Coma I

Days grew shorter.

Winds colder.

Leaves reddened, then fell.

Time passed.

After the Sophomore Ball, the academy returned to its routine, indifferent to the heartache that still lingered in its halls. Life moved on, as it always did. The sun set in the west, rose again in the east. No matter the sorrow or loss, the world continued to turn, unfeeling, unstoppable.

Rachel Creighton walked through the long corridor of Mythos Academy, her face carefully blank. The soft rustle of her gown echoed against the polished floors, but her thoughts were far from the grandeur of the academy's architecture. Instead, they were firmly rooted in the infirmary, in the room where she had been visiting daily.

"Here again, Princess Rachel?" the receptionist greeted her with a gentle, knowing smile.

Rachel offered a curt nod in response, saying nothing as she passed. She knew what they all thought—the rumors, the whispered sympathies—but none of it mattered. All that mattered was where she was headed. Room 130.

The receptionist's sigh followed her down the hallway, the weight of unspoken words heavy in the air.

"Who would have thought… the princess of the North, looking so fragile?" the receptionist muttered to herself. But Rachel didn't care. Let them think what they want.

She opened the door to the room.

There he was, lying motionless on the bed. Arthur Nightingale.

For a moment, the sight of him, pale and still, hit her harder than she expected. His chest rose and fell slowly, the steady rhythm of his breathing the only sign that he was still alive. A month had passed, and yet there had been no change. No flicker of consciousness, no sign that he might wake up. The coma held him in a cruel, unyielding grip.

Rachel stepped closer, her fingers brushing the edge of his blanket as she sat down beside the bed.

"You're still here," she whispered, her voice softer than she'd meant it to be. She had spoken those words a hundred times, but it never felt any less surreal. Arthur had always been so full of life, a force of will and determination. Seeing him like this, so vulnerable, twisted something deep inside her.

The weight of it all—the uncertainty, the fear—it was suffocating. Yet, she came every day, just to sit with him, to be near him. She wasn't sure if he could hear her, but it didn't matter. She needed him to know she was there.

Light mages were unparalleled in healing.

But even for Rachel, a prodigy among light mages, the damage Arthur had suffered was beyond belief. His muscles, ligaments, nerves, mana channels, and even his mana core had all been pushed to the absolute limit during his battle with Drake Namgung.

The only reason he was still breathing, lying here in this bed, was because of her magic. If not for that—he would have either lost his ability to use mana entirely or, worse, he would have died.

Arthur had pushed himself that hard. Forced his body to endure the impossible, skipping through the natural stages of the integration process to reach the first stage, all to protect her.

Rachel clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as guilt gnawed at her. It settled deep in her chest, a heavy weight she couldn't shake.

She hated this feeling. Hated it more than anything.

The feeling of weakness. Of helplessness. Of standing on the sidelines while someone else paid the price.

She knew Cecilia and Seraphina felt it too. They had spoken in hushed tones about it, the day after the ball. How they had all been toyed with by Drake while Arthur fought Luke. And then, when Arthur faced Drake… they had done nothing.

Nothing.

Rachel bit her lip, her gaze flickering over Arthur's still form. She had always admired him for how he saw her—not as the Princess of the North, not as the future Saintess, but simply as a girl. He had understood her scars, the weight of her trauma, and helped her carry it.

But what had she done for him?

Sure, she had helped him refine his spellcasting during the winter break, offered support here and there—but was that enough? Could she really say she had been there for him the way he had for her?

It didn't feel like enough. Not when he had sacrificed so much for her.

Her heart ached at the thought. Arthur had risked his life for her. For all of them. But Rachel couldn't help but wonder… had she really been worth it?

Rachel's thoughts were interrupted by the soft creak of the door opening behind her. She turned, her eyes widening slightly as Arthur's parents stepped into the room.

His father entered first—tall, with an air of quiet authority that seemed to command respect effortlessly. His azure eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over the room, lingering for a moment on Arthur's still figure before settling on Rachel.

Arthur's mother followed closely behind, her steps light, her face serene yet burdened with worry. Her blonde hair was tied back in a simple bun, but the elegance she carried spoke of someone used to being in positions of grace and power. Her eyes, however, softened as they met Rachel's, offering a silent acknowledgment.

"Princess Rachel," his father greeted, his voice low and composed, but there was a tension in it. The weight of a father watching his son lie unconscious on a hospital bed.

Rachel nodded slightly, stepping back to give them space. "Lord Nightingale, Lady Nightingale," she greeted quietly, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions within her.

Arthur's mother moved closer to the bed, her hand lightly brushing over Arthur's hair, her expression unreadable but full of a mother's concern. She didn't say a word, but the sadness in her eyes spoke volumes.

His father, on the other hand, remained at a distance, his gaze focused solely on Arthur. The air in the room grew heavier as his presence seemed to fill every corner. His hands clasped behind his back, he observed his son in silence.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Rachel felt a knot of tension form in her chest. Standing here now, in the presence of two people who had known Arthur his whole life, she felt… out of place. Like she didn't belong in this moment of family sorrow.

Finally, his father spoke, his voice firm but laced with an undercurrent of something Rachel couldn't quite place.

"How long has he been like this?" he asked, his gaze still fixed on Arthur.

Rachel hesitated for a moment. "It's been a little over two weeks now," she said softly. "The healers say he's stable, but…" She trailed off, not wanting to state the obvious. They all knew the situation was precarious.

His father's expression didn't change, but Rachel could sense the weight of his worry. His mother, on the other hand, gently caressed Arthur's hand, her fingers trembling slightly. She closed her eyes, as though willing her son to wake up through sheer force of will.

"The healers have done all they can," Alice Nightingale finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But it's up to him now."

"Thank you for staying with him, Princess," Douglas said, his voice polite but distant. "But you should rest. You've done enough."

Rachel's heart sank slightly at the dismissal, but she knew it wasn't meant to offend. His words were more a protective gesture than anything else.

"I'll stay a little longer," Rachel replied softly, her eyes drifting back to Arthur. She couldn't leave. Not yet. Not while he was still lying there, unconscious and vulnerable.

His father nodded once, turning back to his wife and son, while Rachel quietly returned to her chair by the bed, her mind swirling with thoughts of guilt and helplessness.

For now, all any of them could do was wait.