It had been more than a week since Shotaro and Paliv had set out for the valley of the dark elves. The days felt longer in their absence, stretching endlessly like a thread unraveling from a spool. Within the heart of the elven kingdom, the green tower stood tall, its elegant spires piercing the soft hues of dawn. Beyond the arched windows of the royal chambers, the golden light of morning crept in, spilling across the silk-draped bed where Queen Mellirion lay.
The queen stirred, her body shifting beneath layers of embroidered blankets as the weight of slumber slowly lifted. Her long, golden-brown hair cascaded in wild disarray, strands spilling over the pillows like woven sunlight. She blinked wearily, her magenta eyes dulled by lingering fatigue, the reflections of dawn catching in her iris like fractured amethysts. For a moment, she lay motionless, the hush of the morning enveloping her in a cocoon of silence, save for the distant rustling of leaves outside.
With a quiet sigh, she pushed herself up, the delicate fabric of her nightgown pooling around her as she sat on the edge of the bed. Her mind, still sluggish with sleep, drifted to those who had left her court not long ago. Shotaro. Paliv. The names reverberated in her thoughts like echoes lost in a vast chamber. A frown ghosted over her lips, her slender fingers reaching up to brush her tousled locks away from her face.
"Are they even alive anymore...?"
The words escaped her lips, barely above a whisper, dissolving into the empty room. A cold weight settled in her chest, a feeling she had long grown accustomed to but never fully accepted. The uncertainty gnawed at her, a silent predator lurking in the corners of her mind. Though she had sent them off with measured confidence, the reality of their journey pressed upon her now with suffocating force.
Her gaze shifted, drawn toward the bedside table where an ornate frame stood. Within it, encased in polished silver, was a portrait—a memory frozen in time. Her fingertips traced the edges of the frame before lifting it gently, her eyes softening as they beheld the familiar face of the man within.
"Luthor..."
The name fell from her lips like a sigh carried by the wind. How long had it been since his passing? The years blurred together, and though time marched ever forward, the pain remained rooted in place. Even now, she could almost hear his voice and feel the warmth of his presence lingering like an echo of a bygone era. The once-great king, the man who had stood beside her, had long since become part of the past—a past that, despite her efforts, refused to fade.
Her fingers tightened around the frame as she turned her gaze toward the far end of the chamber. There, standing tall against the walls of her sanctuary, was a grand portrait. The very image of the man she had loved was painted in painstaking detail, capturing every noble line of his face and every gleam of wisdom in his eyes. The weight of his absence pressed upon her like an unseen force, heavy and unrelenting.
"Paliv has grown... well, not grown, but she has made choices—decisions I wasn't even aware of," she murmured, her voice tinged with something indecipherable. A rueful smile flickered at the corner of her lips before vanishing just as quickly. The girl had always been willful, but this was different. Mellirion knew that much.
A slow breath left her as she lowered the frame back to its place, her fingers lingering against the cool metal for just a moment longer. The day had begun, and with it came the burdens of a queen. But for now, just for these few fleeting moments, she allowed herself the solace of reflection. The quiet worry. The lingering ache of memory.
The uncertainty of what lay ahead.
"Mugiwara... Shotaro." Queen Mellirion muttered to herself, her voice barely above a whisper, hoarse from sleep. "The child of light..."
Her mind swayed between the lingering haze of sleep and the relentless pull of reality. The warm embrace of her silk-threaded blankets, once comforting, now felt suffocating. She sat up slowly, her golden-brown hair spilling over her shoulders in tangled waves, catching the dim morning light that filtered through the elegantly carved windows of her chamber. The remnants of slumber still clung to her body, her thoughts sluggish, disoriented—but the moment she spoke his name, clarity struck like a blade through mist.
"He came..." she murmured, pressing her fingertips to her temples, massaging the weight of remembrance from her skull. "He punched me. He called me out on my bullshit. He unraveled all the damn mess I made... exposed every failure, every weakness... everything I buried as a failed queen."
The admission stung. It was the kind of wound that festered quietly, the kind that no magic could heal. She could still feel the phantom sting of his words, the blunt force of his defiance. Shotaro Mugiwara had arrived in her kingdom like a storm—unrelenting, impossible to ignore, and before she could even grasp what he was, he had already torn through the carefully constructed illusions she had built around herself.
She let out a heavy breath, her magenta eyes drifting toward the massive portrait hanging on the far wall. The once-great King Luthor gazed back at her with his unwavering, dignified expression—unshaken, eternal. His presence in the painting felt more solid than her own reflection in the polished glass of the bedside table.
"Then that boy—no, that man—decided to take my daughter with him," her voice trembled, frustration curling at the edges. "He took her into enemy lands, into the unknown... and he did it all just to prove something. To earn my trust."
Her hands clenched into fists atop the silk sheets. The memories of that moment resurfaced in perfect clarity. That reckless, audacious child—no, he wasn't just a child. He was something far greater. Something beyond her understanding.
"And to do that... he made me adopt him," she whispered.
It was absurd. Unbelievable. And yet, she had agreed. Not because she was weak, nor because she was coerced, but because, deep down, in the space where logic and instinct blurred—she had felt it. That undeniable, inexplicable presence that surrounded him. Shotaro Mugiwara was no ordinary existence. He was something rare. Something terrifying. And perhaps, just perhaps... something that this broken kingdom needed.
The queen exhaled, long and slow, before finally pulling herself from the bed. She had a kingdom to govern, a daughter to worry about, and a reckless adopted son who was either going to save them all... or burn the world down trying.
"I heard him cry."
Queen Mellirion's voice was barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of something deeply personal—something that had stayed unspoken for far too long. She sat on the edge of her grand bed, the cool morning air brushing against her skin, sending shivers down her spine. The silken sheets pooled around her, but they brought no warmth. Instead, her magenta eyes remained locked onto the towering portrait before her—the regal image of Luthor, the once-great king, the man she had loved, the one who had left her behind in this fragile world.
"I used to hear him cry himself to sleep every night," she continued, her voice wavering just slightly, like a ripple across still water.
She tilted her head, staring at the painted eyes of her late husband, searching for something—understanding, perhaps, or maybe just an illusion of comfort. The sight of Luthor had once steadied her, but now, it only made her chest tighten with thoughts she could no longer suppress.
"I always wondered," she murmured, her lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile, "how his crimson eyes could remain so full of sass, so unshaken, so defiant the entire day... as if nothing could reach him. As if the weight of the world was nothing more than a joke to him."
A bitter chuckle escaped her lips.
"But the reason... the reason was always the same, wasn't it?" Her gaze softened, her voice dropping to something gentler, almost fragile. "He wets them to his heart's content in the silence of the night."
Shotaro Mugiwara.
The silver-haired boy who had stormed into her life, into her kingdom, and into her very perception of what it meant to be strong. A force of nature. A reckless, arrogant fool. A child who had no right to bear the burdens he did—yet carried them anyway.
She exhaled, running a hand through her messy golden-brown locks, her mind slipping further into reflection.
"With all the power he has..." she muttered, voice barely audible. "With all the sarcasm, all the arrogance, all the sheer jerkness he possesses... in the end, he is just a kid. A kid who has been burdened with the weight of the world on his shoulders. A kid trying to do the right thing."
She shook her head, her magenta eyes darkening with something close to sorrow.
"Or at least... trying his best to."
For all the times he acted like an uncontrollable storm, for all the moments where his sharp tongue cut deeper than any blade, for all the chaos he seemed to invite—underneath it all, he was just a boy who had seen too much. A boy who had lost too much. And yet, he still stood.
Her fingers curled against the bedsheet, the silence between her and the portrait stretching endlessly before she finally spoke again.
"Luthor."
Her voice was steadier now, firmer, as if the words she was about to say had finally settled deep within her soul.
"If he is the fool you would have bet it all on..." Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite sadness, just something tired and accepting. "Then, for the first time in years... I am at relief."
She lifted her gaze fully, staring straight into the unchanging eyes of the man in the painting.
"Because that silver-haired fool is the best hero we ever could have gotten. Not the one that never falls… but the one who keeps getting up."
A breeze whispered through the grand chamber, rustling the sheer curtains that framed her bed. Morning light spilled in, casting long, golden streaks across the polished floors.
"When we meet in another life, Luthor..." she whispered, her voice filled with something soft, something tender.
"If we are blessed with a son..."
Her eyelids fluttered shut for just a moment as she exhaled, letting the weight of the words settle within her.
"I would want him to be that."
Her magenta eyes flickered open once more, a quiet determination burning behind them.
Yes. If fate was kind, if there was another chance—she would want a son just like him.
Not flawless. Not untouchable. Not a god.
But a fool. A hero. A boy who never stopped standing back up.
"The kind imbecile."
That was what she had come to call him.
A contradiction in itself. A paradox wrapped in silver hair and crimson eyes. A fool who rushed headfirst into battles he had no reason to fight, who carried burdens far beyond what his young shoulders should have been able to withstand. A reckless idiot who never knew when to back down, who spoke with a sharp tongue yet held a heart too soft for this world.
And yet, for all his arrogance, for all his sarcasm, for all the ways he infuriated her—he was kind. Infuriatingly, stupidly, endlessly kind.
A kindness that was neither gentle nor graceful, but raw, messy, and stubborn. A kindness that defied reason, that made him throw himself into the flames for people who would never do the same for him. A kindness that demanded nothing in return, yet always cost him everything.
That was who Shotaro Mugiwara was.
And that was why, in the quiet of her own mind, she had named him so.
"The kind imbecile."
A fool. A hero. And perhaps, the only one left who still believed in standing back up.
The queen exhaled softly, rolling her shoulders as she rose from her bed. The weight of the morning still clung to her, and the lingering thoughts of the silver-haired fool refused to leave her mind. But she couldn't afford to sit in contemplation forever. She had a kingdom to govern, and appearances to uphold.
With slow, deliberate steps, she moved toward the grand, ornately carved door that led to her personal bath—her royal bath. The chamber was vast, its marble flooring cool against her bare feet. The towering pillars and golden-trimmed arches framed the scene like something out of an artist's dream, while the walls shimmered with delicate, enchanted carvings that pulsed faintly with a warm glow.
At the center lay the royal bath, a massive pool of pristine water that reflected the soft morning light seeping through the stained-glass windows. The steam that rose from the surface carried the fragrance of rare elven blossoms, a scent known to calm the mind and refresh the body. Servants had already prepared everything to perfection—scents, temperature, even the arrangement of delicate silk robes nearby, awaiting her once she was done.
With practiced grace, she untied the thin straps of her nightgown, allowing the sheer fabric to slip from her shoulders. It slid down her frame, pooling silently at her feet, revealing the flawless curves of her golden-brown skin. The soft candlelight flickered across her figure, tracing the elegant lines of her body—the gentle rise of her chest, the graceful curve of her waist, the smoothness of her thighs.
She stepped forward, her bare form slipping into the heated embrace of the water. A soft sigh escaped her lips as the warmth enveloped her, melting away the tension from her muscles. She leaned back against the curved edge of the bath, closing her eyes as the soothing water lapped at her skin, tracing along her collarbone, her shoulders, and down her arms.
Her golden-brown hair fanned out across the water's surface, shimmering under the dim glow of the enchanted lights above. Droplets clung to her skin, catching the light like tiny jewels before rolling down in slow, glistening trails. She lifted a hand, cupping the warm water before letting it spill over her chest, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine.
For a moment, she allowed herself this indulgence—a brief escape from her responsibilities, from the endless weight of ruling, from the gnawing thoughts of a certain reckless boy who had stormed into her life.
But the moment could not last forever.
After soaking for what felt like an eternity, she finally rose from the bath, water cascading down her curves, glistening in the golden light of the chamber. She stepped onto the plush towels laid out for her, allowing the soft fabric to absorb the lingering droplets as she reached for the royal garments prepared by her attendants.
Her dress was as grand as one would expect of an elven queen. Layers of the finest enchanted silk draped over her figure, hugging her curves in all the right places before flowing down like liquid moonlight. Intricate golden embroidery adorned the bodice, accentuating her regal form, while delicate gemstones sparkled across the fabric with each subtle movement.
With a practiced motion, she fastened her waist sash, allowing the fabric to settle perfectly around her hips. The gown revealed just enough to be alluring—an open slit along the side, a deep neckline that offered a tantalizing glimpse of her collarbone and shoulders—yet retained the grace and majesty befitting a queen.
As the final touch, she adorned herself with elegant jewelry—an emerald-studded choker that rested against the hollow of her throat, delicate golden rings on her fingers, and a pair of softly dangling earrings that shimmered with every step she took.
At last, she was ready.
With one final glance at her reflection in the mirror—a queen in every sense of the word—she turned, stepping out of her royal private chambers with an air of grace and authority.
The kingdom awaited.
"At least you're getting more hygienic."
A raspy, teasing voice cut through the air just as Queen Mellirion stepped out of her royal private chambers.
She halted mid-step, her magenta eyes narrowing slightly as she turned toward the source of the remark—Granny P. The old elf, draped in her usual layered robes, stood with her arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the edges of her wrinkled lips. Despite her age, there was an undeniable sharpness in her gaze, a look that had seen far too much and judged even more.
"I still remember when you were in your drunk era," Granny P. continued, her voice laced with amusement. "Before that silver-haired brat punched you out of it, you used to go weeks without bathing. And that's far too long, considering how long you've been alive."
Mellirion's elegant, composed facade twitched ever so slightly.
The elderly elf took a step closer, leaning in with a wicked grin. "Sometimes," she added, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "you even pissed and shat yourself in your drunken mess."
The queen's eye twitched. A deep crimson flush threatened to rise to her cheeks, but she refused to give the old woman the satisfaction. Instead, she inhaled deeply, straightened her posture, and met Granny P.'s gaze with an unamused stare.
"That was a temporary lapse in judgment," Mellirion replied coolly.
Granny P. let out a loud, cackling laugh. "A lapse that lasted years, girl. Face it—you were a damn wreck."
Mellirion exhaled sharply through her nose, resisting the urge to rub her temples. "Was being the key word," she muttered under her breath.
"Sure, sure." Granny P. waved a dismissive hand before flashing a knowing smirk. "I'm just saying, if that brat of yours hadn't come along, we'd probably still be fumigating the palace."
The queen closed her eyes for a brief second, mentally counting to ten. This old woman...
Queen Mellirion settled onto her throne, letting out a quiet sigh as the weight of her royal attire draped over her shoulders. The grand hall shimmered in the soft golden glow of enchanted chandeliers, their light reflecting off the polished marble floors. The scent of fresh blossoms, carried by the morning breeze, drifted through the tall, open windows.
She lazily rested her cheek against her hand, elbow propped against the throne's armrest, before exhaling. "Do tell me what the latest news is," she inquired, her voice smooth yet laced with expectation.
Standing at the base of the dais, Granny P. scratched the back of her head, her aged fingers tapping against her skull as if struggling to find the right words. Despite her worn robes and seemingly casual demeanor, her sharp eyes betrayed a mind that had seen far too much of the kingdom's nonsense over the centuries.
"Yeah, uh…" The old elf clicked her tongue before rolling her shoulders. "So, you remember those notes that Shotaro wrote before he left?"
Mellirion's magenta eyes flickered with mild interest. "Yes?"
Granny P. sucked in a breath before waving a hand. "Right, so… apparently, we've cut the average crime rate by sixty percent—and that's the lowest it's been in… let's just call it ages."
The queen blinked.
Granny P. continued, now lazily counting on her fingers. "Something, something irrigation system, something, something tax system, something, something bank system, something, something brothel standards of operation have changed, something, something education system—"
Mellirion held up a hand. "Wait. Back up."
Granny P. raised a brow. "Which part?"
"The brothel part."
The elder elf snorted. "Ah, yeah. That. Turns out Shotaro took one look at how things were run and decided, 'Nah, this is all fucked'—his words, not mine. So now, the brothels are actually running under a proper regulation system.
"Every worker has a contract, mandatory health check-ups, actual security, and—get this—retirement benefits." She snorted, shaking her head. "Yeah, you heard me right. Retirement. Before this, most of the girls either worked until their looks faded or got tossed into the streets when they weren't 'profitable' anymore. Now, they have a mandatory savings plan where a portion of their earnings gets stored away, and once they hit a certain age, they can actually leave with enough money to start a new life."
Mellirion raised an eyebrow. "And the brothel owners just… agreed to this?"
Granny P. let out a sharp cackle. "Oh, hell no. Kid had to strong-arm 'em. Set up licensing laws where any brothel that didn't follow the new standards got shut down immediately—no exceptions. Any owner caught violating contracts? Immediate loss of assets and a lifetime ban from the industry. Shotaro even wrote a legal framework for it and passed it to the High Judiciary Office before he left."
Mellirion massaged her temples. "Of course, he did."
Granny P. smirked. "Oh, it gets better. Next up, crime rate. You know how we've been struggling with bandits and organized crime for centuries?"
The queen sighed. "A constant headache."
"Well, Shotaro decided that instead of just 'cracking down' on them with brute force, he'd go smart. First, he started reforming the city guard. Before, the guards were underpaid, half-trained, and spent most of their time accepting bribes. So, he proposed a new salary and bonus structure—guards now get performance-based pay and actual incentives for catching criminals instead of looking the other way."
Mellirion tilted her head slightly. "And that actually worked?"
Granny P. chuckled. "Oh, absolutely. The moment these guards realized they could make more money by doing their actual jobs rather than accepting chump change bribes, most of 'em flipped overnight. The guilds and crime bosses started losing their grip because suddenly, half their 'connections' were turning into honest men."
She lifted another finger. "And on top of that, Shotaro implemented a community policing system."
"…A what?"
"Basically, instead of just relying on some stiff, centralized force, he split law enforcement into district-based units. Every neighborhood now has assigned officers who actually live there, so they give a damn about keeping things safe. Citizens can report crimes anonymously, and there are public complaint offices that investigate guards who abuse their power. Corrupt officers get public trials now."
Mellirion blinked. "He overhauled the entire policing system in just a few weeks?"
Granny P. smirked. "Oh, honey, we're just getting started."
She lifted another finger. "Next up, the irrigation system. The farms in the outer districts? They've been struggling with water shortages for years. Shotaro went out there, took one look at the old canal system, and called it 'a disgrace to engineering.' So, he drafted an entire renovation plan to redirect river flow, reinforce canal walls with earth magic-infused stone, and set up a rotational water distribution schedule that prevents shortages."
She snorted. "Farmers are now seeing thirty percent higher crop yields. The food supply has stabilized, and guess what? Prices dropped."
Mellirion rubbed her temple. "He's an economist now, too?"
Granny P. ignored her and kept going. "Speaking of prices, let's talk the tax system. You remember how corrupt nobles and merchants used loopholes to avoid paying taxes?"
The queen's eye twitched. "Don't remind me."
"Well, they can't do that anymore." The old elf grinned. "Kid simplified the entire tax code. No more hidden clauses, no more 'exemptions for certain trade families.' Just a flat system based on actual earnings. Higher profits? Pay more. Lower profits? Pay less. No bribes, no nonsense."
Mellirion inhaled deeply. "I'm almost afraid to ask what he did to the banking system."
Granny P. clapped her hands together. "Ah! Now that's where it gets real fun! Shotaro noticed that most people—especially commoners—didn't trust banks because they were run by nobles. So, he set up a 'People's Treasury,' which is a state-regulated banking system that offers secure loans, fair interest rates, and—get this—insurance policies."
Mellirion's fingers pressed harder against her forehead.
"Small business owners and farmers are thriving now because they can actually get loans without selling their souls."
The queen slowly lowered her hand, exhaling sharply. "…And here I thought he was just some reckless boy with a strong punch and a foul mouth."
Granny P. cackled. "Oh, he's still that. But also? That silver-haired brat just fixed half the kingdom's issues."
Mellirion slumped back into her throne.
Of course, he did.
Of course.
She closed her eyes and let out a long, weary sigh, pressing her fingers against her temples as if trying to physically hold back the mounting frustration—or perhaps resignation—building within her. The weight of everything she had just heard settled heavily on her shoulders, an invisible burden that seemed to grow with each passing revelation. It wasn't just the sheer volume of reforms that astounded her, but the sheer depth of them.
Shotaro Mugiwara had walked into her kingdom, a foreigner, a boy barely in his mid-teens, and within a matter of weeks had single-handedly overhauled nearly every broken institution that had plagued their lands for generations. He had rewritten laws, crushed corruption, and implemented changes so blindingly obvious in hindsight that Mellirion couldn't help but wonder why no one—herself included—had ever thought to do the same.
And the worst part?
He had done it effortlessly.
Like it was just something to occupy his time.
She exhaled slowly, dragging her fingers down her face, before finally opening her eyes. She stared ahead at Granny P., the old elf who had served as a fixture in her life for so long that Mellirion could scarcely recall a time when she wasn't there. The ancient woman stood before her, arms crossed, her wrinkled face pulled into that ever-present smirk, watching the queen with the kind of amused patience only an elder could afford.
Mellirion took a deep breath, bracing herself for whatever fresh headache-inducing revelation would follow, and then finally muttered, "What else did he fix?"
For a moment, there was silence. Then, Granny P.'s smirk widened into something sharper, something dangerously knowing, and with a slow, deliberate tilt of her head, she answered,
"You."
Mellirion blinked. "…Excuse me?"
Granny P. let out a raspy chuckle, shaking her head as if the queen had asked the stupidest question in the world. "You heard me, girl. He fixed your shit."
Mellirion frowned, shifting in her throne, suddenly feeling uncomfortably aware of how much that statement made her stomach twist. "…What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Granny P. let out an exaggerated sigh, as if she were dealing with an especially slow student. "It means exactly what it sounds like, your Majesty. You. Were. A. Mess. A disaster. An absolute train wreck of a queen. And then that silver-haired brat walked in, kicked down the door—literally, I might add—called you out on every last ounce of your bullshit, and then somehow managed to drag your sorry ass out of the self-pity swamp you'd been rotting in for gods-know-how-long."
Mellirion's fingers curled against the armrest of her throne, a prickle of irritation dancing at the back of her mind. "I was not—"
"Oh, shut up," Granny P. cut her off with a wave of her hand. "I was there. I remember. You were drinking yourself into oblivion every night, skipping court meetings, leaving half your duties to overpaid advisors who couldn't govern their way out of a paper bag. And don't even get me started on that no bathing for weeks nonsense—sweet gods, child, you reeked."
Mellirion's eye twitched. "That is completely unnecessary to bring up."
Granny P. ignored her. "And let's not forget how you spent years wallowing in your misery, convinced that nothing could be changed, that everything was just too broken to fix. And then what happens? A fifteen-year-old punk shows up out of nowhere, punches you in the face, and suddenly, you remember how to be a damn queen again."
The queen opened her mouth, then closed it. Her jaw tightened, her magenta eyes narrowing slightly as she tried to find some kind of rebuttal.
But none came.
Because Granny P. was right.
Shotaro had punched her in the face.
Shotaro had called her out on every failure, every excuse, every lie she had told herself to justify doing nothing.
And then, as if that wasn't enough, he had forced her to adopt him.
She still didn't understand that part.
Even now, even after all of this, she still couldn't fully wrap her head around why he had made her his mother.
And yet…
Her gaze drifted slightly, settling on the large portrait of Luthor that hung on the wall beside her throne. Her late husband, painted in regal armor, his stern yet gentle expression captured with haunting accuracy.
"…Luthor," she murmured, so quietly that Granny P. barely caught it. "If you were still here… would you have called me a failed queen too?"
A beat of silence.
Then, Granny P. spoke, softer this time. "Maybe. But I think he'd be damn proud of the one you're becoming now."
Mellirion didn't respond.
She just leaned back into her throne, letting the weight of those words settle over her.
Her fingers traced absent patterns against the armrest, thoughts swirling like an unseen storm.
Shotaro had done so much. Too much.
And he had done it all without asking for anything in return.
That idiot.
That reckless, foolish, kind imbecile of a boy.
Mellirion closed her eyes once more, exhaling deeply.
"…He really did fix my shit, didn't he?"
Granny P. grinned. "Took him punching you in the face to do it, but yeah."
The queen huffed, shaking her head with something that almost resembled amusement.
Granny P. let out a deep chuckle, the kind that carried the weight of centuries of wisdom and countless observations of history unfolding before her tired old eyes. She shifted slightly, her ancient bones creaking as she placed her hands on her hips, gazing at Mellirion with something that was neither amusement nor reverence, but rather a quiet acknowledgment of the truth—one that neither of them could deny, no matter how stubborn they were.
"The child who changes lives," she finally said, her voice tinged with something both wistful and knowing, as if she had seen it all before, as if she had long since come to terms with the kind of existence Shotaro Mugiwara led.
Mellirion's fingers tightened slightly against the polished wood of her throne.
The words hung in the air, heavier than they had any right to be.
She hated how true they were.
Because Shotaro did change lives.
And he never did it in a quiet, subtle way, never with the careful diplomacy of a ruler easing reforms into place. No, he stormed in like a natural disaster, wrecking everything in his path—except instead of leaving destruction, he left behind a world that was better than before.
He had done it to her.
To her kingdom.
To her people.
To her daughter.
And now, he was doing it again, even while he was gone.
The child had spent weeks in her kingdom and had reshaped it in a way no ruler before him had. He had torn apart corruption with a ruthless efficiency that put the most hardened bureaucrats to shame. He had rewired the economy, restructured trade, and reformed the systems that had been left stagnant for centuries. He had written down laws that actually made sense, leaving behind solutions that were so painfully obvious that the mere thought of their previous incompetence made her want to scream.
And he hadn't stopped there.
He had changed Paliv.
Her daughter, once rebellious and impulsive, now carried herself with a new sense of purpose—an understanding that hadn't been there before. It was as if Shotaro had lit a fire in her soul, one that had always been there but had never been given the oxygen it needed to grow. And perhaps, Mellirion realized, the same could be said for herself.
Because she was different now.
She still carried regrets. She still bore the weight of her failures. But for the first time in decades, she was actually doing something about them.
And it had all started with him.
That idiot. That reckless, foolhardy, sharp-tongued brat. That silver-haired, crimson-eyed storm of a boy who had walked into her throne room, looked her dead in the eye, and told her to stop running from her responsibilities.
The child who changes lives.
Mellirion swallowed, inhaling deeply as she forced herself to shake off the weight of her own thoughts. She looked back at Granny P., whose smirk had softened into something gentler, something almost… fond.
It was strange.
That brat had barely been here, and yet even Granny P., one of the most stubborn, cynical old elves she knew, had come to accept his presence as something important.
"…He never even asked for anything in return," Mellirion murmured, barely aware that she was speaking aloud.
Granny P. snorted. "Of course he didn't. That's just how he is. Walks in, fixes things, leaves without waiting for applause. Fool doesn't even realize what he's worth."
Mellirion's eyes darkened slightly at that.
That much was obvious.
Shotaro Mugyiwara was a child burdened with the weight of the world. A boy with too much power, too much responsibility, and not enough time to simply be a kid.
And yet, despite it all, he still kept moving forward.
Still kept changing lives.
She exhaled slowly, leaning back against her throne, letting her gaze drift toward the ceiling.
"…The child who changes lives," she whispered, as if testing the words on her tongue.
Somehow, it felt fitting.
The air in the throne room tensed, and for a brief moment, all that could be heard was the soft rustling of Nyrebo's robes as he came to a halt before the throne. Despite the weight of the moment, the elven magic minister remained as composed as ever, his kind yet unreadable gaze shifting between the queen and the timid figure at his side.
Ni Gah stood there, bound but trembling, her ash-toned skin even paler than usual under the flickering light. She kept her head low, purple hair falling over her face, as if hoping that if she were small enough, quiet enough, she might disappear entirely. Her amethyst eyes darted nervously, glancing at Nyrebo for reassurance before quickly looking away again. The chains around her wrists and ankles weren't necessary—she wasn't fighting, she wasn't struggling. She wasn't even speaking.
Mellirion studied her in silence.
"Why is she here?"
Nyrebo dipped his head respectfully before answering. "Your Majesty, as per Shotaro's explicit request, Ni Gah was to remain alive and under our protection." His voice was as gentle as ever, but there was an underlying firmness to it. He glanced at the girl beside him. "Given the… unfortunate fate of her companions, I have taken responsibility for her well-being, just as Shotaro entrusted me to do."
Mellirion's fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of her throne.
Shotaro again.
Even in his absence, his influence wove itself into her decisions, shaping them, forcing her to acknowledge the things she might have otherwise ignored.
Her magenta eyes flickered toward Ni Gah, who flinched at the attention, shrinking into herself even further. She was young—perhaps as young as Paliv. Just a girl. A girl who had lost everything in a single night. A girl who should have died, if not for Shotaro's interference.
Mellirion exhaled through her nose. "And what does she want?"
Ni Gah hesitated, her small, shackled hands tightening into fists. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, as fragile as glass on the verge of breaking.
"I… I don't want to die."
Mellirion leaned back, exhaling slowly.
Shotaro had seen something in this girl. Had seen worth in her life when no one else did.
And now, that life was in her hands.
She turned to Nyrebo. "Has she caused trouble?"
Nyrebo shook his head. "No, Your Majesty. She has been… quiet. Cooperative. I do not believe she poses a threat. In time, she may even prove to be of use."
Mellirion considered this.
Finally, after a long pause, she spoke.
"As long as Shotaro wishes for her to live, she will live." Her magenta eyes met Ni Gah's. "But whether you remain a guest or a prisoner will depend entirely on what you do from now on."
Ni Gah swallowed, then nodded quickly, eyes wide with understanding.
She had been given a second chance.
Now, it was up to her what she did with it.
Granny P smirked, the corners of her wrinkled lips curling up as she folded her arms across her chest, watching the queen with amusement twinkling in her aged eyes.
Mellirion, who had just issued her reluctant decree regarding the dark elf girl, raised an eyebrow at the old woman's expression. She knew that smirk. It was the kind Granny P only wore when she was about to say something sharp-tongued and irritatingly insightful.
"…What?" Mellirion asked, her voice laced with suspicion.
Granny P snorted. "You really didn't get it, did you?" She shook her head in mock disappointment before placing a hand on her hip. "Tch, and here I thought you were finally getting smarter."
Mellirion's expression twitched. "Explain yourself before I have you thrown out of the palace."
Granny P chuckled, completely unfazed by the empty threat. She gestured toward Ni Gah, who remained still, her eyes downcast, as if she wished she could sink into the floor and disappear. Then, the old woman turned her sharp gaze back to the queen.
"Think about it," Granny P said, her tone exasperated yet smug. "The dark elves won't touch Shotaro or Paliv as long as their princess is sitting here, eating at our table." She tapped a bony finger against the side of her head. "Shotaro ain't just some reckless fighter—he's a damn diplomat who happens to swong a blade."
Mellirion's magenta eyes widened slightly before narrowing again, her mind turning over the realization like a puzzle piece snapping into place.
Shotaro had done it again.
That silver-haired fool had gone to enemy territory, dragging her daughter along, but he hadn't gone in blindly. No, he had already ensured a safeguard before he even stepped foot in the dark elf valley. By keeping Ni Gah here—protected, alive, and well-fed—he had unknowingly—or perhaps very knowingly—created leverage.
As long as their princess remained under elven care, the dark elves would have no choice but to hesitate.
They wouldn't dare kill him.
They wouldn't dare kill Paliv.
Mellirion clenched her jaw, her fingers curling against the armrest of her throne.
That boy.
Mellirion inhaled deeply, suppressing the simmering annoyance that accompanied every interaction with a dark elf. She had already bent over backward tolerating the thing's presence in her throne room. Now, against her better judgment, she decided to extend an olive branch—if only to keep up appearances.
She sat up straighter, schooling her expression into something approaching civility. Her magenta eyes locked onto the timid girl, who barely dared to meet her gaze.
"Do tell me, girl," Mellirion said, her voice smooth but edged with detached authority. "Do you need something? Toys? Clothes? Anything?"
Ni Gah hesitated. Her amethyst eyes darted toward Nyrebo, searching for permission or reassurance, before she spoke.
"Yes," she said softly.
Mellirion lifted a delicate eyebrow. "Come now, don't be shy. What is it?"
Ni Gah inhaled, steadying herself. Then, with far more courage than Mellirion expected, the dark elf girl looked straight at her and answered.
"Your son."
Mellirion blinked.
"...Huh?"
"I want to marry Shotaro," Ni Gah clarified, her voice trembling but determined. "And Mister Nyrebo told me he is your ward now, after that adoption."
A silence heavier than iron settled in the throne room.
The queen's mind ground to a halt.
Her fingers twitched against the armrest.
Her lips parted—only for no words to come out.
The realization hit like a mountain collapsing onto her back.
....HUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH?!?!?!
Granny P's entire body jolted, her aged hands gripping the cane she didn't even need to lean on. Her jaw slackened as she stared at the dark elf girl as if she had just sprouted a second head.
"Bamboozled" didn't even begin to cover it.
"You're—" Granny P sputtered, her voice coming out as a half-choked laugh of disbelief. "But you're a little girl!"
Ni Gah tilted her head slightly, unfazed. "By elven standards?"
Granny P threw her hands up. "Doesn't matter! Your body is barely into—barely out of—puberty !"
Ni Gah blinked, her expression unshaken. "I will grow."
Granny P made a strangled noise, rubbing her forehead as if warding off an oncoming headache. "By the time you're grown, he'll be a long-bearded old man, probably senile from all the stupid battles he'll fight in the meantime!"
Ni Gah shrugged. "Doesn't matter."
Granny P took a deep, slow breath. Then another. Then another.
She turned to Nyrebo, eyes wide, demanding an explanation. The elven magic minister simply sighed, his expression as composed as ever, though there was the slightest twitch in his brow.
Mellirion, on the other hand, remained frozen in her throne, her mind still stuck on the last few seconds of conversation, replaying them over and over as if her brain refused to process the absurdity of what she had just heard.
Ni Gah's ash-toned fingers lightly touched her cheeks, her skin warm to the touch as if the mere thought of him set her aflame. Her amethyst eyes shimmered, unfocused, lost in whatever flustered daydream had overtaken her.
"When he stood up for my people… despite our crimes," she murmured, voice soft, almost reverent. "When he tried to create diplomacy between the two sides… I think—" She let out a small, breathy sigh, clutching her face as if to contain the heat rising within her. "I think I felt something."
Her ears twitched slightly, her expression practically glowing with admiration. If emotions could take physical form, there would have been floating hearts dancing above her head.
Granny P and Mellirion both stared.
Nyrebo, ever the composed one, merely pinched the bridge of his nose.
Mellirion had been through a lot in her long life. Wars. Political intrigue. The burden of ruling an entire kingdom. The loss of a husband. The constant exasperation that was Paliv.
But nothing—nothing—had prepared her for this.
"WHAT NOW, QUEEN?"
Granny P's voice rang through the throne room, dripping with barely contained amusement, as she watched Mellirion struggle—physically struggle—to process the absolute nonsense unfolding before her.
Ni Gah sat there, eyes shimmering with delusional, love-struck innocence, cheeks warm, fingers twiddling as if she weren't currently trying to insert herself into her—Queen Mellirion's—family tree.
A dark elf.
Trying to marry her son.
The thought alone made Mellirion's skin crawl so hard she swore she could feel her entire bloodline screaming in protest from beyond the grave.
But worse—so much worse—was the fact that the little dark elf girl was determined.
"Ni Gah." Mellirion's voice came out strained, unnaturally composed, as she pressed two fingers against her temple. "This… is not a good idea."
"But why not?" Ni Gah blinked up at her, tilting her head.
Mellirion inhaled sharply, forcing her smile to remain queenly and not the barely-restrained grimace of a woman whose world was imploding.
"Because," she started, her tone carefully measured, "Shotaro is... far too busy for such things."
Ni Gah, unfazed, nodded in understanding.
"Then I'll wait."
Mellirion's eyelid twitched.
"Wait?"
"Yes," Ni Gah said, voice unwavering. "Until I'm old enough."
"You won't be old enough." Mellirion's smile thinned. "By the time you think you're old enough, he will be an old man. With grandchildren. And a bad back."
"That's fine," Ni Gah said, as if this were the most normal conversation in the world.
"No, it's not fine!" Mellirion's voice cracked slightly. She cleared her throat and forced herself to exhale. "It's not fine because you're a dark elf—" She paused, realizing how blunt that sounded, and immediately rephrased, "—Because you come from a completely different culture and have no understanding of how this works!"
Ni Gah frowned slightly. "But I do understand. When someone does something great for you, you marry them. That's how it works, doesn't it?"
"NO."
"Yes," Ni Gah countered innocently.
"NO, IT DOESN'T—" Mellirion cut herself off, dragging a hand down her face. "Ancestors help me..."
Granny P wheezed.
The old woman was doubled over, struggling to breathe through the sheer amount of bullshit currently unraveling before her eyes.
"You—hAHAHA—you're telling me—HAHAHA—Queen Mellirion herself—HAHAHA—is getting racially cuckolded into accepting a dark elf in her family?!" Granny P clutched her stomach, absolutely dying at the irony. "Oh, this is delicious."
"Shut up, old woman!" Mellirion snapped, her composure completely shattered.
Granny P ignored her, wiping a tear from her eye. "Oh gods—Oh gods above, Shotaro is gonna lose his shit when he hears about this—"
"NO ONE IS TELLING HIM ABOUT THIS!"
"Why not?" Ni Gah blinked.
Mellirion whipped her head toward the girl so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.
"BECAUSE!" she barked, standing from her throne in exasperation. "Because he will laugh! And then he will be an insufferable, smug little shit about it! And then he will tell Paliv! And then Paliv will laugh! And then—"
Nyrebo, who had been silent up until now, calmly cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty," he said, ever composed, "I do believe you are handling this exceptionally poorly."
Mellirion turned to him so fast that this time, she did get whiplash.
"Nyrebo," she hissed, her patience hanging by a single thread. "If you do not fix this, I swear I will personally set your robes on fire."
The elven magic minister sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Your Majesty, she is young. This is likely nothing more than a temporary infatuation."
"Then make it go away!" Mellirion seethed, gesturing wildly at Ni Gah, who still sat there, completely unaffected, smiling in what could only be described as dark elven yandere innocence.
Granny P cackled. "Oh, this is never going away, Queenie. This is forever. You're doomed."
Mellirion groaned, dragging both hands down her face.
"Ancestors… just strike me down now."
Ni Gah, despite her usual timid nature, was no longer holding back. She was trembling—not with fear, but with pure, unfiltered frustration. Her amethyst eyes burned with the stubborn determination of a girl who had decided, then and there, that she would not be ignored.
She clenched her tiny fists, her ash-toned face flushed with the passion of someone about to unleash hell itself.
"WHY WON'T YOU ACCEPT ME?!" she practically shouted, her voice echoing through the grand hall.
Mellirion stiffened, every muscle in her body locking up. "Don't make me say it," she warned, her voice unnaturally tense.
But Ni Gah was relentless. "WHY WON'T YOU ACCEPT ME?!"
Mellirion snapped.
"BECAUSE YOU'RE BLACK—"
The throne room exploded.
Granny P fell off her chair, laughing so hard she started choking. "HAHAHAHAHAHA— OH GODS—HAHAHAHA—" She was wheezing, clutching her chest as if her soul was actively trying to leave her body from sheer comedic overload.
Nyrebo, composed as ever, slowly removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose as if debating whether or not to resign on the spot.
Ni Gah, however, just stared.
Then blinked.
Then tilted her head slightly, her brows furrowing.
"...I am a dark elf," she said slowly, as if trying to piece together what just happened.
Mellirion, suddenly realizing what exactly had just left her mouth, malfunctioned.
Her magenta eyes shot open to the size of dinner plates, her lips parting as if trying to speak, but no words came out. She started to raise a hand, as if she could physically grab her words from the air and shove them back down her throat.
Granny P, still on the floor, was crying.
"YOU SAID IT!" she howled, slapping her knee, her voice cracking between laughter-induced coughs. "YOU ACTUALLY SAID IT!!"
"THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT!" Mellirion screeched, her entire soul trying to escape her body.
Nyrebo exhaled sharply, placing his glasses back on. "Your Majesty," he muttered, "perhaps you should rephrase that."
"YES, OBVIOUSLY, NYREBO, THANK YOU FOR THAT INSIGHT!" Mellirion roared, her face burning with the fiery embarrassment of a queen who had just committed political suicide in real-time.
"Did I just hear the queen say something insane?" A random guard peered into the room, his ears perking up.
"GET OUT!" Mellirion barked, and the guard immediately noped out of the throne room.
"HAHAHAHAHA—" Granny P rolled on the floor, tears streaming down her face. "Ohhhh, this is the best day of my entire existence—"
"I DIDN'T MEAN IT LIKE THAT!!" Mellirion shouted, her entire body trembling with secondhand embarrassment from herself.
Ni Gah, still confused, scratched her cheek. "...Then what did you mean?"
Mellirion opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Then opened it again.
Then closed it.
Then turned to Nyrebo with a look of absolute, desperate pleading.
"Nyrebo," she whispered through gritted teeth, "say literally anything to fix this right now."
Nyrebo, to his credit, did not laugh. He simply clasped his hands together and cleared his throat.
"What Her Majesty meant to say," he began smoothly, "is that due to longstanding historical and cultural conflicts between our nations, an integration of bloodlines between the royal house and the dark elven people would be politically difficult and socially complex."
He turned to Mellirion, his gaze unreadable. "Correct, Your Majesty?"
Mellirion nodded so hard it looked like her neck might snap. "YES, EXACTLY THAT, THANK YOU, NYREBO, YOU MAY LIVE ANOTHER DAY."
Granny P, still barely breathing, wiped her eyes, shaking her head. "Oh, Queenie, this is gonna be a story for generations—"
"SHUT UP, GRANNY P!!"
Ni Gah, who still looked mildly unconvinced, let out a soft "Hmm…" before finally nodding. "Okay."
Mellirion exhaled in relief.
Then—
"BUT I'M STILL GONNA MARRY SHOTARO."
Mellirion's soul left her body.
Granny P, round two, collapsed into fresh howling laughter.
Nyrebo audibly sighed, rubbing his temples.
And somewhere, deep in the void where all cosmic forces of irony gather to watch mortal suffering unfold, the ancestors of the elven kingdom cackled.