Chapter Text
The weight of his confession still hung in the air even days after that fateful night, and Ferdinand felt a kind of lightness he had never known before—a freedom he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine. For so long, he had thought love was something beyond him, a luxury that didn’t belong in his life, much less his life with Rozemyne. But now, as he stood in the quiet room, he felt her love like a warm presence that enveloped him.
She loves him.
Rozemyne loves him.
Ferdinand allowed the thought to echo within him, reverberating in a way that made his chest feel both tight and painfully open, as though his heart was still unsure of how to carry such a revelation.
His eyes drifted to her, standing by the window where a shaft of golden sunlight bathed her in warmth. Her figure was so small, delicate even, and yet she had always possessed a strength that left him astounded. The strength to love. The strength to endure. He had been blind to it, blind to the ways she had been telling him for so long.
He took a slow breath, his gaze sweeping over the room. The table by the window still held remnants of her meticulous care—a cup of his favorite tea, brewed just the way he liked it, sat cooling on the side. How many times had she done this for him without thought? How many times had he sat there, absorbed in his work, while she moved quietly around him, ensuring his comfort? Ensuring that he was cared for.
It hit him then, a slow, dawning realization that had been buried beneath years of his own stubborn refusal to acknowledge it.
She’s always loved me.
Even before they had spoken the words aloud, before he had ever let himself think of her as anything more than his apprentice, Rozemyne had been showing him her love in a thousand quiet ways. He had always thought of her care as dutiful—a product of her dedication to their shared goals—but it was more than that, wasn’t it?
His mind wandered back to the dishes she had crafted in her odd, otherworldly way. The double consomme… his favorite dish, one she insisted on perfecting for him time and time again. She had smiled at him then, proud of her accomplishment, though he had only muttered something about efficiency. He remembered how she had brightened when he praised it—just the faintest hint of a smile on her lips—but at the time, he had thought nothing of it. It had been a simple meal to him, but to her… it had been a gesture of love.
Ferdinand’s hands tightened into fists at his sides as the realization continued to swell, threatening to engulf him. He had spent so long denying what lay between them, so long believing himself unworthy of this kind of affection, that he had missed the signs she had given him all along. How many moments like that had passed without him ever understanding? How many times had she poured herself into these small, insignificant acts, hoping that he would see, hoping that he would feel?
The meals, the lullabies, her incessant desire to indulge his love of brewing potions and magical tools—it had all been her way of showing her love.
Love, he thought again, the word feeling unfamiliar in his mind, like something fragile that had to be carefully cradled. He had denied it for so long that he scarcely knew how to hold it, how to receive it.
He swallowed hard, stepping closer to where Rozemyne stood. She glanced over her shoulder, her moon gold eyes soft and inviting, and a smile tugged at her lips as if she sensed the turmoil in him, the slow unraveling of all the walls he had built to keep her at a distance.
“You look deep in thought,” she said quietly, her voice like the steady hum of a gentle breeze. “Are you regretting anything?”
He shook his head, unable to find the words at first. What could he say to her now? What could he possibly say that would convey the depth of everything he was feeling, everything he had missed? The apology lodged itself in his throat, but it felt wrong to voice it now. He had apologized too much already—for his feelings, for his existence, for daring to care for her in ways that should have been impossible for him.
“I’m only realizing,” he murmured, “how blind I’ve been.”
Rozemyne turned fully to face him, tilting her head slightly in confusion. “Blind?”
Ferdinand exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to clear the cobwebs of his mind. “You have shown me… love,” he said, the word feeling strange on his tongue. “In more ways than I ever allowed myself to see.”
Her smile widened, and a soft laugh escaped her. “Of course I have. You’re family to me, Ferdinand.”
Family. The word should have comforted him, but it only made him ache more.
“I didn’t deserve it,” he admitted, his voice rougher than he intended. “I didn’t deserve any of it.”
Rozemyne took a step toward him, her expression softening. “Ferdinand, you’ve always deserved it. You’ve always deserved my love, whether you saw it or not.”
His heart squeezed painfully in his chest, and he turned his gaze away, unable to meet her eyes. How could she say that? How could she believe that so easily when he had spent his entire life convinced of the opposite? He had been raised as a tool, shaped by the demands of the duchy and its people. There was no room for love in his life, no room for indulgence. And yet…
He thought back to the hours they had spent in the workshop together, brewing potions and crafting magical tools. Rozemyne had indulged him, not because it was necessary, but because it made him happy. She had never once complained, never once questioned the hours they spent together. She had simply been there, her presence steady and constant, as if she understood that this, too, was a part of him. She had loved him even then—when she saw him only as her mentor, as the strict teacher who pushed her beyond her limits.
His mind raced through the memories—each one a piece of the puzzle he had never fully assembled. The songs she had sung for him, the meals she had crafted with such care, the way she looked at him with such admiration even in the most mundane moments.
How had he missed it?
How had he missed the love she had been offering him so freely all along?
Ferdinand felt his breath catch in his throat as the enormity of it settled over him. His love for her had been consuming, yes—violent in its intensity, so much so that it had manifested into something beyond his control. But her love had been there, quiet and steady, patient in a way that he had never known before.
He had been too blind to see it.
“I was a fool,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I was a fool not to see it.”
Rozemyne’s expression softened even further, and she reached up to gently touch his arm. “You weren’t a fool, Ferdinand. You were just… you.”
He closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him like a balm to his aching heart. She had always accepted him, always understood him in ways that no one else had. Even now, when he felt so raw, so vulnerable, she looked at him with nothing but love in her eyes.
He didn’t deserve it.
But gods, he wanted it. He wanted her.
And for the first time, he allowed himself to want it—to want her without guilt, without shame.
Ferdinand took her hand in his, lifting it gently to his lips. The gesture was simple, almost reflexive, but the meaning behind it felt profound. He pressed his lips to her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his touch, and something inside him settled.
“I will love you,” he whispered against her skin, his voice trembling with the weight of the vow, “in this life, and in every life that may come after.”
Rozemyne’s eyes softened and she giggled softly. She stepped closer, her free hand resting gently on his chest. “I’ll hold you to that.”
He smiled—a small, tentative smile that felt foreign on his face but right in this moment. “You always do.”
They stood there, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, the weight of their confessions still heavy but no longer unbearable. It was no longer something to fear, no longer something to hide.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Ferdinand felt free.
He had spent so long denying his feelings, so long believing that love was something that could never be his. But now, with Rozemyne beside him, her love wrapped around him like a protective cloak, he knew that he had been wrong.
Love was not something to fear.
It was something to embrace.
And he would spend the rest of his life—this life and every life that followed—doing just that.