The Bolton estate was silent when they returned that night.
Not a word was spoken in the carriage. No one dared. The servants, lined up at the entrance, bowed stiffly, their eyes avoiding Edward's face. They had heard. Everyone in the capital had heard.
Edward didn't stop to speak to anyone. He stepped out of the carriage and walked straight inside—past the grand hallway, past the drawing room, past his mother's soft whisper—straight to his bedroom. The doors shut behind him without a sound.
Count James Bolton stood in place for a moment, jaw tight. "Edward," he called.
No reply. No pause. Just silence.
Sara touched her husband's arm gently. "Let him be tonight," she said quietly. "Tomorrow… we'll try."
Alyssa stood off to the side, her arms folded tightly, her face unreadable. But her eyes—narrowed, restless—gave her away. She didn't move. She didn't follow him. She just stood there, not knowing what to say, or if she even had the right to.
That night, no one slept.
The sun rose, but the heaviness in the mansion didn't lift.
Edward didn't come out for breakfast. His chair at the table stayed empty, the food untouched. James sat with his fingers laced, staring at the place where his son should have been. The servants moved with caution, their steps light, their eyes lowered. It wasn't fear—just discomfort. Tension hung in every room like a low fog.
Sara sat beside her husband and gently placed her hand over his. Her fingers trembled slightly. James didn't look at her. He just nodded.
Outside, the gossip had already spread. Nobles speculated. Ministers debated. The common folk whispered in the market streets. But none of that mattered here—not today.
James finally signaled to a servant. "Send word to my son. Ask him to come to my study."
Nearly an hour passed before Edward arrived.
He stepped inside with that same calm, detached expression. No armor now, no rank—just a man who had already left in his mind.
James stood up. "Are you really going to leave this house?" he asked, voice low.
Edward didn't answer right away. He sat across from his father, meeting his eyes directly—without hatred, but without affection either.
James reached forward, placing his hand over Edward's. "Edward… we're your parents. This is your home."
Edward looked down at their joined hands. Then, slowly and deliberately, he pulled his hand away.
"No," he said. "It isn't."
The words landed heavier than anything shouted could have.
Sara stepped forward, her voice fragile. "Edward… can't you give us one more chance? Please. I know what we did to you—it was wrong. But it was never intentional."
He stared at her.
"You know," he said slowly, "family is supposed to be the one place where you're safe. Where you're seen. But once that breaks—even if you try to fix it—there's always a knot. It might hold… but it scrapes. Every time."
He stood.
For a moment, he paused at the door—his hand resting on the frame. Just for a second.
Then he let it go, and walked out.
Sara's legs gave out. She collapsed into the chair behind her, her hands trembling as they covered her face.
"We broke him," she whispered. "We broke that boy. The one who used to look at us with nothing but love in his eyes."
James didn't argue. He just placed his hand on her shoulder and held her there as she cried.
In the hallway, Alyssa stood frozen.
She had heard every word.
And now, there was no excuse left.
She remembered—
The night Edward had returned early from training. She'd locked the door to her room. He had knocked, quietly, just once.
She hadn't even answered. Just said through the door, cold and sharp, "You're not even worth my time."
It had been five years ago.
She had told herself he didn't care. That he was strong. That he didn't feel things the way others did.
But hearing his voice downstairs, calm and steady, refusing them all… she finally understood.
He had always felt everything. He had just learned to hide it better than anyone else.
That same afternoon, at the Royal Palace, the King sat alone in his chamber with two senior advisors. One of them placed a thick folder on the desk—Edward's file. From his childhood to his rise in the army. The advisor didn't speak. He just nodded and stepped back.
The King opened it.
He saw the reports. Behavioral notes from his academy years. Bruises chalked up as "training accidents." Unread letters. Suppressed inquiries. Buried misconduct reports.
Then the palace files: the political marriage contract. The incident, sealed by the Boltons, dismissed as a misunderstanding. Nothing had ever reached the King's desk. No one had ever asked him to look.
But it was all here now.
His fingers tightened on the paper as he flipped through them.
He remembered Edward at thirteen, standing at the training yard, blood on his sleeve and pride in his posture.
He remembered assuming the boy was tough—that toughness meant happiness.
He remembered how quiet Edward had been at the engagement ceremony. He had thought it was shyness.
He had never asked. Not once.
The King leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling above.
"I didn't see it," he said aloud. "I never even asked if he was happy. I thought… I thought being born into the Boltons, marrying into the crown, being called 'son'—that would be enough."
The Queen entered, followed by the Prince.
They paused when they saw him. He looked tired, sunken.
"What happened?" the Queen asked, stepping closer.
He didn't answer. He just slid the folder across the table.
She opened it. The Prince leaned in. Both of them read silently.
The Queen's eyes welled up. Her lips pressed into a hard line.
The Prince sat back slowly. "He never said anything."
"No," the King said. "Because no one was ever listening."
He turned toward his desk again and took up a fresh sheet of parchment.
"Send for the Bolton family," he said. "All of them. Tomorrow."