Marigold - A LitRPG

"I'm nervous. Do you think he'll be as... delicate as Ken?" I muttered, gnawing at my nails as I glanced at the nurses around me.

"I don't think you need to worry about that, Queen Mother. Hans will probably be covered in his armor—like always," one of them reassured me.

"I don't know... maybe he'll take after mom? You know, tough skin but not full armor?" another chimed in.

"I'd kinda like to see him without it for once. Sure, the armor makes him look cool, but it also makes him feel... distant," someone else added.

"Nonsense! Hans' armor is his signature! Just like Trouble's muscles or Jon's shields!" a nurse scoffed.

"Guys, shut up! Look—he's emerging!" I cut them off, pointing at the convulsing chrysalis.

Hans was finally evolving. It had taken longer than Ken, but at least it was happening. Unlike Ken's transformation—where I had infused him with life mana—Hans had undergone this change entirely on his own. His chrysalis was huge, far bigger than Ken's, which made me wonder just how large he would be once he emerged.

And honestly, this whole debate about whether he'd have full-body armor or not? Redundant. But still valid. The truth was—I had never actually seen Hans' face. When he was just a [Solitary Honey Bee], he looked like every other soldier-class member of his kind. After his first evolution, his face had been hidden beneath a helmet-like structure. So really, we'd never seen what was underneath.

But I had an image in my head—a deep, commanding voice, an air of nobility, that older-brother presence. In my mind, Hans was the kind of guy who could be the male lead in a shoujo manga.

As creatures—people, insects, monsters, fairies—whatever we were, our species never really changed much in terms of physical appearance. But now? Now that I'd been forcibly evolved into a [Feyweaver], my features had changed. I had a form, a beauty that was tangible and almost revered. Ken had proved that [Feyweavers] weren't just strong but striking. So I couldn't help but wonder—what the hell would Hans look like?

A sharp crack split through the air. I held my breath as fractures spread across the surface of his chrysalis. Thick, yellow goo oozed from the cracks—unlike Ken's, which had been a strange, glowing pink. The shell convulsed, then stilled, leaving me uneasy. Was something wrong? Then, suddenly, a jagged, armored hand burst through.

Bronze. Sharp. The fingers gleamed like blades, and beneath the knuckles, I could see something darker—a black exoskeleton beneath the armor, giving the eerie illusion of armor layered on top of armor.

Then, with sheer, monstrous strength, he ripped through the chrysalis as if it were nothing but damp paper. Shredded pieces of hardened shell rained onto the ground, splattering yellow slime in all directions.

And then—he rose.

A giant.

Two meters tall, encased from head to toe in metallic plating that gleamed like polished bronze. He looked like a living weapon, his helmet sculpted into the form of a bee's head. From the back of his skull, a long, thick ponytail—pure white, slick with slime—hung past his shoulders.

Hans was massive, his body built with powerful, thick limbs that radiated sheer strength. His plated arms flexed as he shifted, the heavy armor moving seamlessly with him. Then, as his glowing golden eyes locked onto mine, he took a step forward.

A second step.

His shadow loomed over me, making the size difference between us crystal clear. Then, without warning, he dropped to one knee.

The impact was like a hammer striking the ground, sending up a thin layer of dust. Gasps rippled through the room as nurses exchanged looks of awe and disbelief.

"Queen Mother," Hans said, his deep voice reverberating through the space. "I salute you."

The nurses immediately swarmed him, climbing onto his enormous form, wiping away the yellow residue, whispering about how incredible he looked.

"Hans?! You're huge!" I blurted out, still reeling from the sight of him.

I was used to being the big one around here. I was the titan compared to my little ones. But seeing Hans—who once fit in the palm of my hand—standing there, towering over me like some kind of armored warlord? It was genuinely unsettling. How did this even make sense?! How does a creature the size of a teddy bear grow into a walking tank in a week?!

"I thank you for the compliment, Queen Mother," he said, bowing his head slightly. "With this form, I will protect you and our family with all my strength."

"It wasn't exactly a compliment, but... whatever." I sighed, rubbing my temples. "You must be starving, right? We brought plenty of rations for you." I gestured toward the pile of food stacked beside him. "Sorry, though. No sweets or honey. You'll have to make do with emergency ration blocks—we've got plenty."

"I understand, Queen Mother. The most nutritious food should go to those who need it most. I will be satisfied with what has been provided to me." He stood and strode toward the mountain of food, his sheer presence making me uneasy.

Compared to the pile, Hans was still bigger. A gnawing worry settled in my gut—would it be enough?

There was a time when food wasn't an issue, but now? It was a constant struggle. Sure, we had stockpiled emergency rations thanks to the cooking club, but our bodies weren't built for normal food. Meat, vegetables—they just made us sick. We needed sugar. Pure energy.

Hans picked up a food block between his fingers—it looked tiny in his grip, like a mere cereal bar. Then, without hesitation, he swallowed it whole.

Then another. Then a handful, devouring them with a hunger that made my skin crawl.

'Damn... he's starving.'

I swallowed hard. This was going to be a problem. I needed to check his status—fast.

Seeing Hans's stats, I couldn't help but rub my eyes, wondering if I was seeing things. No matter how many times I looked, it still didn't make any sense. Hans was ridiculously strong. Like, absurdly strong. Well... at least by hive standards. Compared to Morthak, he probably wouldn't be able to do much more than give him a light scratch, but still—once again, Hans had proven himself the strongest member of the hive.

"Holy shiny capybara... What the hell are these skills? Damn... 240.4 strength points?! That's insane! Is that normal for the [Soldier] class? If so, we need to speed up the evolution of more soldiers... No, wait—we need to survive until spring first. We need food. But... wow, just... wow." I muttered, staring at the numbers in disbelief while Hans remained focused on his meal.

Around him, several nurses and bees buzzed around, climbing on his massive frame like he was some kind of playground, giggling and flitting around as they admired him. The whole scene was strange—imagine a towering, intimidating soldier sitting in the middle of a feast while tiny golden, fairy-like creatures used him as a jungle gym. But Hans didn't seem bothered at all. If anything, he looked like he was enjoying it, occasionally breaking his rations into smaller pieces and handing them to the nurses who hovered around him.

"Humph. Well, at least you evolved, Hans. With you here, I feel a little more secure about our defenses. If things go well, in a few weeks we can start a full revitalization plan and finally get back on track." I said, but Hans only gave a vague hum of acknowledgment before returning to his food.

Normally, he'd be listening attentively, but the poor guy was probably starving. Evolution must've drained all his energy straight into those ridiculous muscles.

"Ah... it's a shame we won't get to see your face at the end of all this, but I'm still happy with your evolution, Hans." I added, watching him curiously.

Hans paused mid-bite, glancing at me with a confused hum before swallowing. "What do you mean, see my face?"

"Oh, it's nothing major. Just that no one's ever really seen your face. I think the last time was back when you were just a [Solitary Honey Bee], and even then, only a few members of the inner circle were 'lucky' enough to see you without a helmet or armor." I explained.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

It wasn't a big deal—within the hive, appearance wasn't something we placed much value on. It only mattered in two ways: distinguishing between individuals and attracting a mate. But we didn't procreate in the traditional sense, and we had no trouble recognizing each other.

The hive's link system functioned like a mental ID, allowing us to instinctively identify each other at all times. There was never any risk of mistaking Ken for someone else, even after his drastic evolution. The moment you connected to the link, you could feel who someone was.

It was useful—essential, even—but it also had its drawbacks. Take Ciel, for example. To me, he was my son, an ally beyond question. But to the hive, he was an outsider, an unknown entity unworthy of trust. Even though he shared our blood, his connection to the link was so damaged and weak that the hive couldn't register him as part of us. To them, he was a threat.

Technically, I could fix this. I just had to verify his identity and grant him full access to the hive. But things were never that simple.

This mental ID system wasn't something you used once or twice a day—it was constant. Every moment, every interaction, every action required verification. Want to eat? Verify your identity. Want to enter a chamber? Verify your identity. Want to work? Verify your identity. It was as effortless as exchanging glances, a process so ingrained that we never even noticed it. But for Ciel, who lacked that connection, every attempt at verification failed. And no matter how much I insisted that he was safe, the hive simply couldn't accept him.

It was like trying to implant a foreign organ into a body and expecting the immune system not to reject it. Orders and reassurances wouldn't change the fact that, at the core of their instincts, Ciel was an outsider.

"Really? Hmm... I never noticed." Hans muttered, frowning slightly.

"It's okay, honey~ I just wanted to know if there's candy under the blanket." I teased with a small grin.

Hans tilted his head. "Hmm. If I look nice, would that make you happy, Queen Mother?"

"Oh?" I blinked, caught off guard. "Uh... yeah? I mean, I'm not exactly obsessed with eye candy, but I wouldn't say being surrounded by a bunch of handsome, muscular guys—who, let's not forget, are also my sons—is at the top of my priorities." I smirked slightly, joking as I crossed my arms.

Honestly, it was probably better that Hans kept himself covered. It made things easier for me.

"That reminds me, I really need to have a talk with Zuki about making clothes or uniforms. You have your armor to keep you covered, but I doubt everyone will be like that. Sooner or later, we're going to need proper clothes to make sure nothing that shouldn't see the light of day ends up being exposed." I muttered, already dreading the logistics of that particular problem.

Hans just stared at me, clearly not getting it.

Good. I'd rather he not think too hard about it.

I wake up groggily, finding myself in a dark hallway. Metal lockers, their doors wrenched open by creeping roots, line the walls. Grass and puddles of water spread across the cracked floor, and the ceiling is littered with broken, lifeless lights. Ahead, a long corridor stretches toward a set of double doors, the kind you'd see in a high school. Colored lights flicker from the other side, and faint music drifts through the cracks.

"What? Ugh... Is this another one of those stupid nightmares?" I mutter, pushing myself off the cold, damp floor.

I move forward slowly, each step accompanied by the muffled beat of lively high school music. As I reach the doors, I push them open hesitantly, revealing a bizarre dance hall.

Balloons—some fully deflated, others still clinging stubbornly to the ceiling—decorate the room. The air is thick with the remnants of a celebration long abandoned. Half-eaten food litters the tables, forgotten in the rush to leave. Yet, despite the eerie emptiness, music plays on, filling the air with an unsettling cheerfulness.

'That girl is vicious, she's vicious, got venom in her kisses…' The lyrics weave through the scene.

Then, I see her. In the middle of the dance floor, facing away from me, a lone figure sways to the rhythm. Even without seeing her face, I know who she is. My human self—dancing alone, moving with a strangely reserved enthusiasm.

"Ugh... Hey! You freak, stop copying my appearance—uh, ex-appearance—and start explaining yourself!" I shout over the music, but she doesn't react.

'And I love how she devours me, just might make her my Mrs.…'

Annoyed, I stride toward her and grab her shoulder. The moment she turns, a chill races down my spine.

Her milky, lifeless eyes stare back at me. Her lips are cracked and tinged blue, her skin pale and waxy like an old corpse. Her fingernails—what's left of them—are jagged and incomplete. But what unnerves me most is the knife buried deep in her throat, surrounded by thick, black blood that seeps down her neck and drips onto the floor.

"Oh? Look who decided to join the party." She grins, unfazed, her body swaying to the music. "Come dance with me?" She extends a hand, her dead eyes locked onto mine.

'She's a little bit twisted, little bit wild…'

"What do you want?" I cross my arms, forcing myself to keep my composure. "Are you here to haunt my dreams now? Or rather, nightmares?"

She doesn't seem fazed by my hostility. Instead, she pulls her hand back, that same unsettling smile fixed on her decayed face. Still dancing, she lets out a soft chuckle.

"You know, your head is so empty sometimes I feel alone in here." She tilts her head playfully, joints cracking as she twirls. "But didn't I tell you before? I don't come to you. You come to me. So if you want to blame someone for being here, blame yourself. After all, you are a professional when it comes to self-pity, aren't you?" She giggles. "Oh! Why don't you take advantage of this moment? Start whining about how life is hard, about how you're trying your best? Maybe lie to yourself a little and say you're doing the right thing? Or close your eyes and tell yourself everything will be okay in the end? Haha! You're always so predictable."

'Little bit sadistic, little bit loud…' The sound

I avert my eyes, clenching my fists. "…Ugh—maybe you're right." I exhale sharply. "I think I'm out of escape routes."

"Hahaha!" She throws her head back, twirling again. "You never had a way out, Hana! Like a rat on a wheel—no matter how hard you run, you never go anywhere. You're too stupid, too cowardly to break this cycle of self-pity and temporary 'redemption.' You don't have what it takes. You're not a leader, not someone meant to be on top. The world is made of wolves and lambs, and you? You're a lamb. A poor, lost, pathetic little lamb."

Her feet splash in the black liquid pooling beneath her, but she doesn't seem to care. The darkness spreads across the floor, creeping toward me as she dances.

'Little bit ruthless, little bit raw…' The song continues, an eerie backdrop to her venomous words.

I inhale deeply, forcing myself to stay calm. "…Uff, any reason for the change of scenery?" I ask, trying to shift the conversation away from her mockery.

She slows, tilting her head. "Oh? So you noticed?" A wicked grin spreads across her lips. "Do you like the new decor? You're not the only one evolving around here, honey. You're not the only one who can learn a new trick or two."

She takes a step closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Do you remember that special day? The day of your graduation?"

A surge of unease washes over me as she begins to tap dance, her feet moving effortlessly despite the tar-like sludge beneath her. She twirls gracefully, her arms outstretched like a ballerina lost in a twisted performance. The music swells, the haunting lyrics echoing through the abandoned dance hall.

'It was a fun day, wasn't it?' She mocks.

"No, it wasn't," I said, interrupting her. That day wasn't a good one for me—it should have been happy and celebratory, but instead, everything fell apart. My father had recently passed away, I had a huge fight with my friends, I broke up with my boyfriend, and I even got arrested for driving without a license while slightly over the legal alcohol limit. That day was horrible, not just because of all that, but because I saw my mother's face as she bailed me out of jail—still grieving for my father and now burdened with my recklessness.

'Chewing me up and spitting me out, Piece of my heart inside her mouth, Killing me slowly, I don't care, If she goes to hell, please save me a chair...' The music continued.

"Hahaha! I love that day. It's a perfect reminder of just how irresponsible and unreliable you can be," she said, laughing. She stopped her vigorous dancing momentarily, only to sway and twirl playfully in front of me, looking directly at me with that cadaverous grin. "You abandoned your friends, disappointed your mother, and even your dead father, whose body hadn't even cooled yet."

"Shut up!" I snapped, grabbing a piece of debris from the floor and throwing it at her. It struck her forehead, opening a small hole from which black slime began to ooze, but she didn't even flinch.

"Hahaha! So easy, so obvious. You're so predictable. It's laughably simple to push your buttons. You can't handle hearing things you don't like. Your words are sharp, but where has that ever gotten you? Friends? Family? Success? No, people hated being around you, and you never tried to change that. Your own family either ignores you or is dead. And you? You wasted everything you had saved for a 'bright future' on someone who was dying, strapped to a bed. You were nobody before, Hana. And now you think you can be something? Let me remind you—nothing comes from nothing."

She spun again, arms outstretched, her cadaverous hair flowing eerily around her, as if dancing in a breeze only she could feel.

'And I love the way you hate me, You love to drive me crazy, Why do I do this to myself, It's bad for my health...'

"Do we really need to do this?" I asked, exhaling sharply. "Do you have to drag me down every time we meet? You're me, aren't you? Tearing me down just means tearing yourself down. Why not help me instead of being dead weight?"

She stopped dancing.

For the first time, she stood still. Her expression twisted into a mockery of contemplation before a smile spread across her face—one that might've been cute if not for the ghastly state of her flesh. Then, with a laugh, she started moving again, twirling as if nothing had happened. "HAHAHA! You're a joke! Why would I help you? You're the last person I'd ever lift a finger for. Even if you begged on your knees, I wouldn't spare you a second of mercy. You deserve the most miserable, shameful death imaginable. You know I'm right."

The music slowed, shifting into something somber, a ballroom dance melody for an audience long since vanished.

"We both know you shouldn't even exist in the first place. You're like a glitched-out object that refuses to be deleted, a mistake that just won't disappear. Maybe you're not even the real Hana. Maybe you're just some pathetic entity that got her memories by some cruel joke of fate."

"Who cares?" I said, shrugging, forcing myself to remain calm. "Maybe I am a mistake. But you know what? Some mistakes are so good, they end up becoming canon. And as for me being the real Hana—I have a title and everything proving I was brought here. But even if I weren't, what difference does it make? It's not like I can tell people I used to be human. I'd sound insane. So if you think you can shake me with that revelation, you're wasting your breath."

Her smile faltered, twisting into something bitter. "Ha! Look at you, trying to act superior. Pathetic. Do you really think that little facade will hold up? Fine. Let's cut deeper, then. How about we talk about how many times you've nearly killed your own children? What, ten times so far? And counting? Always finding new ways to endanger them—your poor, devoted children who worship you."

The stage lights flickered, illuminating a grotesque scene. A metal-jointed doll, shaped like my [Feywear] form, stood center stage. In its hand, a bloody knife. Around it, lifeless figures—Hans, Ken, Carl, Levi, Emi—scattered in a pool of crimson.

"Stop it!" I demanded, my voice shaking.

But she just smiled and kept dancing.

"Or how you're just a spineless coward with no will of your own. You let those kids crawl into your head, take over your body, and do whatever they pleased. Honestly, it's only a matter of time before they figure out you're more useful locked away—trapped in a room, trapped inside your own mind—forever reduced to nothing but a pathetic little mannequin, dangling on their strings."

She spoke with a grin, the wooden stick in her hand spinning to the grinding sound of gears. The stage before me shifted, and there it was—an articulated doll, an eerie mimicry of my form. But now its limbs were bound in golden threads, tangled like a marionette. Above it, shadowy figures pulled at the strings, their laughter sharp, shrill, and mocking as the puppet jerked and twitched in clumsy, unnatural movements.

"You bit—!" I started, but bit my tongue, forcing myself to stay in control.

"HAHAHA!" She cackled, eyes gleaming with cruel delight.

The gears groaned again, the stage turning with a jarring screech. A new scene emerged. A faceless crowd of mannequins, their hollow eyes hidden behind masks, stood in eerie unison. They gripped torches, pitchforks, and rusted spears, their stiff bodies pulsing with an almost living rage. And there—standing before them—was the same puppet, my puppet, just staring at the impending doom before it.

"How about we talk about how you're going to get everyone killed? You've already been attacked once. And it'll happen again. Next time, you won't be so lucky. And when the humans see what you've become—oh, they'll be furious. Hungry for blood. One by one, they'll hunt your children down, gut them, burn them alive, until there's nothing left but charred bones and the stench of death in the air."

As she spoke, the figures moved in eerie synchronization, closing in on the puppet. They tore at it, ripping fabric and wood apart, burning its fragile limbs. The thing screamed, a raw, guttural wail—too real. Too human.

"STOP!" I flinched, turning away, my stomach twisting.

It's all true. Every word. Dangers lurk in every shadow, waiting for a single mistake. One wrong move, and I could bring everything crashing down. I have to do more. Be better. Faster. Stronger.

"HAHAHA! What's wrong? Can't handle the truth?" she sneered.

I exhaled sharply, forcing my mind to focus. Since the moment I took on this cursed mantle as queen of the hive, I've had only one purpose—protect my family. I have to make this work. I can't lose anyone. I won't. No matter how much I claw and fight, something always comes creeping through the cracks, trying to drag me back to the start.

And then there's her. This parasite. This leech clinging to me, poisoning my every thought. I don't just have to survive—I have to endure her, this weight pulling me under.

I wish she would just—

"JUST DISAPPEAR!"

I screamed, pressing my hands over my eyes, my body curling in on itself. The sound of a strangled, inhuman shriek tore through the space—then, silence.

I opened my eyes slowly.

And I was standing in the middle of a street.

Not just any street.

Earth. Somehow, impossibly, I was back on Earth.

I looked down at myself, my stomach twisting into a tight knot. My hands—still inhuman. My body—still Feyweaver. The realization sent a cold shiver through me.

"Damn it! What now? I need to get back to the boys!"

Panic clawed at my throat as I scanned my surroundings. A magazine stand sat across the street, faded newspapers flapping slightly in the breeze. Maybe I could figure out what was going on. I hesitated before crossing, my pulse hammering. How would people react to me like this? Maybe I could pass as some kind of cosplayer—if I was lucky.

But as I approached the stand, my unease deepened. There was no one there. Just the silent stacks of newspapers and magazines.

I rifled through them, my breath catching as I saw the date. 2002.

"What the hell…" I whispered.

This wasn't right. This wasn't possible.

I left the stand behind, moving on autopilot, my feet pulling me down streets that felt too familiar. A strange, creeping déjà vu slithered down my spine. I wasn't just anywhere.

I was home.

A small supermarket stood ahead. I pushed the door open, a bell chiming overhead. But the moment I stepped inside, dread gripped me. The front of the store looked normal enough—dim fluorescent lights flickering above racks of snacks and dusty shelves. But the back?

The entire back half of the store was consumed by writhing black goo. It slithered up the walls, tendrils stretching and pulsing, swallowing shelves whole. Everything it touched melted into more of itself, feeding the endless hunger of the void.

"Wha—oh, that bitch. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! WHAT IS THIS NOW?!"

I yelled at the ceiling, rage and fear twisting together in my chest.

This wasn't real. It had to be another one of her sick games.

I stumbled backward, then turned and ran, fleeing down the streets, my breath coming in short gasps. It wasn't until I reached a particular intersection that my steps faltered. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might shatter my ribs.

I knew this street.

I knew it too well.

My eyes trailed up to the street sign, dread and longing tangling in my stomach. I took off running. At the end of the street stood a yellow house, framed by a white fence. A beautiful lawn stretched in front of it, a single tree standing tall with a wooden swing swaying gently in the breeze.

Toys lay scattered in the grass, long abandoned but untouched by time. Roses bloomed along the sidewalk, their scent drifting through the air.

"No way…"

I walked forward, my bare feet pressing against the cool stone path. The sensation sent a wave of bittersweet nostalgia crashing over me. My mother had planted those flowers. My father had built that swing. I could almost hear their voices in the wind. A rare, aching smile pulled at my lips. I hadn't let myself think about this place in so long. It was easier to pretend it was gone than to remember what I had lost.

Then—I saw it.

The front door.

The porch light was on. And from inside the house came the sound of voices, of laughter—of life. My breath hitched. My hands trembled.

"Could it be…?"

My voice barely came out, choked with something I couldn't name.

I push the door open with some difficulty—being this small again doesn't help. As soon as I step inside, the gloomy, hollow atmosphere dissolves, replaced by something warm and painfully familiar. The narrow hallway greets me first, lined with a wooden coat rack sagging under the weight of jackets and hats that rest undisturbed. Across from it, a shoe rack holds my father's boots, my mother's shoes, and my old slippers, neatly arranged as if waiting for their owners to return. The walls are cluttered with framed photos of us, mingled with my mother's tacky decorations—little ceramic owls, inspirational quotes in cursive, dried flowers pressed under glass.

A scent drifts from the kitchen—something rich, something home. The distant murmur of a TV filters through from the living room.

"Hana? You done playing already, sweetheart?"

The voice freezes me mid-step. My chest tightens, breath catches. Slowly, as if afraid I'll break the illusion, I follow the sound, passing the threshold into the kitchen. It's the same. Every detail is carved into my memory, unchanged by time. The old fridge, its surface covered in stickers and held-together Polaroids, a shopping list scribbled on a notepad stuck to the door with a fruit magnet. The wooden dining table, its seats padded with cushions because, in my mother's words, "Nobody should suffer a sore butt while eating."

Music hums from a small radio on the counter—some classic rock station. And then there she is.

My mother.

She sways in front of the stove, wooden spoon in hand, quietly mouthing the lyrics. Her curly, light brown hair bounces as she moves, and the steam from the pots fogs up her oversized glasses. I stand there, breathless, watching her as if she'll vanish the second I blink.

"Mom…" The word barely escapes my lips, little more than a breath of disbelief.

She doesn't react. I step closer and reach out, tugging the fabric of her jeans like I used to when I was small. That's when I notice—my hands. Small, soft. Human. I look down, and my stomach twists. My Feyweaver body is gone. I'm a child again.

"Oh?" she hums, still focused on the stove. "What's wrong, honey? Mommy's almost done with dinner. Did you get tired of playing?"

"M-Mom." My voice wavers as my fingers clutch at her tighter.

She pauses. Then, reaching over, she shuts off the radio, then the stove, before crouching to my level. Her hands frame my face, warm and steady, her touch so heartbreakingly familiar it nearly breaks me.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" she murmurs, searching my face. "Did something happen?"

I can't stop myself. I throw my arms around her, burying my face into her shoulder. A sob wracks through me, then another, and another.

"Mom… I'm sorry. I should have tried harder. I should have done better. I should have saved you."

Her arms wrap around me, gentle but firm, rubbing soothing circles on my back.

"Honey, you're scaring me. What are you talking about?"

"I failed you," I choke out. "I failed Dad. I failed everyone. I lost everything trying to keep you here, and it still wasn't enough. I'm so sorry, Mom."

She hushes me softly, rocking me as though I'm still that little girl who scraped her knees on the pavement. "Oh, my love… whatever happened, it's okay. Everything's going to be okay."

I cling to her, eyes squeezed shut, afraid that if I let go, this moment will disappear forever. Her warmth, her voice, the steady rise and fall of her breath—it's all so real. But I know better. I know this can't be real.

And yet, I don't care.

I hold onto her, letting her murmur reassurances, until the world shifts. When I open my eyes, the kitchen is gone. I'm not in my childhood home anymore. I'm lying in a dark cavern, the quiet hum of sleeping bees filling the space around me. Their soft, warm bodies press against mine, forming a protective nest. My hand trembles as I lift it to my face, fingertips brushing against the fresh trail of tears.

I wipe them away, slowly untangling myself from the swarm. Grabbing a silk blanket from nearby, I wrap it around myself and step toward the cave's entrance. The outside world greets me with a sky so blue it looks painted. Snowflakes drift lazily through the air, blanketing the ground in delicate, glistening white. The storms have ended. Winter is fading. Spring is near.

"Queen Mother?"

The voice pulls me from my thoughts. I turn to find Hans standing at the entrance, his golden eyes focused on me. Even with his helmet obscuring most of his face, I can feel his concern through our link.

"Hello, dear," I say, forcing a smile. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." He steps closer. "But I sensed a disturbance in the link… coming from you. I wanted to check if you were alright."

'Damn it. Is it too much to ask for a little privacy?'

I wave a dismissive hand. "Oh, sweetie, don't worry about it. I was just thinking about the past, about the future… what needs to be done. We need to start planting crops, setting up defenses, building walls, maybe even digging a ditch. Patrols need to be increased, scouting parties sent out. And don't even get me started on construction—rooms, machinery, research, experiments—ugh, the list is endless."

Hans listens in silence, standing beside me as we watch the snow fall. After a moment, he speaks.

"Mom?"

I glance at him. "Yeah?"

"You're doing a good job. Thank you."

I blink, caught off guard. "Huh? W-What? Where did that come from?"

"I know you worry about us. About the future. About everything." He shifts slightly. "If I'm being honest, I didn't think you could be… a proper queen."

I scoff, laughing lightly. "Gee, thanks."

"But," he continues, ignoring my remark, "you proved me wrong. You're not just our queen—you're our mother. You always face your fears head-on so we don't have to. Even when you think the worst, you never let it show. You make us feel safe. You make us feel… loved."

His voice softens. "I know you don't think you're a good queen. Or a good mother. But I do. I'm grateful to serve you. To have you."

A lump forms in my throat. Damn it, Hans.

I stare at the falling snow, blinking back the heat in my eyes. I know I'm not perfect. I know I've made mistakes. But I'm trying. I'm trying so damn hard to keep everyone alive, to keep us together. And hearing those words—from him, of all people—means more than I can say.

It's worth more than I could have ever asked for.