The Secret Garden Wish

Chapter 1 The Blood‑Stained Throne

The kingdom had once been a place of light.

Aerith remembered fragments—warm hands lifting her, a lullaby sung in a voice she could never quite recall, the scent of flowers drifting through sunlit halls. But memory was a fragile thing, and hers had been shattered before she was old enough to understand what loss meant.

What she did remember was the silence.

The palace was too quiet now. Its marble corridors echoed with nothing but her footsteps, its gardens tended by servants who never met her eyes, its throne room sealed behind doors she was forbidden to open. The kingdom had become a mausoleum, and she its lonely ghost.

She stood at her window, watching the dawn bleed over the horizon. The sky was a soft pink, the kind that made her chest ache with longing. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, life moved freely—children laughed, merchants shouted, birds soared. She pressed her palm against the glass, wishing she could feel the wind on her skin.

But she was not allowed outside.

Not anymore.

Not since the night Hojo murdered her parents.

She didn't remember the screams. She didn't remember the blood. She didn't remember Sephiroth stepping over her father's body as he claimed the throne. But she remembered waking up in a room she didn't recognize, a nurse whispering that she was "safe now," and Sephiroth's silver hair glinting like a blade in the candlelight.

He had smiled at her.

She had cried.

Aerith closed her eyes, pushing the memory away. She didn't want to think about Sephiroth—not his cold voice, not his calculating gaze, not the way he watched her as though she were a prize he had already won.

But she could feel him even now, somewhere in the palace. His presence was a shadow stretching across every hallway, every locked door, every breath she took.

She turned from the window and walked toward the garden. It was the only place she was allowed to wander freely, though even here she was watched. Two guards stood at the entrance, their armor gleaming, their expressions blank.

"Aerith Gainsborough," one said, bowing stiffly. "The sorcerer requests your presence after breakfast."

Her stomach tightened.

Sephiroth never "requested." He commanded.

"Tell him I'll come," she said softly.

The guard nodded, stepping aside.

Aerith entered the garden, inhaling deeply. Flowers bloomed in every direction—roses, lilies, sunflowers, and dozens of rare species she had coaxed into life with her own hands. The air shimmered faintly with green light, reacting to her presence. Her Cetra heritage pulsed beneath her skin, a quiet hum she had never fully understood.

She knelt beside a patch of white blossoms, brushing her fingers over their petals. They glowed faintly, responding to her touch.

"You're growing beautifully," she whispered.

The flowers swayed as though answering.

She smiled—small, fragile, but real.

It was the only place she felt alive.

---

Sephiroth watched her from the balcony above.

His eyes were sharp, calculating, reflecting the morning light like polished steel. He leaned against the railing, his long coat fluttering in the breeze, his gloved hands resting casually as though he were simply enjoying the view.

But he wasn't.

He was studying her.

Aerith Gainsborough—the last heir to the kingdom, the final key to the throne he had stolen. Her parents had been obstacles. Removing them had been necessary. But Aerith... Aerith was the crown jewel. The kingdom was legally hers, and until she married, Sephiroth's rule was incomplete.

He intended to correct that.

Soon.

He watched her kneel among the flowers, her hair catching the sunlight, her expression soft with innocence. She was beautiful—radiant, ethereal, a creature of pure light. And she was his.

Or she would be.

He turned as footsteps approached.

Hojo shuffled forward, his lab coat stained, his glasses reflecting the green glow of mako. His smile was thin and serpentine.

"She grows stronger," Hojo rasped. "Her Cetra abilities are maturing. Soon she will be able to channel the Planet's magic directly."

Sephiroth's eyes narrowed.

"And her compliance?"

Hojo chuckled. "She fears you. That is enough."

Sephiroth's jaw tightened. Fear was useful, but not ideal. He wanted Aerith obedient, yes—but he also wanted her bound to him. A queen who despised her king was inconvenient. A queen who loved him... that would be perfection.

"She will marry me," Sephiroth said.

Hojo bowed. "Of course. The kingdom will be yours entirely."

Sephiroth looked down at Aerith again.

She was touching a flower, her expression distant, wistful.

He wondered what she was thinking.

He wondered if she dreamed of escape.

He wondered if she knew that escape was impossible.

---

Aerith felt a chill crawl down her spine.

She didn't know why.

She stood, brushing dirt from her hands, and turned toward the palace. Breakfast would be served soon, and after that... Sephiroth.

She hated the way her heart raced at the thought.

She hated the way her hands trembled.

She hated the way she felt trapped.

But she walked anyway.

Because she had no choice.

---

Far below the palace, in the slums of Midgar, Cloud Strife woke from a dream he didn't understand.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, staring at the dim light filtering through the cracks in the ceiling. His room was small, cluttered, barely more than a shack. But it was his.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold floor beneath his feet.

The dream lingered.

A voice.
A light.
A promise.

Three wishes.

He didn't know what it meant.

But he felt something shift inside him—something quiet, something dangerous, something that whispered that his life was about to change.

He didn't know how.

He didn't know why.

But he felt it.

Like destiny calling.

---

Aerith walked into the throne room.

Sephiroth stood waiting.

The doors closed behind her with a heavy thud.

And the story began.