Chapter 16: Letting Go

Chapter 16: Chapter 16: Letting Go

In a fairly large white room in Seraphine’s mansion, Michael sat atop the soft bed, circulating his mana just as they had taught him back at the academy.

However, no matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t complete a full circulation.

Something was wrong.

The moment his mana reached a certain point, something deep within his body would force the circulation to collapse, sending it back to the beginning.

It was almost as if his body itself remembered a different way it was supposed to work—and was refusing to let him change it.

Again.

And again.

Cold sweat beaded across his temples, and his closed eyes trembled ever so slightly, as though he were waging a war inside his own mind.

Then—

A dragon’s roar exploded inside his skull.

Michael’s body violently jerked.

The scene of a bloodied city, its streets lined with the corpses of beings said to be at the pinnacle of existence, suddenly filled his vision.

Golden eyes stared down at him.

The endless sky was filled with dying dragons.

And that silent question echoed through his mind once more.

’Who are you?’

Michael’s eyes snapped open.

"Haaah... Haaaaaaaa..."

He sucked in breath after breath, his chest heaving violently.

His entire body was trembling.

His clothes were completely soaked with sweat, and his hands shook so badly that he had to grip the mattress just to keep himself upright.

A sharp metallic taste flooded his mouth.

Then pain struck.

A searing spike shot through his skull, so sudden and vicious that his vision blurred.

"Ah—fuck!"

Michael doubled over, one hand clutching his head while the other pressed against his chest.

His heart was hammering wildly.

Then something seemed to seize it from the inside.

His breath caught.

His fingers dug into his shirt as a crushing pain spread through his chest.

He tried to steady himself, but his arms suddenly weakened.

Michael nearly collapsed onto the floor.

His other hand flew to his mouth.

He coughed once.

Then again.

A warm liquid filled his mouth.

He pulled his hand away.

Bright red blood coated his palm.

For several seconds, Michael could only stare at it.

"...What the hell?" His voice came out weak.

Another wave of dizziness hit him.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the sensation to pass, his breathing ragged and uneven.

Whatever the hell was happening to him, his body clearly wasn’t handling it well.

Eventually, he forced himself upright and staggered toward the bathroom.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

He caught himself against the wall before finally reaching the sink, where he quickly turned on the tap and rinsed the blood from his hand.

Then he splashed cold water across his face.

The moment the water touched his skin, everything stopped.

The pain faded.

The dizziness disappeared.

And the dream—

Gone.

Michael froze. ’Huh?’

He slowly lifted his head. He... couldn’t remember why exactly he was in the bathroom, or what had made him cough up so much blood.

The golden eyes. The dragons. The bloodied city.

Even the question that had shaken him so badly—

It was all gone.

Michael stared at his reflection, breathing heavily.

He placed a hand over his face and let out a deep, exhausted sigh. "Fuck... what’s wrong with me?"

Somehow, he knew there was something he had forgotten.

Something incredibly important.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recall even the slightest thing about it.

Michael remained there for a long moment, gripping the edge of the sink as though he needed it to keep himself standing.

Eventually, he dried his face.

Then he stepped out into the hallway.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

"Seraphine?"

No answer.

"Wait... she never mentioned going out. Is she still sleeping?"

Michael frowned.

He pulled on a sleeveless white shirt and a pair of loose joggers before stepping into the hallway and checking the rooms.

The kitchen was empty.

So was the study.

Even the training hall—which seemed to be her favorite place in the entire mansion—was empty.

Something felt off.

Michael eventually drifted toward the rear of the mansion and glanced through one of the tall windows overlooking the private garden.

He froze.

There she was.

Seraphine was kneeling in the sand. Her back was straight, her ash-blonde hair tied into a simple ponytail, and her entire figure was unusually still.

She wasn’t training.

She wasn’t reading.

She wasn’t even moving.

She was simply staring at something in front of her.

Michael narrowed his eyes. ’What was she looking at?’

His gaze lingered on her for a few extra moments before he decided to leave the house and meet her.

The path leading to the back of the estate was lined with warm white stones, and the closer he got, the quieter the garden seemed to become.

Although it took him some masterful navigation, he finally reached the place where Seraphine was kneeling.

Even as he approached, she didn’t turn around.

She simply remained there, kneeling in front of whatever had captured her attention.

Michael slowed to a stop a few paces behind her.

Only then did he see it.

A stone marker.

Small. Plain. Almost painfully ordinary.

There was no grand statue.

No elaborate carvings.

No flowers surrounding it.

Just a weathered piece of stone rising from the earth.

Michael’s gaze slowly moved across its surface.

At first, he couldn’t make out the writing.

Then his eyes focused.

A name—Robert Voss

And beneath it... a date.

Michael’s expression changed.

He didn’t know the person buried there.

But judging by the way Seraphine was kneeling in front of it, he could already take a guess.

Still, he didn’t say a word.

Even after reaching her, he simply sat down beside her in the sand, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, and remained silent.

Minutes passed.

Then, finally, Seraphine’s voice broke the silence. "What are you doing here?"

Michael clasped his hands loosely in front of him and lowered his head for a moment, offering a short, wordless prayer.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked toward the stone marker. "I was looking for you. If you’d told me you were mourning, I would’ve come with you."

She frowned faintly, still facing the grave. "You didn’t have to."

"I know."

They sat like that for a while longer. The two moons hung low in the sky, casting overlapping pools of soft light across the quiet garden.

Eventually, Michael spoke again. "Your husband?"

"Yes."

He glanced at the simple marker. "He must have been a good man."

Seraphine flinched slightly, but her gaze remained fixed on the stone.

After a long pause, she nodded once.

Then, almost too quietly to hear, she added while staring down at her hands.

"I killed him."

Michael’s chest tightened.

The old rumor surfaced immediately—death from heart failure in bed, the kind of story people told with crude laughter.

But looking at her now, with her shoulders slightly drawn in and her voice stripped of its usual composure, Michael felt none of that humor.

He kept his tone careful. "Was there anything he liked?"

Her head turned sharply. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Michael raised both hands in mild surrender. "Hey, don’t take it the wrong way. Where I come from, people sometimes bring things to a grave on anniversaries. Drinks. Cigars. A favorite snack. I was only wondering."

Seraphine looked back at the marker. "...Red roses. He really liked red roses."

Her gaze shifted toward the neglected field stretching behind the garden. "Without the servants, no one has planted any this year. I have nothing to give him."

Michael studied the overgrown patch of earth. Weeds. Dry soil. Nothing that looked like it had seen deliberate care in months.

"Why don’t we try?"

She raised a brow. "Try what?"

"Planting some. Even if we can’t give him roses today, we can put some in the ground. He’ll get to see them all year."

Her eyes widened a fraction. "You know how to plant?"

Michael scratched the back of his head. "Not expertly. But we can figure it out."

He stood, dusted himself off, and offered her a hand.

Seraphine hesitated before taking it. Once she was on her feet, she looked at him with open uncertainty.

"How exactly do we start?"

"First, we find seeds."

"Seeds?"

"Those little things inside old rose hips. The ones that look like dots."

Seraphine’s expression shifted into genuine surprise. "Those are important?"

"Very."

She pressed a finger to her chin, thinking. "No wonder the head butler always hid them underground..."

Michael pointed toward the soil near their feet. "Under here?"

She nodded.

"Okay then, step back. I’ll probe with energy—"

"Don’t." Michael gently caught her wrist. "Spiritual roses are extremely sensitive. Any foreign energy will kill the seeds before they ever sprout."

Seraphine’s face tightened with clear displeasure. "Then what are we supposed to do?"

Michael lifted one finger. "We dig."

Her expression went completely blank. "You expect me—a Sovereign—to dig in the dirt like some filthy mutt?"

He only smiled and glanced toward the grave. "It’s the least we can do for him, isn’t it?"

She held his gaze for several long seconds before exhaling through her nose and giving a reluctant nod.

They returned to the house together, gathered shovels, a couple of wooden benches, a thermos, and a small bottle of strong liquor that Seraphine insisted on bringing "in case it got cold."

By the time they returned to the field, the light had begun to soften.

Michael showed her how to properly drive the shovel into the ground—using her heels instead of relying only on her arms, distributing her weight so the blade cut cleanly into the soil instead of glancing off the harder patches.

Seraphine followed his instructions with visible irritation at first.

Yet as time passed, she gradually became accustomed to it.

Apparently, her talent showed even in something as simple as digging.

However, since they were doing it without using their spirit, within an hour her breathing had grown noticeably heavier.

Eventually, too tired to keep going, she moved to sit beside the grave and simply watched him work.

Michael had stripped down to his sleeveless white shirt. Sweat darkened the fabric along his spine and collarbones, while his loose joggers hung low on his hips as he worked with quiet, focused efficiency.

His jaw was set, and his dark-white hair had begun sticking slightly to his forehead.

Seraphine rested her cheek against her raised thighs and studied him.

She watched the way his muscles contracted each time he drove the shovel into the ground, the steady rhythm of his movements, and the focused expression on his face.

Honestly, even she couldn’t believe she had kissed this boy on the first day they met.

Afterward, she had tried her best at damage control, telling herself it had been nothing more than an impulse.

She had even spent the following days carefully walling off every soft feeling that tried to rise whenever they cooked together or spent time alone.

He was nothing more than a stranger. Besides, she was far too old for him, and attachment of any kind was dangerous for her at this point.

Yet here he was.

Digging in the dirt for a dead man he had never met, simply because that dead man had once mattered to her.

She turned her head toward the grave and spoke under her breath. "Honey... I might not make it to your next anniversary."

A small, tired smile touched her lips. "You always told me to live fully. To be myself. I think I’m finally going to try."

When she looked back, Michael had noticed her staring.

He raised his brows in silent question. Seraphine only smiled faintly and, inside her own mind, asked the question she still couldn’t bring herself to voice aloud.

’You’ll help me, won’t you, Michael?’

She stood, brushed the sand from her clothes, and walked over to him.

"The sun’s already setting," she said, pointing toward the sky. "I think it’s time you rested too."

Michael frowned, still gripping the shovel. "We’ve come this far. Shouldn’t we just find them while there’s still some light?"

Seraphine’s smile deepened, touched with something almost fond and almost exasperated. ’You’re still thinking about someone else even now?’

She stepped closer. "That was an order, Michael."

He sighed, planted the shovel into the soil, and walked over to the bench they had dragged out earlier.

He sat heavily, still breathing hard, sweat cooling against his skin.

Seraphine joined him a moment later, and for a long while, neither of them spoke.

The sky darkened until only the two moons and the first hard points of starlight remained.

Finally, she asked in a quiet voice, "Why go this far for a few flower seeds? The man in that grave has nothing to do with you."

Michael kept his eyes on the sky, his fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the bench. "He might not be related to me," he said, "but he’s related to someone special to me."

Seraphine’s breath caught. "Someone special to you?"

He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes.

Then he smiled. "You, obviously. Did you think you were just some random person in my life?"

Her eyes remained wide.

Hearing the System declare that he liked her had been one thing. Hearing Michael say it himself—casually, without hesitation, as though it were the most natural thing in the world—hit far deeper.

Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she quickly looked away. "Idiot. I’m old enough to be your grandmother."

Michael’s smile only grew.

He shifted his weight, resting one arm against the far side of the bench, loosely caging her in without actually touching her.

"Age is just a number," he said lightly. "Don’t you think so?"

Seraphine bit down on her lower lip.

Her heart was beating far too fast.

"What exactly do you want from me?"

Michael opened his mouth. "Nothing. I just li—"

Seraphine didn’t let him finish.

Her hand fisted in the front of his shirt and pulled him down, her lips crashing against his.

The kiss was sudden, deep, and almost clumsy with how much feeling she poured into it.

Michael’s surprise lasted only a second before he kissed her back.

Her free hand slid against his chest; his settled at her waist, and for a long while, the world narrowed to the heat of her mouth and the soft sound she made when his tongue coiled around hers.

When she finally pulled back, her breathing was uneven.

Michael leaned in again, this time trailing slow kisses along the side of her neck and the delicate line of her collarbone. Seraphine gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair.

"Michael... I’m not ready," she whispered. "Not here."

He eased away at once.

"Sorry."

She shook her head quickly. "No. Don’t be."

Then she stood, walked over to the small bag they had brought, and returned with the bottle of strong liquor.

Before Michael could stop her, she tilted it back and drank the entire contents in several long swallows.

His eyes widened. "You didn’t circulate your energy first—why would you—"

Seraphine lowered the empty bottle, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and gave him a warm, slightly unsteady smile.

"Now I’m drunk. Whatever happens next is not really my doing."

Michael knew that wasn’t how it worked.

She knew it too.

She was simply giving herself permission, and he didn’t argue.

Seraphine leaned in, found the side of his neck, and bit down with deliberate possessiveness.

"There," she murmured against his skin. "Now I have my territory."

Whatever thin control Michael had left snapped.

He guided her down onto the bench. She went willingly, one leg drawing up as he settled above her.

Their mouths met again—hungrier this time, less careful.

Her hands slid beneath the hem of his shirt; his found the soft curve of her waist and the line of her hip.

The night air, the distant moons, the quiet grave only a short distance away—all of it faded beneath the simple, overwhelming fact of her warmth and the way she arched into him when he kissed the hinge of her jaw.

In that moment, Michael felt the strongest rush of nervous, exhilarating butterflies he had experienced in years.