Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 151: Now In Return Be My bride

🌸 Flashback — Little Zyren & Little Moon:

The Kael mansion’s garden is alive with color, breathing and blooming in the warm afternoon light.

Flowers stretch toward the sun in every shade imaginable—crimson roses climbing ancient trellises, golden marigolds lining the stone paths, soft lavender swaying gently in the breeze like waves on a purple sea.

Butterflies drift lazily from bloom to bloom, their wings painted in patterns so intricate, so beautiful, they seem to belong more to dreams than to waking life.

The sun hangs warm and golden in the sky, not harsh, not demanding—just present, casting everything in a soft, dreamy glow that makes the world feel softer, kinder.

A tiny figure races across the grass, his laughter ringing out like bells carried on the wind.

Six-year-old Zyren runs with complete abandon, his small feet pounding against the soft grass, his arms outstretched as if he could catch the whole world in his embrace.

Silver hair catches the sunlight with every movent, shimring like spun moonlight, like sothing not quite of this earth.

His eyes—big and innocent and the color of fresh snow under a winter sky—are fixed on the butterflies dancing just ahead of him, their wings flashing brilliant colors with every flutter.

"Mama! Mama!" he calls out between giggles, his voice high and sweet, carried across the garden.

"Look! Butterflies!"

He stumbles over a hidden root, catches himself, and keeps running without missing a beat, his tiny hands reaching, grasping, missing.

A butterfly flutters just beyond his fingertips, close enough to almost touch, far enough to keep him chasing.

He lets out a dramatic groan that would be fitting for soone three tis his age.

In the corner of the garden, nestled against the gnarled trunk of an old oak tree that has stood for generations, a twelve-year-old boy sits cross-legged on the grass.

His dark hair falls across his forehead in soft waves, and his blue eyes—too deep for a boy his age—are focused intently on the task before him.

Moon works carefully, his slender fingers moving with a delicacy that seems at odds with his age.

He picks through the flowers he’s gathered in a small pile beside him—a crimson rose, a perfect daisy, sothing small and purple he found hidden near the fountain.

He examines each one before weaving it into the growing creation in his hands, choosing each one with quiet intention.

His expression is soft in a way it never is now, in the present. Focused, yes, but peaceful. Content. There’s no tension in his jaw, no sharpness in his eyes.

Just a boy, making sothing beautiful for soone he loves.

At a small wrought-iron table nearby, two figures sit in comfortable silence, cups of coffee steaming before them, forgotten in the warmth of the mont.

Rose Kael sits with the natural elegance of soone born to grace. Her dark hair is swept back from a face that holds the ghost of the beauty her son inherited—the sa high cheekbones, the sa softness around the eyes. She watches her youngest with an expression of pure, unfiltered love.

Milan Arden, Moon’s oga father, sits across from her. His features are fine and beautifully sculpted, his presence quiet but dignified, softened now by the tender smile playing on his lips as he watches the children.

His eyes follow the silver-haired boy chasing butterflies, and sothing tender flickers across his face—sothing that looks almost like longing.

"Rose," he says softly, not looking away from Zyren. His voice is quiet, as if speaking too loud might break the spell.

"Your little son is so beautiful."

A soft, genuine smile spreads across her lips. It’s the kind of smile that only exists for children, for monts like this—unguarded, real, full of everything she feels but rarely says.

"Yes," she agrees quietly.

"He was born with extraordinary beauty." A pause.

"He’s so precious to us."

Milan sips his coffee, though it’s likely cold by now, his gaze fixed on the tiny figure stumbling toward them, cheeks flushed from his chase.

"Extraordinary," he echoes, tasting the word.

"That’s the right word."

Zyren reaches the table at last, breath uneven, silver hair clinging damply to his temples.

He pouts—dramatic and exaggerated, the kind that belongs only to children who know they are loved, who have never known anything else.

"Mama!"

He points a chubby finger at a butterfly drifting lazily away, oblivious to the tiny human it has captivated.

"I want that butterfly!"

Rose’s smile widens, crinkling the corners of her eyes. She opens her arms wide.

"Oh, my love. Co here."

Zyren runs to her without hesitation, and she lifts him effortlessly, settling him on her lap. He fits there perfectly, like he’s always belonged.

She wipes his temple gently with her thumb, brushing away the sweat, her touch infinitely tender.

"Baby, you’re sweating," she murmurs.

"Take a rest. Drink so water. Then you can try again."

Milan leans forward, his eyes crinkling with amusent.

"Our Zyren is such a hard worker."

Zyren’s big, innocent eyes blink up at him, processing the complint. Then he nods quickly, seriously, as if confirming a great and important truth.

"Yes. I am."

Both adults laugh, the sound warm and light, rising into the garden air like the butterflies he was chasing.

"Zyren!"

Moon’s voice carries across the grass, clear and bright. He’s standing now near the oak tree, his hands behind his back, a secret smile playing on his lips.

"Co here! I made sothing for you!"

Zyren wiggles off his mother’s lap without a second thought and takes off running, his earlier exhaustion completely forgotten.

His small feet carry him across the grass, past the flowers, straight to Moon.

He skids to a stop in front of the older boy, his silver hair bouncing with the sudden movent. His eyes are wide with anticipation.

"Moon! Show !"

Moon’s smile turns mysterious, secretive.

"First, close your eyes."

Zyren’s little face scrunches in protest.

"No!"

Moon looks away, casual, unaffected—though a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Then I’m not giving it to you."

Zyren’s pout returns, even more dramatic than before, his lower lip jutting out in pure childish indignation.

But he squeezes his eyes shut, his tiny fists clenched at his sides, his whole body quivering with the effort of not peeking.

Moon’s expression softens, the playful mask dropping away to reveal sothing gentler underneath.

He brings his hands forward, revealing what he’s made—a crown of flowers, delicate and beautiful, woven with care and patience and sothing that might already be love.

He places it gently on Zyren’s silver head, his fingers brushing through the soft strands, adjusting it just so.

The flowers nestle among the silver like they belong there, like they’ve found their ho.

"Now open your eyes."

Zyren’s eyes flutter open. His hands rise imdiately, touching the flowers in his hair with wonder. His face transforms—awe, delight, pure childish joy spreading across his features like sunrise.

Moon grins, reaching out to squeeze his cheeks gently.

"Now you don’t have to run after butterflies. They’ll follow you."

Zyren’s eyes go impossibly wide.

"Really?"

Moon nods proudly, his chest puffing slightly.

"Really."

Zyren giggles, touching his flower crown again, spinning in a small circle to make the petals dance.

"Thank you, Moon!"

Moon bends down and plucks a single flower from the garden—a small white bloom, perfect and pure.

He holds it out to Zyren, his expression suddenly serious, weighted with sothing beyond his years.

"Now, in return," he says, his voice quiet but firm, "be my bride."

Zyren’s face scrunches in confusion, his small brow furrowing.

"What’s a bride?"

Moon takes his small hand, holding it carefully, gently, like sothing precious.

"A bride ans..."

He pauses, searching for words that a six-year-old might understand.

"You’re my oga. You’re not allowed to play with anyone but ."

Zyren blinks up at him, processing this information with the seriousness only a child can muster.

The flower crown rests on his silver hair, the white bloom clutched in his free hand. He thinks about it—really thinks, his little face scrunched in concentration.

Then he smiles. Bright and innocent and full of trust. He squeezes Moon’s hand back.

"Okay!"

They run off together, hand in hand, the flower crown bouncing on Zyren’s silver head, their laughter trailing behind them like music carried on the breeze. The garden seems brighter with them in it, more alive.

At the table, Milan and Rose watch in comfortable silence. Their coffee sits untouched, forgotten, growing cold in the warm afternoon air.

After a long mont, Milan speaks, his voice thoughtful, almost reverent.

"Rose..."

He pauses, watching the two children disappear around a corner, still holding hands.

"What do you think?"

Rose’s eyes follow them—Moon, dark and protective even at twelve, Zyren, silver and laughing, trusting completely.

They vanish behind a hedge, but their laughter still echoes.

She smiles softly. Her eyes are bright, touched by sothing that might be tears or might just be the sunlight.

"I think," she says quietly, "they look made for each other."

The words hang in the air, warm and true, as the garden continues to bloom around them.