent her whole life trying not to change, trying to remain the same cold, ruthless, untouchable queen she had always been.
Isvarn looked away, toward the broken windows, toward the darkening sky.
"You used to kill without mercy," he said. "Without a second thought. Without hesitation. You were the Blade of Atlantis, and your enemies feared you because you never wavered."
He paused.
"But ever since you gave birth to the twins, you have developed a soft corner in your heart. A small one, at first. Barely noticeable. But now—" He looked back at her. "Now you are completely changed. You think about your future. Your relationships. Your personal life. You never used to think about such things. You only thought about the kingdom."
He paused again.
"Today, you bowed your head. You, the proudest being in the world, bowed to me. For a mortal. For a human. For him."
Erza shook her head, her voice sharp, defensive. "That is not true. You have it all wrong. I was not trying to save him. I was just—"
She stopped. The words died in her throat.
She was making excuses. She knew it. He knew it. They both knew it.
Isvarn sighed, long and heavy, the weight of centuries pressing down on his ancient shoulders.
"As your grandfather," he said, "I should be happy that my granddaughter has found a reason to live. Someone to love. Someone who makes her feel things she has never felt before."
He paused, and his voice grew harder.
"But as your advisor, I have to warn you. You know that developing a soft corner will cost you everything. You are the Queen of Atlantis. The Blade of Destruction. The most powerful being in the world. Billions of lives depend on you. They are safe under your wings because you are strong, because you are ruthless, because you do not hesitate."
He stepped closer.
"But if you develop a soft corner—if you let your heart guide your decisions—you will lose everything. The nightmare creatures will sense your weakness. The enemies of Atlantis will smell your fear. And the lives you have sworn to protect will be lost."
His voice softened.
"You have to leave these foolish feelings behind. You have to come with me. Return to Atlantis. The throne is waiting for you. Your son is waiting for you. Your people need you."
Erza thought about his words. Foolish feelings. She thought about the past weeks—the meals Yuuta had cooked, the dances they had learned, the hands they had held. She thought about the way he had searched all night for her ring, the way he had held her when she wept, the way he had looked at her like she was something precious.
She thought about her two centuries on the throne. The battles. The blood. The endless, grinding weight of ruling a kingdom. She had kept billions safe, but she could not remember a single moment that had made her feel alive.
But she could remember this week. Every moment. Every laugh. Every tear. Every stupid, wonderful, infuriating thing Yuuta had done. Her life had been gray for so long that she had forgotten what color looked like. And then he had appeared, and everything had become bright.
She wanted that feeling more than she had ever wanted anything. More than power. More than the throne. More than the kingdom.
For the first time in her life, she knew what she needed. Not what was expected of her. Not what was best for her people. What she needed.
"I do not want the throne," she said.
Isvarn paused.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Isvarn panicked.
For the first time in his thousand years of life, his composure cracked. His face, usually calm and unreadable, twisted with something that looked almost like fear. His hands, which had been steady for centuries, began to tremble. His world did not metaphorically shatter—it shattered in reality, the foundations of everything he had believed in crumbling beneath his feet.
"What are you saying...My Queen?" he asked, panic creeping into his voice. He had always been the calmest dragon, the most controlled, the most logical. But this situation was too unexpected, too far beyond anything he had prepared for.
Erza looked at the floor, her voice trembling but firm. "I don't want that FUCKING BLOODY throne."
Isvarn's eyes widened.
He had lived for many thousand years, had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, had seen queens come and go. But in all that time, he had never heard a Dragon Queen say she did not want her throne. Never. Not once. The throne was everything—power, duty, legacy. To abandon it was unthinkable.
"I believe I misheard," he said, his voice strained.
But Erza stood by her decision. Her voice grew stronger, more certain, as if saying the words aloud had made them real.
"I said what I said," she declared. "Fuck that kingdom. I don't want to rule if my family is not there. I don't want it."
Isvarn's voice rose, frustration and disbelief bleeding through. "What are you even saying, Your Majesty? Are you saying you are going to abandon the throne for your selfish reasons?"
He paused, trying to steady himself.
"What about the throne? Are you expecting it to remain empty?"
Erza's frustration matched his. "What does that have to do with me? Give that fucking throne to my elder siblings. What are they even doing? Give them the throne and let me live here."
Isvarn felt rage building in his chest—hot, uncontrollable, ancient. But he forced himself to calm down. He forced his aura back into his core. He forced his hands to stop shaking. Rage would not solve anything. He had to be logical, wise, strategic. He was the Queen's Advisor, and his duty was to guide her down the right path—the most logical path—even if she did not want to hear it.
"Has the Queen decided her decision without examining the flaws?" he asked, his voice carefully measured, his tone carrying a subtle edge of manipulation. He was not trying to deceive her—he was trying to make her see. To make her understand. To make her remember who she was.
Erza paused. Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean? What flaws?"
She thought to herself, What flaw is he even talking about? The throne is a chair. A fancy, ancient, powerful chair—but still a chair. How hard can it be to walk away?
Isvarn sighed—a long, heavy, centuries-weighted sigh. He straightened his posture, adjusting the collar of his fine robes, preparing to speak not as a grandfather but as the Queen's Advisor. The one who served the royal bloodline. The one who had led the nation from the shadows. The one who had guided Atlantis through its darkest hours.
"As usual," he said, "you have not considered the other perspective. You have decided foolishly—without thought, without planning, without understanding the consequences."
He stepped closer to her, his tall frame towering over her even as she stood.
"But as the Queen's Advisor—as the one who has served this bloodline for a thousand years—I must show you the flaw in your decision."
Erza listened. She did not interrupt. She knew that when the Queen's Advisor spoke, he spoke for the benefit of the crown. She had won wars and gained glorious lands with his counsel. She trusted his wisdom, even when she did not want to hear it. Even when it hurt.
Isvarn began.
"First of all, you said you want to give the throne to your sibling. But you must understand that the throne is not an ordinary piece of furniture. It is not a chair that can be passed around like a family heirloom. It is a divine artifact—a relic blessed by the true gods themselves, forged in the heart of the frozen wastes, tempered in the blood of ancient dragons."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over her.
"It chooses who should be queen. It does not obey the will of mortals—not even the will of a queen. The throne recognizes the rightful ruler, and it does not change its mind. It does not compromise. It does not forgive."
His voice dropped.
"If you want to leave this throne, you have only two options. You must either die—" he paused, his voice softening, "—or become crippled."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Erza's breath caught. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her heart, which had been pounding with defiance, suddenly felt cold and still.
She had almost forgotten. In her rage and grief and desperate desire for freedom, she had almost forgotten the nature of the throne.
The elders who had attacked her had never wanted the throne for themselves. They had wanted to kill her—because the throne had recognized her as the rightful ruler. As long as she lived, it would not choose another. The title was given by the throne itself, and the throne did not change its mind.
That was why the throne was cursed.
That was why her mother, Isilith Vely Dragomir, had fallen into her deathlike sleep. She had not died, but she had been crippled—unable to lead, unable to rule, unable to do anything except exist in her frozen cocoon, trapped between life and death, between queen and memory.
And only then—only when the throne had accepted that she could no longer rule—had it chosen Erza.
"So I am trapped," Erza said, her voice barely a whisper. It was not a question.
Isvarn nodded slowly, his ancient eyes filled with a sorrow that he did not try to hide.
"Yes, my Queen," he said. "You are trapped. The throne does not let go. It never lets go."
Erza paused.
She was trapped.
Definitely trapped.
The throne would not let her go, would not release her from its grip, would not allow her to walk away without paying a price she was not willing to pay. But she could not let this feeling go away. She was not ready. Her heart was not ready to leave. Not after everything she had found here. Not after Yuuta. Not after Elena. Not after the first taste of happiness she had experienced in centuries.
Then she paused. A slow smile spread across her face—a smile that made Isvarn's ancient heart skip a beat. It was not the cold, cruel smile he had seen her wear on the battlefield. It was something else. Something almost playful.
"You know that right?" she said, looking at him. "You seem to have forgotten something, Grandpa."
Isvarn watched her carefully, his violet eyes narrowing. "What is it that my Queen is referring to?"
Erza's smile widened. "You know that I can wield Zani power. I can alter reality itself."
Isvarn paused. He had almost forgotten. In the chaos of the past hour, in the shock of seeing his granddaughter bow, in the weight of her confession, he had almost forgotten why Erza was considered the most powerful being in existence.
She wielded Zani—the power of Zareth itself.
Zareth. The primal black dragon. The Founder of Zani. The one who held death itself in her claws. Even the gods feared to face her.
Zani was the direct rival of God Particles—the creation voice of God. When God spoke to the emptiness and said, "Let there be light," that was when God Particles came into existence. But just as light has a shadow, a power was separated without God's knowledge. And so Zani was created—right before life came into being, hidden from God, hidden from the angels, hidden from all but those who knew where to look.
And Erza wielded it. She could change reality without needing permission from any god.
Isvarn nodded slowly. "Certainly, you can change the will of the throne," he said. "You have the power to reshape the very fabric of existence. You could break the curse, free yourself from the throne's grip, and walk away without dying or becoming crippled."
He paused, and his voice grew heavier.
"But let me speak plainly, my Queen. When I spoke of flaws in your decision, I was not talking only about the throne."
Erza's breath caught. Her smile faded. "What do you mean? There are other flaws?"
Isvarn looked at her with something that might have been pity. His voice was calm, measured, but there was a weight beneath it—a weight that had been gathering for centuries, waiting for this moment.
"You have fallen for a human, my Queen. A mortal. His life will pass in the blink of an eye compared to ours."
Erza's heart stopped.
"You know how this ends, my Queen. You will watch him grow old while you stay the same. You will watch his hair turn gray, his skin wrinkle, his body weaken. You will watch him fade, little by little, day by day, until there is nothing left but memories. And in the end, you will witness his death with your own eyes."
Erza's world shattered. Not the world around her—the world inside her. The fragile hope she had been building, the dreams of a future with Yuuta, the quiet fantasy of growing old together—all of it crumbled into dust.
She could not breathe.
"What does that mean, Grandpa?" she asked, her voice trembling, barely audible. She could not believe what she had just heard. Could not accept it. Could not process it.
Isvarn sighed, long and heavy. He looked at her with disappointment—not in her, but in himself. He should have taught her this. He should have prepared her. He should have made sure she understood the nature of the beings she was dealing with.
"I should not be surprised," he said. "You never bothered to learn about the lifespans of other species. You really do not know how short a human life is, do you?"
Erza crossed her arms, trying to pretend she knew, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.
"I know they are mortal," she said. "I know they die sooner than we do. I have known that since I was a child."
But even as she said the words, she knew they were hollow. She had been thinking about elves and dwarves and ogres—beings that lived for centuries, that aged slowly, that could walk beside dragons for generations. She had not been thinking about humans. She had not been thinking about Yuuta.
Isvarn knew. He had kept human heroes as prisoners in the dungeons of the Crystal Spire, and he had watched them age and wither and die. He had seen their lives burn out like candles in the wind. He knew the truth that Erza had never bothered to learn.
He looked toward the broken window, at the darkening sky beyond.
"Erza," he said, using her name for the first time in centuries, "when I said human life is short, I did not mean elf-short or dwarf-short. Humans do not just live shorter lives. They burn faster. They shine brightly, but briefly. Most do not make it past eighty years."
"Eighty?" Erza's voice echoed in the quiet room, strange and distant, as if it were coming from someone else's throat. She felt a tightness in her chest—something unfamiliar, something painful.
"And your human," Isvarn continued, nodding toward Yuuta, still unconscious on the floor, his face pale, his breath shallow, "he is already what? In his twenties?"
Erza swallowed. Her throat was dry. Her hands were cold.
"Then, give or take," Isvarn said, his voice gentle now, almost kind, "he has sixty years left. Maybe less."
The words felt like a dagger—not sharp, not quick, but slow. Pressing into Erza's chest with cruel precision, twisting, grinding, breaking her apart from the inside.
Sixty years.
She could not move. She could not breathe. She could not do anything except stand there, frozen, as the weight of those two words crushed her.
Sixty years.
She had lived for nearly two centuries. Sixty years was less than a third of her life. Less than a blink of an eye in the span of dragon years.
She would watch him grow old. She would watch him fade. She would watch him die.
And she would be alone again.
To be continued...