Chapter 172: Winter - Zeka - Erik

"When you are near a season, that season’s petal will grow warm. You may not notice it right away. It may only feel like a strange familiarity, as though you have just met someone in a dream."

"Will it tell me who they are?"

"No." She shook her head. "It only points the way. It does not name them. And Erik, remember this." Her voice turned serious. "The mark does not grant you the right to command any season. They are not objects for you to collect. Each season has lived, suffered, and made its own choices. If you find them, ask them, just as you asked me."

Erik looked at the four-colored flower on his chest, then at her.

"I promise."

The Lord of Seasons smiled.

At that moment, Erik realized that the hand resting on his chest had become so transparent that he could see the flower petals behind it.

Tiny particles of light began to rise from her shoulders, her hair, and the faint wings behind her back. They dissolved into the sky like pollen carried by the wind.

"You..."

"I told you my time was shorter than you thought." She lay down beside him and pulled him into her arms as she had in the beginning, letting his head rest upon her arm. "Do not make that face. I used the last of my energy for the most worthwhile thing I could think of. I have no regrets."

Erik took hold of her fading hand.

He had so many questions: about the Four Seasons, Rahapt, the eye at the edge of the sky, and the crying within the snow.

But in the end, the question he asked was:

"I still do not know your name. Your real name."

The Lord of Seasons was silent for a long time. Then she leaned down and whispered into his ear.

"When the Lighthouse shines again, perhaps you will be able to see my face." Her voice was as light as snow touching a leaf. "Ask me again then."

"That is not an answer."

"I know." She giggled, the garden’s final laughter. "I am saving it for next time. A woman should know how to keep a little mystery."

Spring petals, summer sunlight, autumn leaves, and snowflakes rose into the air all at once. The white bed dissolved into light, while the grass beneath Erik’s back became soft as clouds. The Lord of Seasons’ warmth still lingered in his palm, but her figure had faded until only an outline of light remained.

"Erik." Her voice echoed from very far away. "Take good care of them. And remember to take care of yourself too, idiot."

Then everything sank into white.

...

At the same time, deep beneath the Council headquarters, the crystal pillar to which Winter was chained trembled faintly.

A stream of energy flowed down from above, moving against the chains that were draining her dry. It carried the scent of newly blossomed flowers, sunlight upon a lake, dried leaves, and pure snow.

It lasted only a few breaths, as fragile as the final warmth of a lamp about to go out.

Winter opened her eyes in the darkness.

"...You?"

No one answered.

The energy had vanished as swiftly as it came. Only her fingertips still tingled, where, in her dream just moments ago, she had touched a warm wrist. She had gripped it like a drowning person clinging to driftwood, then let go when she saw frost spreading from her own hand toward that skin.

Even now, she did not understand why she had let go.

A dry laugh escaped her throat.

"So you remember me only now?"

That energy had not completely disappeared.

Mixed within its lingering traces was a black thread, thin as a hair and colder than she was. It had followed the warmth of the Lord of Seasons through some crack, and now it slithered into Winter’s veins, gentle as a hand resting on the shoulder of someone who had grown too tired.

’She will not come,’ it whispered, like a thought growing inside her own mind. ’No one will come. But I am here. I can help you break these chains.’

Winter knew it was Dark Mist. She had seen it swallow entire forests.

One part of her screamed that it was poison.

The other part, larger and far more exhausted, only asked: if she did not drink this poison, what else was left for her to drink?

She closed her eyes and thought once more of that warm wrist.

Then she pushed the thought away.

That warmth belonged to a garden in a dream, not to her.

It had never belonged to her.

This time, Winter did not push the black thread away.

When she opened her eyes, the red symbol on the chain around her left wrist had gone completely dark. A hair-thin crack ran along one of its links. Near the roots of her silver hair, one lock had turned black, black as ink, as if someone had dipped it into the night.

Far above, the Lighthouse lights flickered out of rhythm for a single beat, then returned to normal.

No one came down to investigate.

Winter leaned her head against the cold crystal pillar and smiled faintly for the first time in many years.

There was not a trace of warmth in that smile.

"Wait for me," she whispered into the darkness. "Just a little longer."

...

At the very top of the tower, at the exact moment the Lighthouse lights flickered, Zeka pressed a hand to his chest.

His heart was beating wildly.

Not merely fast, but erratically, like a machine that had just lost one of its gears. Every beat pounded against his temples, blurring his vision into streaks of red. His half-meter claws scraped down the armrest, leaving five deep gashes in the precious wood.

The Succubi serving around the room all dropped to their knees.

No one dared step forward.

No one dared breathe too heavily.

Only one person approached.

She wore the gray attendant’s uniform like every other Succubus in the tower. Her black hair was cut to her chin, and her face was pale and expressionless, like a porcelain doll.

She did not hurry. She did not tremble.

She opened the silver box on the table, took out a dark purple pill, placed it in Zeka’s mouth, and brought a glass of water to his lips at the exact angle he was accustomed to.

Once Zeka swallowed, she placed two fingers on his wrist. A pale blue ring of runes appeared around his veins and slowly turned.

That frantic heartbeat was drawn back under control little by little, like reins restraining a panicked horse.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Zeka let out a long breath and leaned back in his chair. Cold sweat soaked the white strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

"There is not much time left," he said hoarsely, as if speaking to himself. His eyes were fixed on the floor, as though he could see through every layer of stone to the tower’s deepest level. "I have to hurry. Before this place collapses."

The attendant said nothing.

She withdrew her hand, wiped her fingers clean with a white cloth, folded it into four, and returned it to its exact place. Zeka’s black pen still lay on the table, its tip flashing red after the earlier disturbance. The other Succubi in the room all kept their heads lowered, a few raising hands to their temples as if struck by sudden headaches.

Only she did not.

She stepped back into the corner of the room, hands folded before her stomach, standing still like an ornament.

But her eyes were different.

The other Succubi in this tower had the eyes of the frightened, the resigned, or those who had already abandoned hope.

Her gaze was cold to the core, silent and patient, like a wolf lying in wait in the snow as it watched its prey slowly weaken.

The light fell across her black hair.

Beneath her left ear, hidden behind several strands, was a thin scar curved like a crescent moon.

...

Twenty-four hours later.

[Status: Absolute Exhaustion - Ended]

[The body has begun its recovery process]

The red text gradually faded, then vanished from the corner of Erik’s vision.

The first thing he felt afterward was not light, but pain.

It was slow and dull, spreading from his spine into every joint, as though his body were an abandoned house where someone had opened the windows and lit each room one by one.

Erik opened his eyes.

A white ceiling.

Soft yellow light from a bedside lamp.

Beyond the window, night had fully fallen.

He tried to raise his right hand. It lay motionless in a brace.

He tried to lift his left hand. His fingers only managed to curl slightly, trembling like those of an old man.

He let out a breath and accepted that he would not be going anywhere tonight.

Beneath the bandages on the left side of his chest, the four-petaled flower was still there.

It had not been a dream.

A woman whose name he did not even know had used the last of her strength to bring him back, and he had not even had time to thank her.

’Take good care of them. And remember to take care of yourself too, idiot.’

Erik chuckled softly, then winced as pain flared through his ribs.

Alive.

Hurting, but alive.

He had never found pain as precious as he did at that moment.

A faint humming drifted from beside the window.

Felyn sat there, her head resting against the window frame, the bandage over her eyes turned toward the night sky. She hummed a wordless melody, so soft that it was almost no more than breathing. Runi had fallen asleep in the chair beside her, still holding a patient care guide in her arms.

Then the humming stopped.

Felyn turned toward the bed.

She could not see, but Erik knew she had heard the change in his breathing.

"Erik?"

"Yeah." His voice was so hoarse that it startled even him. "I’m here."

Felyn shot to her feet, forgetting to feel along the edge of the chair. Her knee struck the table leg, but she did not stop. She followed his voice with both hands stretched out before her until her fingertips found his left hand atop the blanket.

She held it with both hands.

Beneath the bandages over Erik’s left chest, one petal grew warm.

Only one.

The fresh green one, gentle as morning sunlight filtering through leaves.

That warmth was so familiar that his heart skipped a beat, as though he had encountered someone from a dream again.

’When you are near a season, that season’s petal will grow warm.’

Erik looked at Felyn.

She was smiling, but her lips trembled, and a small wet patch had appeared on the bandage over her eyes.

"You slept for so long," she said. "I counted. Twenty-four hours and eleven minutes."

"Sorry."

"Do not apologize." Felyn squeezed his hand tighter. "It is enough that you woke up."

She lowered his hand and pressed it against her cheek. Her skin was warm and damp.

"While you slept, I sat here and listened to your heart," she said quietly. "There were moments when it beat so slowly that I had to hold my breath just to hear it. I was afraid that if I breathed too loudly, I would miss a beat."

A chair scraped sharply against the floor.

Runi woke with a start, the care guide dropping from her lap. She looked at Erik, blinked twice in disbelief, then immediately rushed toward the IV stand. She checked the drip rate, then checked it again, and then a third time, silently mouthing every number.

"Runi," Erik called.

"Yes, Sir Erik!" She did not turn around, her eyes still fixed on the IV bag. "I will get a Healer right away. No, I should call Lady Meira first. No, Lady Elowen told me that I should call her first..."

Before she could decide, the door flew open.

Elowen stood at the doorway, still wearing a patient gown, one hand gripping the IV stand beside her. Her silver hair was a mess, her face still pale. She had clearly dragged herself out of bed in the next room the moment she heard the commotion.

She looked at Erik.

Erik looked at her.

Elowen did not run to him.

She only stood there, lips pressed tightly together, as if afraid that if she took even one more step, this moment would shatter like the dreams she had endured for the past twenty-four hours.

"Elowen." Erik tried to raise his braced right hand slightly. "Come here."

That one sentence was enough.

Elowen released the IV stand, walked to the bed, and collapsed to her knees. She pressed her face against his arm, her shoulders shaking violently.

"I promised I would protect you." Her voice caught, almost too broken to form words. "I promised. Yet in the end, you are the one lying here."

"Elowen..."

"Do not say anything." She shook her head, tears soaking the sleeve of his patient gown. "Let me cry for a little while. Just a little. Then I will be fine."

Erik let her cry.

He no longer had the strength to hold her, so he could only tilt his head and rest his cheek against her tangled silver hair. Felyn still held his left hand. Runi stood at the foot of the bed with the wrinkled care guide pressed to her chest, her eyes red.

For a long time, no one spoke in that small room.

Then the sound of pottery shattering came from the hallway.

Meira stood at the door.

Fragments of a cup lay at her feet, hot tea spreading across the floor. She was still wearing the battle outfit scorched from the day before. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, and the hastily tied golden hair had nearly come undone.

The Elemental Lord of Silver Moon, the woman who had wiped out an entire horde of monsters alone, now stood frozen at the threshold like a lost child.

"Master..."

"Meira." Erik smiled faintly. "I’m back."

She did not answer.

In only three steps, Meira reached the bed.

Standing over one meter ninety-five tall, she bent down and wrapped both arms around him, pulling him off the pillow and pressing his head tightly against her chest, as though if she loosened her hold for even a moment, he would fall back into a sleep from which he would never wake.

Erik’s world was immediately swallowed by softness and warmth so overwhelming that he could barely breathe.

"You slept for twenty-four hours," Meira said, her voice breaking. Her arms tightened around him. "For twenty-four hours, I did not dare leave this room for more than five minutes. Do you know that? Do you?"

"Mother!" Elowen suddenly raised her head, her tears not yet dry. "Let him go! He can’t breathe!"

From somewhere between the Elemental Lord’s large, soft chest, Erik let out a muffled sound that seemed to agree.