Yuuta slept beside the elf, his small body curled into a ball, his breathing slow and steady. The furs were pulled up to his chin, and his face—usually twisted in pain or frozen in fear—was peaceful. Almost happy.
The elf watched him for a long time. She did not sleep. She could not. Her mind was racing, turning over the same questions again and again. Did she have a reason to keep him alive? He was another mouth to feed, another body to warm, another soul to worry about. She barely had enough for herself. The winter was coming, and the bodies from above would stop falling. The well would grow colder. The hunger would return.
But she looked at his face—at the small smile that had appeared while he slept, at the way his hand clutched the fur blanket, at the way his chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythm—and she knew she could not throw him back.
She rose quietly and crossed to the far wall of the hut. It was covered in large leaves—giant ones that had fallen into the well after the wind carried them down from the world above. She had collected them over the years, dried them, and used them as wallpaper to hide something from prying eyes.
She pulled the leaves aside and began to work.
Behind the leaves was a small alcove, carved into the bone and stone, filled with items she had gathered over the years. A needle made from a fish bone. Thread made from sinew. Scraps of fabric salvaged from the bodies that had fallen from above. She worked in silence, her hands moving with practiced skill, creating something that she had not dared to make in years.
Erza and Isvarn watched.
Day by day, Yuuta grew stronger.
His wounds healed. His color returned. His body, which had been little more than skin and bone, began to fill out. He ate whatever the elf gave him—jerky, roots, the occasional fish from the pool—and he drank water from the well without complaint.
But he did not speak.
He followed the elf around the hut like a shadow, watching her every move, studying her every gesture. He ate when she told him to eat. He slept when she told him to sleep. He did not ask questions. He did not make requests. He simply existed, waiting for the cruelty that he was sure would come.
The elf did not know how to reach him. She had never been good with words, even before the well. And now, after years of silence, she had almost forgotten how to speak at all. She communicated through gestures, through touch, through the small kindnesses of food and warmth and shelter.
But slowly, day by day, Yuuta began to trust her.
It started with small things. He stopped flinching when she touched him. He stopped covering his veins when she looked at him. He stopped expecting pain every time she approached.
One day, she led him to the pool to wash him. He hesitated at the edge, his body tense, his eyes fixed on the dark water. But he did not run. He did not fight. He let her undress him, let her guide him into the water, let her scrub the dirt and blood from his skin.
She used a tooth—a large, sharp tooth from one of the hydra dogs—to trim his hair. The black strands fell into the water, floating on the surface like dark serpents. She cut it short, shaping it into something that almost looked like a style, and used the clippings to make him a new set of clothes.
She was skilled with her hands. She had learned to make cloth from anything—hair, sinew, plant fibers, even the thin strips of skin that she had salvaged from the creatures she had killed. She sewed him a tunic and a pair of pants, simple but warm, and when she presented them to him, Yuuta smiled.
It was the first time he had smiled in years.
He put on the clothes immediately, running his hands over the fabric, feeling the warmth against his skin. He looked at the elf, and his eyes—those empty, hollow eyes—held something that might have been joy.
He hugged her.
It was a small hug, tentative, uncertain. His arms wrapped around her waist, and his face pressed against her stomach. He did not squeeze. He did not hold on. He simply stood there, his body pressed against hers, his breath warm through her rags.
"Thank you," he said.
His voice was soft, barely audible, but the words were clear.
The elf rubbed his head gently, her fingers running through his short black hair. She did not say anything. She could not. Her throat was too tight, her eyes too wet.
But she held him. And she let him hold her.
After that, Yuuta began to open up.
His personality emerged slowly, like a flower blooming in the darkness. He was curious, asking questions about everything he saw. He was playful, inventing games with the bones and stones that littered the floor. He was affectionate, seeking out the elf's touch, leaning against her when he was tired, holding her hand when he was scared.
He was a child. A normal, ordinary, wonderful child. Despite everything he had been through—the torture, the experiments, the years of cruelty—he was still a child. He was happy to have food. He was happy to have clothes. He was happy to have someone who cared about him.
Isvarn watched this transformation with growing unease.
He had been studying Yuuta's behavior, comparing it to the developmental patterns of various species. Human children, he knew, began to understand the world around them at age five or six. They became fully aware of their surroundings at age seven or eight. They learned to lie, to hide their emotions, to navigate social situations.
But Yuuta was younger. Much younger. And yet he had already learned to hide his pain, to distrust strangers, to survive in an environment of constant cruelty. He had learned these things not because he was old enough to understand them, but because his mind worked differently.
He was not Fully human. He could not be human. His intelligence, his awareness, his ability to adapt—these were the traits of a High Being, not a mortal.
Isvarn glanced at Erza. She was watching Yuuta with a soft expression, her eyes fixed on his face, her lips curved in a small smile. She did not see what he saw. She did not understand what Yuuta's intelligence meant.
He decided to keep his suspicions to himself. If Erza discovered that Yuuta was not fully human—if she realized that he might be something else, something that could survive in Nova—she would bring him to Atlantis. She would try to integrate him into dragon society. And she would weaken herself in the process, distracted by love, consumed by family, unable to focus on her duties as queen.
He could not allow that.
He would hide the truth. For now.
Yuuta sat in the elf's lap, his legs swinging, his body relaxed. He had grown comfortable with her over the past weeks, and he no longer flinched when she touched him. He looked up at her, his red eyes bright, his expression curious.
"Elf," he said, using the name he had given her, "who are you? And where am I?"
He swung his legs, innocent and carefree, a child asking a simple question.
"It is not a lab, is it? A new place? Doctor's new place?"
The elf's face darkened. She did not know how to tell him. She did not know how to explain that he was in a well, at the bottom of a hole, in a place where the sun never shone and the only way out was up. She did not know how to tell him that there was no doctor, no lab, no experiments. That he was free.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
How could she tell a child that he had been thrown away? That he was trash, discarded, forgotten? How could she tell him that the only reason he was alive was because a starving elf had been too weak to kill him?
She closed her mouth and looked away.
Yuuta's smile faded.
It did not disappear suddenly, like a candle snuffed out by wind. It faded slowly, reluctantly, as if his face was trying to hold onto the happiness for as long as possible, as if somewhere deep inside him, a small voice was begging him not to let go. His eyes dropped to the floor, fixing on a crack in the bone beneath his feet. His hands, which had been swinging at his sides, went still, curling into small, tight fists. His body, which had been relaxed, grew tense, coiled like an animal expecting a blow.
He was quiet now.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, filled with questions that had no answers and answers that would only bring more pain. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows that danced across the bone walls like ghosts. Somewhere in the darkness, water dripped, steady and relentless, wearing away the stone one drop at a time.
The elf girl watched him, her heart aching. She had seen that look before—on her own face, in the reflection of the dark water, in the years before she had learned to stop feeling. It was the look of someone who had asked a question and been answered with silence. The look of someone who had hoped and been disappointed. The look of someone who was slowly, painfully, learning that there were no answers, only more questions.
She sighed and rubbed her face with her fingers, pressing her palms against her eyes as if she could push away the exhaustion, the despair, the weight of years spent in darkness. Her hands were rough, calloused, scarred—the hands of someone who had fought for every meal, every moment, every breath.
"So," she said, her voice soft, almost gentle, "you are a test subject. Like me."
Yuuta blinked. His red eyes, still wet with tears, looked up at her with confusion.
"Subject?" he said, his voice small. "What is subject?"
She sighed again, heavier this time, her shoulders slumping. She had forgotten. He was just a child. The other children who had been thrown into the well had been older, or stronger, or simply luckier. Most had died within days, their bodies too broken to survive the fall, too damaged to crawl to safety. A few had lingered for weeks, their minds too shattered to fight, their spirits too crushed to hope. But none had lived as long as this boy.
She did not know what mission the scientists were working on. She did not know why they needed so many creatures, so many children, so many broken bodies. She only knew that they were creating something—something that required endless suffering, something that fed on pain and fear and despair.
"They often tell you that you will do something in the future," she said carefully, choosing her words like a miner picking through rubble, afraid of causing another collapse. "A mission. A purpose. Do you remember?"
Yuuta tried to remember. His brow furrowed, his lips pressed together, his small hands clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles went white. The memories were there, buried beneath layers of pain and fear and the strange, thick fluid that had been forced into his veins. He could feel them pushing against the surface, trying to break free.
"The doctor said I was made to kill dragons," he said, his voice innocent, as if he were repeating a lesson from school, a fact he had memorized but did not fully understand. "But I was sent here. Is this the new lab?"
The elf girl was quiet.
Dead quiet.
The kind of quiet that comes before a storm, before a revelation, before something that cannot be taken back. The fire seemed to dim. The shadows seemed to deepen. The water dripping in the darkness seemed to grow louder, each drop a small explosion in the silence.
"They threw you here to die," she said, her voice barely audible, the words escaping before she could stop them, slipping through her lips like water through cracks in stone.
She had not meant to say it out loud. She had been thinking it, turning it over in her mind, trying to find a way to soften the truth. But the truth was not soft. The truth was sharp and jagged and cruel, and it had cut its way out of her before she could stop it.
Yuuta heard.
"Die?" he said.
He paused.
"I am going to die?"
Tears rolled down his cheeks—thick and slimy, the strange tears that the experiments had left him with. They were not clear like normal tears, but milky, almost white, like the fluid that had filled the tubes. They clung to his skin, leaving trails of moisture that glistened in the firelight.
His body began to shake. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, each one a struggle, each one a battle. His hands pressed against his chest, as if he was trying to hold himself together, to keep his heart from bursting out of his ribcage.
"I am going to die," he said again, and this time it was not a question. It was a statement. An acceptance. A terror.
The elf girl's hand flew to her mouth, pressing against her lips as if she could push the words back inside. But it was too late. They were already out, already heard, already doing their damage.
Isvarn watched, his ancient eyes sharp, his mind racing. The concept of death—Yuuta understood it. At such a young age, after everything he had been through, he understood that he was going to die. He understood the finality of it, the permanence, the absolute nothingness that waited at the end.
Either he had been told before, in the lab, by the doctors who had no mercy, or he had simply learned it on his own, through the endless cycle of pain and healing and pain. He had watched other children die. He had heard their screams fade into silence. He had seen their bodies taken away, never to return.
Either way, it was not normal. Human children did not understand death at this age. They did not grasp its finality, its permanence, its terror. They knew that things died—bugs, birds, flowers—but they did not understand that they themselves would die. That concept came later, with age and experience and the slow, painful realization of mortality.
But Yuuta understood. He understood completely.
Isvarn's suspicions grew. He watched the boy's face, the terror in his eyes, the way his body convulsed with the knowledge of his own end. This was not a human child. This was something else. Something that had been forged in pain and fear and the desperate struggle to survive.
He said nothing. He could not. Not yet.
Yuuta was panicking.
His body convulsed, his hands clawing at his chest, his mouth open in a silent scream. His eyes were wide, wild, seeing something that was not there—seeing death, perhaps, or the memory of death, or the fear of death that had been drilled into him over years of torture.
He had seen death before. In the lab, in the tubes, in the faces of the children who had been taken away and never returned. He had heard their screams fade into silence, had watched their bodies go still, had felt their absence in the empty spaces where they had once been.
He knew what it meant. He knew it was coming for him.
The elf girl grabbed him and pulled him into her arms. She held him tight, pressing his face against her shoulder, wrapping her arms around his small, shaking body. Her hand rubbed his back in slow circles, the way her mother had rubbed her back when she was young, before the war, before the well, before everything.
"Do not worry," she said, her voice firm despite her trembling, despite the tears that were forming in her own eyes. "You are not going to die. I will save you. Your sister will save you."
Yuuta looked up, his red eyes wide, his tears still falling.
"Sister?" he said, his voice small, fragile, like a bird with a broken wing. "Save me?"
She nodded. She lifted her chin, trying to look proud, trying to look confident, trying to look like someone who had the power to change the world. Her green eyes, which had been hollow for so long, flickered with something that might have been hope.
"I am an elf princess," she said. "I belong to the royal family. They will come for me. They will save me. And I will take you with me."
Yuuta did not understand what she meant. He did not know what a princess was, or a royal family, or any of the things she was talking about. The words were foreign to him, concepts he had never encountered, ideas that had no place in his world of pain and fear and survival.
But he understood hope. He understood the warmth in her voice, the certainty in her eyes, the way she held him like he was something precious. He understood that she believed what she was saying, and that belief gave him something to hold onto.
He smiled.
It was a small smile, fragile and trembling, but it was there. It was real.
The elf girl saw his smile and felt a small measure of relief. She had eased his pain, at least for now. She had given him something to hold onto, something to believe in, something to hope for.
But deep down, she knew the truth.
No one was coming to save her. No one was coming to save either of them. She had been down here for years, and no one had come. Her family had forgotten her. Her kingdom had moved on. The world above had continued spinning without her, indifferent to her suffering, unaware of her existence.
She was lying to him.
But sometimes, lies were kinder than the truth.
Yuuta looked up at her, his red eyes bright, his voice soft, almost a whisper.
"Sister," he said, testing the word, rolling it around on his tongue like a new flavor. "What is family?"
She blinked.
"Huh?"
"You said your family will save you. So... what is family? Are they doctors? Ogres? Dark elves? Goblins from the lab?"
She chuckled. It was a broken sound, bitter and sad, but it was a laugh. The first laugh she had uttered in years.
"No, no, dummy. Family is not monsters."
Yuuta tilted his head, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"Then... what are they?"
She grew quiet again. This time, her voice was softer, gentler, as if she were remembering something that hurt too much to say out loud. Her eyes drifted to the fire, to the flames that danced and flickered, to the shadows that moved across the walls.
"Family is someone who looks like you," she said. "Someone who holds your hand when you are scared. Someone who makes you laugh when you want to cry. They stay... even when you are broken."
Yuuta stared at her.
"Oh," he whispered. "So... the doctors are my family?"
Her face fell.
All the light drained away. Her eyes, which had been soft, went hard. Her lips, which had been curved in a sad smile, pressed into a thin line. Her hands, which had been resting on her knees, curled into fists.
She stared at him as if he had said something that physically hurt her.
Because he had.
He had finally made her understand the true horror of the lab. The doctors had not just tortured him. They had not just experimented on him. They had raised him. They had been the only adults in his life, the only authority figures, the only people he had ever known.
They had taught him that pain was love. That cruelty was kindness. That suffering was normal.
They were his family.
And he thought that was how families were supposed to be.
To be continued...