Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ferdinand was not unfamiliar with illness.

It was a fact of life—one he had long since grown accustomed to. He could sense the small shifts in his body, identify the subtle signs of strain or exhaustion, and had learned to push through them without a second thought. Pain, fatigue—these were mere details, distractions to be ignored. He had lived with them long enough to know that they did not stop him from his duties.

But this... this was different.

The first time it happened, Ferdinand had been alone in his chambers in Alexandria, reviewing documents left by one of the new recruits—young scholars from the newly-founded duchy, eager to prove themselves. He had been halfway through a report on the efficiency of the magic tools being distributed to the artisans when the cough started, sharp and unexpected. 

It was nothing at first, just a dry sensation in his throat, easily dismissed. But when the second cough came, something small fluttered from his lips. Ferdinand blinked, his gaze shifting to his hand, where a delicate petal—midnight blue and fragile—rested on his palm.

He stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending.

A petal?

His mind searched for a rational explanation. Perhaps some pollen from the garden, some residue from one of the magical herbs being cultivated nearby. There were many new elements in Alexandria’s magical environment, after all. Ferdinand frowned and brushed the petal aside, returning his attention to the report.

It did not happen again.

Not that day, at least.

"Lord Ferdinand, are you feeling unwell?"

Ferdinand glanced up from the table, his eyes settling on the young man across from him—Alden, one of the new Alexandrian scholars he had personally selected for their dedication to their craft. Alden’s eyes were sharp and observant, but there was an edge of concern in his voice that Ferdinand found somewhat disconcerting.

"I am perfectly fine," he replied smoothly, his tone measured. He reached for his goblet, taking a deliberate sip of water to clear the lingering dryness in his throat. There was no reason to worry anyone unnecessarily.

Alden did not press further, though his gaze lingered longer than was polite. 

"Alexandria’s magical infrastructure continues to improve," Alden continued, returning to the matter at hand. "However, I’ve noted that the southern districts are requesting additional support. The tools provided have been insufficient to sustain their growth. Would you consider reallocating resources from—"

Thump.

Ferdinand’s breath caught, the sudden tightness in his chest making it harder to focus. He straightened in his chair, attempting to quell the odd sensation. But no sooner had he done so than another cough forced its way up from his throat.

This time, it was harder to suppress.

His hand rose instinctively, covering his mouth—and when he pulled it away, another petal rested there.

He stilled.

The petal was identical to the first—blue and shimmering faintly in the light, as though imbued with some kind of magic. His heart quickened, though outwardly, he remained as composed as ever. This was not a mere coincidence.

"Milord?"

Alden’s voice broke through the silence, and Ferdinand quickly concealed the petal, slipping it beneath the folds of his sleeve.

"My apologies. Continue," he said, his voice steady, though his mind was racing. There was no time to dwell on this now, no time to indulge in irrational thoughts. He would deal with it later. He had to.

Later that night, Ferdinand found himself pacing the library, his thoughts circling back to the strange incident with increasing unease. He had never encountered anything like this before, and no amount of logic could explain why he was coughing up petals.

He needed answers.

The Grutrissheit—the repository of the knowledge of the gods—sat on the pedestal before him, its pages glowing faintly with divine energy. If this was some form of magical illness, surely it would be recorded within the Grutrissheit’s vast archives. Ferdinand opened the book, his fingers moving deftly over the enchanted pages as he searched for any mention of such a curse, a condition that would cause one to manifest... flowers.

But page after page, nothing appeared. No curse, no disease, no mention of anything even remotely resembling what he was experiencing.

Ferdinand’s frown deepened as he continued to search, his movements growing more hurried with each passing minute. It made no sense. The Grutrissheit was supposed to contain all known knowledge—if this ailment was not recorded here, then what could it possibly be?

He closed the book with a sharp snap, the sound echoing in the empty library. 

Nothing. 

Nothing at all.

Frustration gnawed at him. He had always been able to rely on his knowledge, on his ability to dissect problems logically and find a solution. But this… this defied reason. 

Ferdinand placed a hand over his chest, feeling the persistent weight there, as though something was lodged beneath his ribs. Something that was growing, spreading with every beat of his heart.

Why now? Why this?

His mind drifted unbidden to Rozemyne, to her words, to a conversation they had shared long ago—back when she had still been his apprentice, still learning about the world of nobles and its intricacies. She had spoken of strange tales from her past life, of sicknesses born from unspoken feelings, from love that was never acknowledged.

"Hanahaki Disease," she had called it. 

It had been a strange story, one Ferdinand had dismissed as nothing more than another one of Rozemyne’s eccentricities. But now… now the memory returned with startling clarity.

No. 

It couldn’t be. Such things were mere fantasy, tales from another world that had no place here in Yurgenschmidt. And yet...

The petals. 

The weight in his chest. 

It all aligned with the stories she had told him.

Ferdinand’s hand tightened into a fist. There had to be another explanation. There had to be. He was not some love-struck fool, plagued by emotions he had long since buried. He was a feystone, a tool. He did not have the luxury of indulging in such feelings, not now, not ever.

But despite his best efforts to deny it, the truth began to sink in. 

He was in love with Rozemyne.

Deeply.

Irrevocably.

And no amount of logic could change that.

Still, the idea that his feelings could manifest so strongly, so powerfully, that they could manifest even the embodiment of gods themselves... it was absurd. Unthinkable.

And yet, the evidence was there, undeniable, blooming from his very being.

Ferdinand pressed a hand to his chest, the weight heavier than ever. 

If this was truly Hanahaki Disease—if this was some otherworldly curse that even the Grutrissheit could not explain—then he was dealing with something far beyond the understanding of this world. Something that had never been seen before.

Bluanfah’s Curse, he thought to himself, naming the affliction after the goddess of sprouts and romance, the one who governed the deepest emotions and feelings. It was a fitting name, for surely no one had ever experienced such depths of feeling as he did now. 

The gods themselves had never witnessed a love like this.

And perhaps, they never would again. 

Ferdinand swallowed hard, feeling another cough rising in his throat, another petal waiting to emerge.

If this was the price of his love, then so be it.

But he would not allow Rozemyne to see him like this.

Chapter Text

Ferdinand stood by the window of his study, the moonlight casting a pale glow over the city of Alexandria. The streets were still, quiet beneath the star-strewn sky, and yet he could find no peace in the serenity of the night. His fingers brushed against his lips where the taste of petals lingered, faint but unmistakable.

Bluanfah's Curse.

The name he had given it settled uneasily in his mind, the weight of his affliction growing heavier with each passing moment. The more he thought about it, the more absurd it seemed—yet the petals in his hand, now wilting and fragile, were proof that this was no mere figment of his imagination. 

He was dying.

Or at least, that was what the old stories suggested. The disease Rozemyne had described in her strange tales was a curse that consumed its victim, choking them with flowers born of unspoken, unrequited love. But it made no sense, not for someone like him. Ferdinand had spent his life in control, mastering his emotions, shaping himself into the perfect tool of efficiency.

He could not afford to love. Certainly not in a way that would lead to this.

Yet even as he told himself this, he knew the truth. His heart was a liar, refusing to bend to the will of his mind.

He had been fooling himself for years.

The petals were proof of that.

He turned away from the window, his hand tightening at his side. There had to be a way to stop this, to reverse the curse before it grew any worse. But the Grutrissheit had held no answers, and without the divine knowledge of the gods to guide him, Ferdinand found himself standing at the precipice of an unfathomable chasm. His thoughts churned in restless circles, racing toward no conclusion, no solution.

Ferdinand was used to solving problems, to being the one who others relied upon for answers. This time, there was no one else. He could not risk seeking outside help, nor could he burden Rozemyne with his condition—especially not her.

The very thought of her made his chest tighten painfully, the familiar ache spreading with every beat of his heart.

He took a sharp breath, forcing the sensation down. He would not allow this to control him. He had mastered far worse in his life.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter," Ferdinand called, his voice even, betraying none of the turmoil within.

The door opened, and one of the new Alexandrian scholars stepped in—Isaiah, a young man with an impressive aptitude for magical theory. His work ethic was nearly unmatched, and Ferdinand had grown to trust his insights over the past year.

"My Lord, I’ve brought the new reports from the artisans' district. They’ve requested your input on the magic tool distribution strategy."

Ferdinand gave a curt nod, gesturing for Isaiah to leave the documents on the table. His attention, however, was far from the reports.

"Is there something else?" Isaiah asked, hesitating by the door. "You seem... distracted."

"I am fine," Ferdinand replied automatically. "Simply preoccupied with a personal matter."

Isaiah gave him a long, searching look. "If you need assistance with anything, even if it’s not related to our work, don’t hesitate to ask. Alexandria’s scholars are here to support you."

"I appreciate the offer." Ferdinand’s tone was firm, closing the subject. "That will be all."

Isaiah dipped his head in a polite bow before excusing himself, leaving Ferdinand alone once more.

The door clicked shut, and with it, the air in the room felt heavier—oppressive. Ferdinand sat down at his desk, his gaze sliding over the reports without truly seeing them. He needed to focus, to distract himself from the flowers taking root within his lungs, but his mind kept circling back to the same question.

What was he going to do?

He could not simply wait for this to consume him. Nor could he leave Alexandria without its head administrator, not with Rozemyne so close to completing her final year at the Royal Academy. The duchy was still fragile in its early stages, and its success depended heavily on both of them.

Rozemyne.

Her name was a constant thread, weaving through his thoughts, pulling him deeper into the mess of emotions he had tried so desperately to ignore. He could see her so clearly in his mind’s eye—her bright eyes, her ever-present enthusiasm for books, for life itself. She had always been a force of change, upending his world and forcing him to rethink everything he knew. She was the source of his strength, his reason for building Alexandria, his reason for...

He clenched his fists, pressing his knuckles against his desk.

For what?

For loving her?

The truth settled over him like a suffocating weight. Yes. He loved her. More than he had ever thought possible. But it was a love that could not be spoken, could not be given form. He had convinced himself of that long ago—that his role as her protector, her guide, was all that he could offer. Nothing more.

But his heart, traitorous as it was, had rebelled against that decision.

Another cough wracked his chest, and this time, when he pulled his hand away, more petals fell—dozens of them, fluttering softly to the floor. They were multiplying, spreading with every thought of her, with every beat of his heart.

It was unbearable.

His love was literally killing him.

Ferdinand pushed himself to his feet, pacing the room once more, his mind running in circles. He had to do something. Anything. He could not allow himself to be destroyed by something as irrational as this. There had to be a way to control it, to suppress the curse before it became fatal.

And yet, the more he tried to deny his feelings, the stronger the pain became. 

He couldn’t control it. Not anymore.

A part of him knew what had to be done. But the thought of revealing this to Rozemyne—of showing her his weakness, his foolishness—it was unthinkable. He could not ask her to bear the weight of his emotions, not when her future was so bright, so filled with promise.

She deserves more than this, he thought bitterly. More than someone like me.

The only answer was to hide it. To keep it from her as long as possible, to spare her from the burden of his love. He had done it for years. Surely, he could manage it a little longer.

But even as he made that decision, another cough wracked his body, the pain sharper this time, more intense. The petals fell in a cascade, filling the room with their soft, suffocating beauty.

Ferdinand sank to the floor, his breath coming in shallow gasps, the weight in his chest almost unbearable.

He had been wrong.

He could not hide this forever.

And if he did not find a way to resolve it soon, it would be too late.

Too late for him.

And too late for her.

Chapter Text

Rozemyne had been away for an entire season. She had spent her days in the Royal Academy immersed in lessons that were far from ordinary, even for her. The instructors had done their best to drill her on the intricacies of becoming an archduke, layering expectations and responsibilities on her shoulders, but what truly excited her—what she snuck into her schedule whenever she could—were the lectures on library management.

The academy’s vast library was her safe haven, and though she had learned volumes about magic, economics, and politics, it was there that she had felt most at home.

But now, as she gazed out the windows of the Alexandrian castle hallways, her heart raced for an entirely different reason. The city had flourished in her absence, its residents bustling with the energy of innovation and growth. Though only a few years had passed since its founding, it was already a hub of knowledge, magic, and culture—everything Rozemyne had dreamed of building alongside Ferdinand.

Ferdinand. 

She had thought of him often while away. More than she should, perhaps, if her nightly dreams and stray thoughts during lectures were any indication. She looked forward to seeing him again, but there was also something strange lingering in the pit of her stomach—a sense of unease she couldn’t quite shake. It had settled there during her final week in the Academy, a creeping worry that grew stronger the closer she got to Alexandria.

As she walked through the halls of her residence, the servants greeted her warmly, but something was off. It was subtle, the kind of tension that hung in the air when something was being carefully hidden.

“Where is Ferdinand?” she asked a maid as she entered her private quarters.

The maid hesitated, her eyes flicking nervously before she bowed her head. “He has been… preoccupied with work, My Lady. He is in his chambers.”

Rozemyne’s brows furrowed. That didn’t sound right. Preoccupied was a word she often heard associated with Ferdinand, but there was something guarded in the maid’s tone. She dismissed the staff with a quiet nod, her mind already racing.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. One of the newer stewards—a young man from Alexandria who had recently taken on more duties—entered with a cautious expression.

“My Lady, I believe it would be wise to visit Lord Ferdinand immediately. He has been... unwell,” he said softly.

Rozemyne stilled, the words striking her with a sudden, cold clarity. Ferdinand, unwell? That was nearly unheard of. She had never seen him sick in all the years she had known him—tired, certainly, overworked beyond reason, but sick? No.

“What do you mean unwell?” she asked, her voice low, more serious than usual.

The steward’s gaze flicked toward the door as if to ensure no one else could overhear. “He has been coughing… regularly. Sometimes he refuses to eat or sleep. His health has been declining for weeks.”

“Why wasn’t I informed earlier?” Rozemyne’s tone was sharper now, the worry blossoming into full-blown panic. “If he is ill, why wasn’t I told the moment it started?”

The steward hesitated, his hands wringing in front of him. “Lord Ferdinand asked for discretion. He said it was nothing, that he could manage it on his own. But we… we can all see he is getting worse.”

Rozemyne clenched her hands into fists at her sides. Typical Ferdinand. Always trying to handle things alone, no matter the cost.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and left her chambers, her mind already racing with possibilities. What could it be? A magical illness? Poison? Overwork? There were too many questions and too few answers. She needed to see him for herself.

When she arrived at his chambers, the air felt heavier, charged with the kind of tension that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The guards outside his door stepped aside quickly, recognizing the urgency in her stride.

“Ferdinand?” she called softly as she entered his room.

The space was dimly lit, a far cry from its usual state of immaculate order. Papers and books lay scattered across his desk, more haphazard than Ferdinand would ever allow under normal circumstances. A thick tension permeated the air.

And there, seated by the window, was Ferdinand.

Silhouetted against the setting Alexandrian sun, he was hunched over, his posture uncharacteristically slack, as if the weight of the world had finally managed to break through his iron will. His eyes were closed, his breathing labored, and even from across the room, Rozemyne could see the strain etched into his features. His normally sharp gaze was clouded with exhaustion.

For a moment, she didn’t move, her heart clenching painfully at the sight of him like this. Then, as if sensing her presence, Ferdinand slowly lifted his head, his eyes finding hers. There was a moment of silence between them, thick with unspoken concern, before Ferdinand stiffened.

Before she could say anything, a sudden cough wracked his body, the sound harsh and violent in the quiet room. Ferdinand doubled over, covering his mouth, but it was too late—Rozemyne saw the delicate blue petals slip from between his fingers, falling to the floor like a soft rain.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Ferdinand...” she whispered, her voice trembling. 

He quickly wiped his mouth, trying to hide the evidence, but the petals remained. What in the name of the gods?

Rozemyne rushed toward him, her hand hovering just above his shoulder. “What is happening to you?”

Ferdinand’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, it seemed like he might brush her off, pretend as though nothing had happened. But then, another cough escaped him, quieter this time, but no less damning. He doubled over again, a fresh cluster of blue petals spilling onto the floor.

Rozemyne knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she reached out to pick up one of the petals. The color was strikingly familiar—blue as her hair, pearlescent like his mana—but the texture and form were foreign. Something about this was deeply wrong. 

Ferdinand didn’t meet her gaze. His shoulders were tense, and his hands were clenched tightly in his lap.

“This is not an illness,” he said finally, his voice strained. “At least… not one that I can find in any of the texts. I have checked the Grutrissheit. There is no record of this affliction.”

Rozemyne stared at the petal in her hand, her mind whirling with possibilities. There was something hauntingly familiar about the sight of flowers—literal flowers—being coughed up like this. A strange memory from her past life bubbled up in the back of her mind, a fleeting image of a story she had once read about a condition called...

“Hanahaki,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “This is Hanahaki disease.”

Ferdinand looked at her sharply, wariness flashing in his eyes. “What did you say?”

Rozemyne swallowed hard, the weight of the realization hitting her all at once. It can’t be… could it?

“It’s… a story from my previous life,” she said slowly, the words feeling surreal as they left her lips. “A disease where someone who suffers from unrequited love coughs up flowers.”

Ferdinand stiffened, the tension in the room thickening with every passing second. He turned away, his gaze fixed on the floor. “That is absurd. Love does not manifest in such a way.”

“I know it sounds strange,” Rozemyne said, her heart pounding in her chest. “But it’s the only explanation that I can think of. You’ve been coughing up these petals, and it started weeks ago? Around the time I left for the Academy?”

Ferdinand didn’t answer, but his silence spoke volumes.

Rozemyne’s mind raced as she pieced it together, the truth settling in with a weight that nearly knocked the breath out of her. This was no ordinary sickness, no magical affliction born of the gods. This was something far more personal, far more painful.

Ferdinand was suffering because of his feelings for her.

He’s in love with me. 

The thought sent a shock through her, but it also filled her with a deep sadness. He had been hiding this from her, bearing the pain alone. And now, it was killing him.

She reached out, gently placing her hand on his arm. “Ferdinand... why didn’t you tell me?”

He still didn’t look at her, his jaw tight. “There was no need for you to know.”

“But it’s hurting you,” she said softly, her voice breaking.

Finally, Ferdinand turned to face her, his eyes filled with a mix of frustration, exhaustion, and something far deeper—something he had clearly been trying to bury. “Because there was no point. My feelings are irrelevant, Rozemyne. They always have been.”

Rozemyne’s heart clenched at his words, but before she could respond, another cough wracked his body, and more petals spilled from his lips.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. She reached out, catching one of the petals in her hand and holding it up for him to see.

“This isn’t irrelevant, Ferdinand,” she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. “This is real."

Chapter Text

Rozemyne stood frozen, the petal still held between her fingers, as Ferdinand’s labored breaths filled the otherwise silent room. The delicate blue petal shimmered faintly, almost ethereal in its beauty, yet it was born from a pain far too real.

Ferdinand sat beside her, shoulders rigid, eyes averted, his entire body screaming of tension and shame. His silence, usually a mark of his composed authority, now felt like a suffocating wall between them.

Rozemyne tightened her grip on the petal, her knuckles white. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked again, her voice no longer soft, but firm. “You’ve been suffering, and I’ve been completely unaware.”

Ferdinand shifted slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “There was no need to tell you. I had it under control.”

“That’s a lie,” she snapped, surprising even herself with the sharpness of her tone. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside her. “You don’t have it under control. You’re coughing up flowers, Ferdinand.”

Still, he refused to meet her gaze. The silence stretched on, unbearably thick, until he finally spoke, his voice cold and detached, as if he were talking about someone else entirely.

“This is Bluanfah’s Curse,” he said, his words clipped and clinical. “A magical affliction that—”

“No,” Rozemyne cut him off, shaking her head. “This isn’t just a magical curse. This is Hanahaki, Ferdinand. And it’s happening because of your feelings for me.”

Her words hung in the air between them, heavy and inescapable. She could see it in the way Ferdinand tensed, how his hands curled into tight fists in his lap. He was trying so hard to hold it all in—to keep the walls he had built around himself intact.

Rozemyne’s heart ached for him. She had seen Ferdinand in countless difficult situations, always the stoic, ever in control. But this was different. This was something he couldn’t manage with cold logic or meticulous planning.

She placed the petal gently on the table beside her and knelt in front of him, her hands reaching for his. She hesitated for a moment, then took his hands in hers, feeling the tension in his body as she did. His fingers were cold, and she squeezed them gently, trying to convey warmth and comfort.

“You’re not alone in this,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please, don’t push me away.”

For the first time since she entered the room, Ferdinand looked at her. His golden eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were clouded with something far more vulnerable—fear, pain, and a deep, desperate yearning. The sight of it nearly broke her.

“You don’t understand,” he said quietly, his voice trembling in a way she had never heard before. “I… I cannot afford to feel this way. I was not made for love.”

Rozemyne shook her head, her hands tightening around his. “That’s not true. You’re human, Ferdinand. You deserve love as much as anyone else.”

He let out a bitter laugh, pulling his hands away from hers and standing up abruptly, his back turned to her. “No, Rozemyne. You don’t understand what I am.” His voice grew harder, his tone more controlled, but she could hear the cracks forming. “I am nothing more than a feystone, a tool to be used for the sake of the duchy. Love… has no place in my life. It never has.”

She stood as well, moving to stand beside him, her eyes locked on his profile. His jaw was clenched, his eyes staring blankly at the wall ahead.

“But you do love,” she said quietly. “You love your work, you love the people you protect. And… you love me.”

His silence was deafening, and for a moment, Rozemyne thought he might walk away, shut her out completely. But then, he let out a shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

“I tried not to,” he whispered, his voice so low she almost didn’t hear it. “I tried… so hard.”

Rozemyne’s heart clenched painfully in her chest. She had always known that Ferdinand cared for her, more than he let on, but to hear him admit it—to hear the anguish in his voice—was almost unbearable.

“You tried not to love me?” she asked, her voice breaking.

Ferdinand finally turned to face her, his expression pained. “How could I allow myself to love you, Rozemyne? You… you are meant for something far greater. You are the High Bishop, the future Archduchess, the one who will lead this city to prosperity. I have no right to burden you with feelings that would only complicate your future.”

Rozemyne stared at him, her mind racing. He truly believes this. He believes he’s not worthy of love.

“I would not be burdened,” she said firmly. “And you are not a tool, Ferdinand. You are a person, someone I care about deeply. Don’t you see? After you gave me the choice of which of my lives to live, I chose to be with you.”

His breath hitched, and for the first time, she saw a crack in the wall he had so carefully built around himself.

“Rozemyne…” His voice was soft, almost pleading. “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

She stepped closer to him, her hand reaching up to gently touch his cheek, forcing him to look at her. “I do understand. I’ve known for a long time, Ferdinand. I’ve known that you care for me, and I’ve known that I care for you. In both of my lives, you are the only man I’ve ever loved.”

His eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat.

“I love you,” she said, the words clear and unwavering. “I have always loved you. And nothing—no curse, no title, no future responsibility—will ever change that.”

Ferdinand stared at her, stunned, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. For a moment, the room was completely silent, the weight of her confession hanging between them like a fragile thread.

Then, without warning, another violent cough wracked his body, and more petals spilled from his lips, falling to the floor in a cascade of blue. But this time, Rozemyne didn’t flinch. She didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him, holding him close as the petals continued to fall.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice steady. “You don’t have to fight it anymore. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Ferdinand trembled in her arms, the wall he had so carefully maintained crumbling away at last. He buried his face in her shoulder, his breath shaky and uneven, as he let out a broken sob.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice muffled against her. “I’m so sorry.”

Rozemyne held him tighter, her hand running gently through his hair. “You don’t have to apologize. Not for loving me.”

Ferdinand’s grip on her tightened, as if he were afraid she would disappear if he let go. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want you to know.”

Rozemyne smiled softly, her heart aching with both love and sadness. “You could never hurt me, Ferdinand. Not with this.”

They stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, as the petals continued to fall to their feet like a gentle rain. And slowly, with each petal that fell, the tension in Ferdinand’s body began to ease, the weight of his unspoken feelings lifting ever so slightly.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Ferdinand allowed himself to feel the depth of his love for her—no longer denying it, no longer pushing it away.

And Rozemyne, with all the love she had in her heart, held him close, letting him know that he was not alone.

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.