The black-haired man stood amidst the quiet splendor of his royal garden, shears in hand, carefully trimming the delicate branches of a centuries-old bonsai. The crisp air carried the unmistakable scent of autumn—faint woodsmoke, dry leaves, and the mellow decay of the season. Yet within the walled sanctuary of this imperial garden, time seemed to bend. The flowers were still in bloom, vibrant and defiant, untouched by the chill creeping into the world beyond the palace gates.
A faint rustle stirred the silence behind him, though he did not turn. He already knew who had arrived.
"You're early," he said with a small chuckle, sensing her presence like a familiar shadow slipping into place.
From the far end of the stone path, a woman emerged. Dressed in a dark cloak with the insignia of the Royal Vanguard etched in silver thread, Irene bowed to greet him.
"It's been a while, Irene," he greeted, eyes still on the bonsai.
"Has it, Your Majesty?" she replied, brushing past him without pause. She settled into a low wooden bench beside a patch of crimson spider lilies. No permission asked. None needed.
Zeref allowed himself a smile. He had always been indulgent with her, ever since their days at the Academy—before he wore the crown. Irene had been his ally. It still amazed him that she remained in his service, after everything that happened during those final, harrowing years at the academy. After that night.
"You're not surprised by the sudden summons," he said, watching her pluck a blooming spider lily by the stem, its red petals sharp against her pale fingers.
"Should I be?" she answered coolly, twirling the flower in her hand. "It's not every day the great August himself stomps through my barracks like a storm looking for lost cattle. Slave traders, was it? Or was that just a cover story?"
He exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of exasperation showing. Dealing with Irene required more patience than most of his council combined. Her sharp tongue, her refusal to bow in spirit had tested his limits. But her skills, her loyalty, her intelligence… they made her indispensable. Especially now, with whispers of rebellion growing louder in the south.
"This meeting is simply formal," Zeref said, finally turning toward her. "You know the First Commandant abhors chaos. Besides the thing you asked of me-" Before he could speak further, she interrupted sharply.
"Cut to the chase, Zeref," she snapped, crushing the spider lily in her hand. The petals fell like droplets of blood into the grass.
He didn't flinch, but he felt the shift. She hadn't called him Your Majesty. Not even Sire. Just Zeref. That alone was enough to tell him how close to the edge she truly was.
Her fingers curled into her palm, the crushed spider lily now forgotten on the ground. Her patience, thin as a blade's edge, had finally snapped. The shift in her tone—it wasn't just irritation. It was fury. The same kind that burned through their last conversation. The one she'd tried so hard to forget.
"I mean only to remind you that once a tree grows tall, with roots deep and trunk hardened," he said, watching the severed twig fall gently to the grass, "only a saw can change it."
There was a pause.
"You can always do what you please with it," Irene said at last, her voice laced with bitter calm. "Saw it, burn it, uproot it. But that doesn't change the truth."
She rose slowly from the bench and stepped toward him. She stopped just inches away and leaned in.
"It will still trouble you—cutting a branch that's grown to be part of the oak itself… Your Majesty."
The title, spoken so coldly, stung more than defiance ever could.
Then she turned from him and walked toward the exit of the garden. Her cloak rustled against the stone path, but her voice remained steady.
"If you want to remind me of my loyalty," she said without looking back, "then bury that incident deep in your memory where it belongs—and start giving me progress on the thing I asked you."
She didn't want to say it. Gods, she hated that she had to say it.
But if he was going to keep dragging that night out like a chain to bind her, then she'd use the last link for herself—for once.
She stopped at the garden gate, back still turned, and let the words fall like a curse.
"If you want to keep my loyalty," she said quietly, "Don't remind me of what I gave unless you intend to give me the one thing I asked in return."
Her voice trembled—not from weakness, but from the effort of holding everything else in.
"You call it a favor. I call it a debt."
Irene clenched her jaw. That bitter taste rose in her throat again. That consideration she spoke of... the only one she had ever dared ask from him. And it still went unanswered.
Back then… Even when the rebels marched on the gates.
Even when the banners of the crown burned.
Even when the kingdom she had bled for collapsed beneath the weight of its own lies.
She had remained.
She fought.
She stayed behind when others fled.
And for what?
She turned slightly, just enough for her voice to carry.
"It leaves a sour taste, Zeref," she muttered. "Having to remind you of a promise you should've fulfilled long before this garden bloomed again. Do you know what it feels like to serve a crown that couldn't alone keep its word?"
Her nails dug into her palm as she fought back the rising wave of grief, rage, and guilt.
"I gave you everything," she said, softer now, more to herself than him. "I buried friends, I silenced doubts, I became the weapon you needed. And all I asked... was her."
Another silence followed. She didn't wait for a reply.
With her cloak billowing behind her, she stepped out of the garden—leaving behind the soft fall of petals, the emperor who could never say what she needed to hear, and a past that had long since curdled into regret.
Zeref stood still, eyes fixed on the severed bonsai branch lying at his feet, the shears limp in his grasp. He didn't turn when he heard the faint sound of boots approaching from the other entrance. He didn't need to. The voice that followed carried its usual sharpness, cloaked in restrained disdain.
"Did I not warn you of her defiance?"
August's words cut through the air as crisply as a blade through silk. The blonde-haired general stepped into view. He carried no humility in his tone—nor in his posture. He made no move to bow, only crossed his arms as he studied the emperor with piercing eyes.
"It is an insult for her to speak to you that way, Your Majesty," he continued, his voice low but deliberate. "To question your will so openly. To throw the past at your feet as if she were your equal."
Zeref remained unmoved. He lowered the shears, letting them hang idly at his side before finally tossing the trimmed branch into the grass.
"You see it as defiance," he said, voice calm. "But I see it as grief."
August's jaw tightened. "Grief breeds poison, Father. You know that. And if left unchecked, it spreads. You have no idea what kind of chaos she could bring if she aligns with the rebels."
"She won't."
"You're certain of that?" August narrowed his eyes. "Even a loyal wolf bites when caged too long."
Zeref turned slowly. "Let her get away with it," he said, voice low. "Let her speak as she pleases."
He stepped forward and plucked a dying leaf from the bonsai, examining its fragile veins before letting it fall.
"Extending the cage of a bird to fly does not set it free," Zeref said. "It only gives it the illusion of space. Of choice. But the bars remain."
August's gaze didn't waver. "You still think control is enough."
Zeref turned away again. "Control is all we have."
"You should find a new orphanage for her," Heine muttered, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe.
Juliet didn't respond. She was too busy rummaging through the shelves of worn-out slippers and mismatched boots in the storeroom, dust rising around her with every shuffle. The child—silent as always—sat on a low bench nearby, her bare feet dangling just above the stone floor, still and unmoving like a porcelain doll.
"I'm serious, Juliet," Heine pressed. "This is a bad idea."
Juliet glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. "Then stop standing there and help me find a pair that fits."
Heine hesitated, sighing before she begrudgingly stepped in and began digging through the pile. "You know Lady Irene won't tolerate this kind of disobedience."
Juliet's hands paused for a moment over a child's sandal. She kept her gaze down. "She doesn't have to know."
"She will know. She always does." Heine stopped and turned to face her. "You saw the way she looked at the child. Like she was staring into something cursed."
Juliet swallowed hard and glanced at the little girl. The child's wide eyes were fixed on nothing—empty, unreadable, but haunting in a way Juliet couldn't explain. Still, she saw no threat in her. Just silence. Deep and vast, like a well with no bottom.
"She's not cursed," Juliet said softly, brushing dust from a worn leather slipper. "She's scared. And alone."
Heine crouched beside her, voice lowered. "That doesn't change the fact that Lady Irene was wary of her. Extremely wary. That's not nothing, Juliet. She never shows fear. Not even on the battlefield. But with this child…"
Her voice trailed off as her gaze flicked back toward the bench. The girl hadn't moved—still watching them without blinking, without speaking. Just there.
"This is a bad idea," Heine repeated.
"Two days."
The voice came from behind them, causing both women to freeze in place. Juliet and Heine turned to find a tall man standing in the doorway, his green hair slightly tousled, eyes sharp beneath thin-framed glasses.
"Chief Neinhart," they said in unison, bowing instinctively.
The child, unfamiliar with such formalities, only blinked at him—her blank stare both hollow and unsettling. Neinhart stepped into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the scene before him: Juliet kneeling at the child's feet, a pair of too-big slippers in her hands; Heine still crouched among the scattered shoes, visibly tense.
"Lady Irene will be away in two days," he said flatly. "Until then, find that child a new orphanage. Or a home. Anywhere she won't see her upon returning."
He paused, his gaze lingering on the child—not out of curiosity, but caution. There was something too still about her. Too quiet.
His mind flicked back to the night before, when Irene had stormed into the strategy chamber with eyes ablaze. No soldier had ever made her lose composure like that, not even the emperor himself. But when the child's presence was brought up…
She had gone deathly silent. Then coldly furious.
"You will remove her," Irene had said.
Neinhart didn't ask questions then. He never did. His duty was to enforce her will, even if it came wrapped in shadows.
"Don't make me return with soldiers," he added now, his voice softer but no less dangerous.
Juliet rose slowly, shielding the child with her body, but said nothing.
Heine stood as well, lips pressed into a thin line. "Understood, Chief."
Neinhart gave them a final glance, then turned and walked away without another word. The quiet returned to the room. The child still stared—expression unreadable, feet now tucked into shoes too large for her frame. The shoes made her look smaller, more fragile.
Juliet let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"Two days," she repeated.
And suddenly, that didn't feel like enough.
It was afternoon when Irene finally reached the empty plains of the western borders of the kingdom—a land forgotten by both mapmakers and time. Once, this place had thrived with a grandiose manor now, only silence greeted her.
Its stone walls leaning like tired elders, its towers hollowed out by the years. Moss clung to the remnants of banners, and shattered glass crunched beneath her boots. Time had not been kind. Nor had war. She wandered deeper, letting her feet guide her past crumbling archways and collapsed corridors until she reached it—the garden.
Or what was left of it.
Its stone frame still stood, partially sunken into the earth, as if mourning its own forgotten beauty. Vines choked the old trellises, and the fountain at the center had long dried into a basin of cracked stone. Yet even in its decay, the place held a reverent stillness.
This was where she had always gone. The child.
Flashback
Barefoot and kneeling in the dirt, the child clutched a small bundle of herbs in her hands, holding them up like a prize.
"Why would you concern yourself over it?" Irene's voice—her voice back then—rang out, cold and sharp. Detached. Unfeeling.
The child glanced up, puzzled. "The dog's hurt. It needs help."
"You should have killed it," Irene replied without hesitation, her expression blank, her tone void of compassion. "Wasting your time on these herbs is foolish. That creature's illness will only return."
The girl blinked, clearly taken aback. She looked down at the handful of crushed leaves in her palm and then back at Irene, her face scrunching with soft confusion.
"Eh…? Shouldn't children be taught the right thing to do?" she asked, genuinely curious.
"Is killing the right thing to do?" the child added, tilting her head as she returned to inspecting the herbs, gently sifting through them for something usable.
"It's mercy," the memory-Irene answered. "A swift death over this… toil. These pointless efforts that will only prolong pain."
By the time they returned to the chambers, it was already too late.
Irene stood blankly, the scent of damp stone and timeworn dust clinging to the air. She hadn't even realized her steps had carried her here—to the basement. To the very place where the memory always ended.
It was darker than she remembered, colder too. The same cracked stone floor. The same rusted lanterns hanging from the walls like forgotten sentinels. She could almost see the blanket still spread on the floor, the outline of the lifeless dog curled into eternal sleep, and the small child beside it—trembling, broken, and completely alone.
Her throat tightened, but she forced the feeling down, like always.
She crossed her arms, trying to suppress the chill crawling under her skin.
"A child who couldn't even comprehend such feelings," she said aloud, voice void of emotion, as if speaking to the silence might make the memory less vivid. "A fickle child. A clueless one… who knew nothing but to whine and cry."
Her voice echoed back at her, crueler in its repetition.
She leaned against the cold stone wall, closing her eyes.
"How…?" she whispered, almost to herself. "How was I ever attached to such a child?"
Two days later
The river glistened under the late morning sun, its waters cold but gentle as they rolled over smooth stones and shallow banks. The child was waist-deep, quietly bathing in the calm current, while Juliet knelt at the shoreline nearby, scrubbing spare linens against a flat rock.
"For heaven's sake, Juliet," Heine hissed as she wrung out a damp tunic. "Lady Irene will be back any time now. If she finds out the child's still here—"
"She won't," Juliet interrupted quickly, glancing toward the girl. "We're leaving soon. I will resign from my post. Just let her have this moment."
"I doubt if she will allow you to. She'll definitely kill her," Heine snapped, her voice barely above a whisper.
Juliet didn't respond. But neither of them noticed the quiet ripples as the child slipped from the water. No splash. No sound. Only the faintest print of wet feet trailing through the grass.
By the time Juliet looked up, the girl was gone.
She ran.
Her soaked clothes clung to her skin, her hair plastered to her face, but she didn't stop. She darted through the trees, dodging branches and roots with nimble steps, barefoot and breathless. She took a steep slope too fast, her foot catching on a jagged rock. Her body twisted midair before she crashed hard into the lower part of the hill. Dirt and leaves scattered, and a sharp pain bloomed in her knees.
She groaned, clutching the bleeding gash just below her leg, but didn't stay down. That's when she saw it.
Smoke.
Then—an explosion in the distance. A brilliant flash of red and gold lit up the treetops with violent urgency. Her eyes widened.
No time.
She clicked her tongue in frustration and pushed herself upright, limping at first—then breaking into a run again. Faster this time. Determined.
Blood trickled down her shin, but she didn't care.
Something was happening.
Something bad.
Irene groaned, her entire body burning with pain.
Shit, she cursed under her breath.
Blood seeped from the gash on her arm, and her limbs felt heavy, too heavy. Her breath came ragged and shallow, her lungs tightening with every gasp. She staggered, stabbing through the last of the assassins in a wild, instinctual swing. The blade met flesh, and the rebel fell.
But she didn't even see it land—she was already falling to her knees.
How did this happen?
Her vision blurred, spinning as her surroundings faded in and out like a half-remembered dream. The memory of her meeting with the emperor just days ago swirled in her mind. The rebels had never ambushed her here. Not after an imperial audience. Not like this.
Had she forgotten something?
Missed a sign?
Goddamn it.
Her hand trembled as she pressed it against her arm, already darkening with the sickly hue of poison. The cut had barely grazed her—but it was enough. The burning beneath her skin told her this wasn't any ordinary blade. It was laced with something potent. Lethal.
The pain was fading now. Or maybe she was.
A strange numbness crept up her chest. Her breathing grew slower, tighter. Her muscles ached, then stiffened, and she collapsed fully into the dirt.
Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried out. The wind whispered through the trees.
Is this the end?
She was still kilometers away from the base—alone, bleeding out, in the middle of nowhere. She had fought off thirty, maybe forty assassins. And she had won. But even in victory, she'd been reduced to this pitiful state.
A death not by sword, but by time.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
Then, like a ripple across a still lake, a voice echoed in her mind—soft, familiar, painfully warm.
"They say the last thing you remember before death is the person you loved most."
"I wonder… will you remember me, Irene?"
Her breath hitched, and her chest tightened for a different reason.
That voice.
That stupid, hopeful voice.
She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. She hated that it was real—hated that it still lived in her heart, in the quietest corners of her memory, no matter how much she tried to forget.
It was just like last time.
That beaming face.
That innocent smile.
That unwavering belief that Irene was good, that she was worthy of being loved.
But she wasn't. She never had been. A rotten, bloodstained person like her had no business being remembered. And yet…
Her eyes stung with tears she didn't remember choosing.
"That child…" she whispered, voice cracking as her fingers clawed weakly at the dirt. "Why… Why do I always remember her?"
Then, as the darkness pressed in again, she heard it—so clearly it almost hurt.
"Because I surely remember you."
Irene hated herself.
Hated that, even now—again—as she lay bleeding and broken on the forest floor, facing death for the second time in her life…
It was her.
Not the faces of comrades.
Not the emperor.
Not the kingdom she had spilled blood for.
But her.
That child.
That damned, pure, innocent child with scarlet hair and eyes like warm autumn soil. The same child who would always cling to the hem of her cloak, tugging gently, never demanding—just being there. Always with that radiant smile, like Irene was something worth worshiping.
Even now, on the brink of unconsciousness, she saw her.
Standing in the middle of that ruined garden from long ago. Dirt smudged on her cheeks, hair tangled from wind, holding up a crushed flower as if it were the most precious treasure in the world.
And she smiled—gods, she smiled. That smile Irene could never forget. Not in this life, or the next.
Why is it always her?
Irene clenched her teeth, eyes wet from a pain deeper than poison. I don't deserve to remember her.
And yet, the child's voice echoed again. So soft, so real.
"Mama!"
That single word struck harder than any blade.
Her breath caught in her throat as the memory shattered what was left of her composure.
She remembered the way it sounded. The first time. The only time.
That child had looked up at her, unafraid, unashamed of her scars or silence, and whispered that word like it meant something sacred.
"Mama."
And now, just before Irene's world went dark again, just before her body gave in to the slow crawl of death…
The last thing she saw was that child's smile.
And the last thing she heard—just like before—was her voice.
Calling her mama.