Ulviat

The sun had been crawling across the sky for what felt like an eternity. Warm light spilled over the field, setting every daisy aglow like a thousand little suns, and yet Ulviat felt nothing but the slow, gnawing ache of boredom.

“he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me…”

Her voice drifted through the air, gentle and unhurried. Each word was paired with the soft pluck of a petal, another tiny white scrap falling to her lap. He had memorized the rhythm by now. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell exactly when the final petal would come loose.

And when it did—

“…He loves me not.”

The last petal fluttered down, and Ulviat felt something in his chest tighten. Again. Always not.

He frowned, his talons scraping faintly against the rock beneath him. Feathers rustled in irritation, wings shifting with a restless twitch. The air was thick with the scent of flowers, but it was starting to make him dizzy—too sweet, too heavy, too much of her.

Another daisy. Another sigh. Another cycle.

“…Masteer,” he finally called, drawing out her title with a half-hearted whine. “How much longer are you going to continue? We’ve already been here for hours.”

She didn’t even turn to look at him. Just smiled faintly, like the question hadn’t mattered.

“We’ll keep going until the last petal is ‘He loves me.’ There are so many daisies here, anyway.”

Ulviat’s jaw tightened. Of course she said that. She always said that. He watched her fingers delicately cradle the next flower, her touch so careful it made his throat tighten. She was beautiful like that—focused, patient, a little bit cruel without realizing it.

He plucked at one of his own feathers, not hard enough to hurt, just to do something. The sound of petals being torn apart was maddening.

“…You’re more likely to leave the field empty than that will happen, Master,” he muttered.