115. Thirteenth Throne

The heart is so small, it is only around the size of my palm. Its surfaces are covered in scars. Along every pulsation, silently it bleeds, staining the pure white petals red.

Its thick blood streams down from the stems and to its roots, that the blood has become the primary fertiliser to the plant.

It beats so slowly and softly, that it almost seems static, as if its strength is fading, and its will is wilting.

Along with a shuddering gasp, soreness surges up my lacrimal glands forcing the tears to flow——Is this the reason why Esmund always clutches his chest? Every time he does that, his face turns ghastly. It even makes him feel difficult to breathe… He is becoming so weak because of this…!