---
The carriage rolled on, its rhythm steady, like a heartbeat carrying them forward.
Elias had said, "We shall reach the mansion soon."
But apparently, "soon" in Elias's mouth did not mean soon in theirs.
The road stretched endlessly, the carriage smooth, and the silence inside was not heavy—it was softer now. A quiet kind of trust, not whole, not complete—maybe 20% if someone dared to measure it. But even that felt new to them.
Lucien had yet to wake since yesterday, though his breathing was steady. Elias didn't worry. He knew the boy would, when his body was ready.
It was Leya who broke the silence first.
She had been watching the animals outside, gathering by the roadside as though guided by some unseen hand. Her voice was barely audible, almost shy.
"When will he wake up?"
"Soon," Elias answered, calm as ever.
Elen frowned, his tone carrying that faint hesitation of someone still measuring safety.
"You also said we'd reach the capital soon… but we're nowhere near yet."
Elias's lips curved faintly—almost a smile. Both twins caught it, and something warm slipped under their guard for a moment. He looks cute when he smiles.
The thought startled them, and they pushed it away quickly.
Elias spoke again.
"Well," he said, still smiling, "when I say we'll reach the capital soon, I mean soon in my way. And when I say he will wake soon, I mean soon in your way. Understand?"
The two puffed their cheeks, turning away with mock annoyance, though their eyes betrayed them, shining faintly.
"We understand," they muttered, huffing softly.
Maybe he thought of them as only children in that moment.
It was the truer part of them slipping out without permission. Even they didn't understand it.
For them...
It was an act, an act to act like a normal child, in front of him...but kids knew the truth— maybe this all wasn't truly am act, yet they won't admit it...not yet.
Elias's voice remained steady, like a warm current flowing through the small space. It felt shaped only for them.
Could this moment really exist? they wondered.
Were they allowed to believe it could last?
Their hearts whispered fragile things they never dared before—not of crowns, not of cages, but of walking a path where they could breathe, simply as themselves.
Mirrors. That's what they were—Elen and Leya, reflections of each other's fears and small hopes. And Elias, blindfolded, somehow understood them too well. Not with pity, not with chains of obligation—just with the quiet refusal to push them further into pain.
---
The carriage moved into afternoon light, spilling warmth across the fields. They passed beyond forest shade into the edges of a village.
Children played. Farmers bent to their crops. The air carried the scent of soil and fresh bread. When the villagers saw the crest on the carriage, whispers spread like sparks.
"Mom, mom, it's the Lord's crest!"
"Nonsense," a woman began—until her eyes widened, and her voice faltered. "It… it is him."
The carriage slowed. Elias leaned slightly toward the window, and faces turned with reverence.
A woman hurried forward, basket in her arms. "My Lord, welcome back." She offered bread—rough, humble, but baked with care.
"Thank you," Elias said, his lips carrying a boyish smile that made the woman flush.
Others followed, offering flowers, vegetables, whatever they had.
A small boy clutched his mother's skirt, then gathered courage to hold out a single white lily. Elias accepted it with deliberate gentleness.
"Oh? My little master, where are you hiding? I can't see you."
The child peeked out, giggling.
"Welcome back, my Lord," he whispered.
"Thank you," Elias replied, playful warmth softening his tone. The children's laughter rang like bells through the crowd.
The twins exchanged a glance—half skeptical, half quietly shaken.
"Do they all know you?" Elen asked under his breath.
"They're my people," Elias said, as if that alone explained everything.
Leya tilted her head. "And you know all their names?"
"Not all," Elias admitted, smile deepening. "But I try."
---
They hadn't noticed—at least, not openly—that Lucien had woken. His lashes fluttered faintly, though he kept still, pretending to sleep. He watched everything through the narrowest crack of his gaze.
But Elias knew. He always knew. His heart told him even before Lucien stirred. And when the boy finally shifted, Elias simply played along.
Lucien's fingers twitched against Elias's coat. His eyes opened—slow, guarded, scanning in silence.
"You're awake," Elias said quietly.
Lucien's gaze flicked to him. "…For now." His voice was rough, but steady.
"You don't have to stay awake if it hurts," Elias replied.
Lucien's jaw clenched. "It doesn't hurt."
Leya frowned. "You look like it hurts."
Lucien shot her a sharp look. "And you look like you talk too much."
Elen snorted before he could stop himself, earning a quick glare from his sister. Elias only chuckled softly. "It's good to hear your voice, at least."
Lucien didn't answer, but for a heartbeat—just one—his eyes softened.
---
The road carried them deeper into the outskirts, villagers still waving, still bringing flowers.
Leya tilted her head. "Why do they keep giving you flowers?"
"Because they want to," Elias said simply.
"No one's ever given us flowers," Elen muttered.
"…Yeah," Leya whispered.
"Then I'll give you one when we reach the mansion," Elias said without hesitation.
Elen blinked. "…Why?"
"Because I want to."
Lucien, still leaning into Elias's side, watched not the flowers but the man himself—how he accepted every gift, every word, never brushing anyone aside. It made something ache in his chest, a feeling he didn't like.
Elias noticed his gaze. He didn't speak. He just rested his hand lightly over the blanket covering Lucien's leg. Not holding, not restraining—just there.
Lucien didn't pull away. Not this time.
And then Elias tilted his head towards outside , blindfold shadowing his face. A small smile curved his lips—gentle, knowing.
High above, in the branches of a tree, someone shifted. A branch cracked—
and down they tumbled, crashing through leaves.
The smile never left Elias's face.
---
Next day:-
The carriage kept rolling, night passed, and morning again.
Inside, the children slept soundly. The seats were no featherbeds, but warmer than any stone basement, softer than the cold floor they once endured.
By afternoon, the carriage drew near a lake, and the children grew restless, boredom bubbling up. Elias noticed before their sighs grew too heavy.
"Let's go," he said, standing. Without waiting for protests, he tugged the groggy, whining kids outside.
The sunlight caught in the rippling water. And for a moment, the shadows in their hearts eased, just a little.
---