At the Royal Palace, the King, Queen, Count James, and Countess Sara were seated together. The air was heavy, and no one spoke for a long time. James looked hollow—his eyes sunken, his hands shaking as they rested on his lap. Sara, beside him, forced a smile that couldn't mask the tension crawling over her face.
The King broke the silence. "James," he said quietly, "not as your King, but as your friend—I need to know. What happened with Edward? Why did he suddenly decide to leave everything?"
James didn't answer immediately. He looked down, away from everyone. The weight of guilt had made him visibly smaller. His silence wasn't just hesitation—it was shame. Deep, choking shame. He was reliving everything in his mind, and it showed.
The King studied him. In all their years of friendship, he'd never seen James like this. Not in battle. Not in politics. But now, that same man couldn't even look him in the eye. And the King realized—some guilt buries you deeper than failure ever could.
Finally, James began. Quietly. He told them everything.
Meanwhile, at the Bolton mansion, the atmosphere was suffocating. No one dared speak unless absolutely necessary. Even the servants moved slowly, their usual chatter gone. Whispers of the banquet scandal had already reached every corner of the capital.
Edward was alone on the balcony, arms resting on the railing, eyes fixed on the cityscape but seeing none of it. The wind was cool, but he didn't notice. His mind was somewhere else—lost in memories he had spent years burying.
Twenty-five years ago, the day Edward was born, there was joy. Genuine joy. His parents doted on him, held him like he was their whole world. For five years, he had that love. That warmth.
And then the twins came.
Born premature, frail, and constantly ill, they demanded full-time care. The doctor had warned it would be years before their immune systems were strong. And so every waking moment of the Count and Countess went to the newborns.
It wasn't that they stopped loving Edward—but every day, they chose the younger ones. And slowly, Edward stopped asking. The only person who remained by his side was his nanny, Clara.
Whenever Edward tried to get attention, whenever he cried or threw a tantrum, the answer was always the same:
"You're the eldest. You should behave like one."
No one remembered that he was still just a child.
He started hiding his feelings. He stopped crying. But Clara noticed.
One day, she approached the Count. "My lord, young master Edward... he needs you. He's only a child—he's hurting."
James didn't even look up from his papers. "Clara, are you accusing me of neglecting my son? I'm doing everything I can. I have the twins, the estate—"
"But Count, please just—"
"I said enough!" he snapped. "Get out."
Edward wasn't supposed to be listening. But he stood outside the door as his nanny pleaded, and his father's voice cut through the wood like a blade.
Clara didn't give up. She approached the Countess next—but the result was the same. When Clara turned to the Countess, hoping for even a flicker of sympathy, Sara just looked away and whispered, "We're doing our best."
Clara stood in silence for a moment. Her shoulders sank, her face pale. She blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears back. But Edward saw it. He didn't say anything. He just stood by the hallway wall, unnoticed, taking it all in.
That evening, as Clara prepared to leave, Edward stood silently by the gate. His little fists were clenched. His eyes—wet, but he didn't cry.
He ran to his father's office.
"Father, don't make Clara go. Please, don't."
James didn't even pause his writing. He looked up briefly and said, "You're the eldest child of the Bolton family. Stop crying and behave like one."
That was the first time James raised his voice at Edward.
Edward didn't respond. He just stood there, confused. Hurt.
Later that night, he placed the birthday card he made for his father under his pillow. A folded sheet with uneven stick figures and a heart drawn in red. It stayed there for weeks. No one ever asked about it.