"Your Highness, do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused this time?"
Alaric sat lazily in his chair, one arm resting against the window ledge, watching the horizon fade from gold to gray. His aide—Sir Lucas, the one man who dared to scold him without losing his head—stood before him, pale with exhaustion and barely contained irritation.
"You left without a word for nearly a week," Lucas continued, pacing furiously. "No escort, no messenger, no updates. The council nearly tore each other apart trying to find an excuse for your absence, and the Queen's faction is already spreading rumors. Fortunately, Duke Lucien helped divert attention before the banquet. If he hadn't—"
"Fortunately?" Alaric cut in with a sharp laugh. "Even without Lucien, I could have convinced the envoy."
Lucas crossed his arms. "You mean threatened, Your Highness?"
Alaric's grin thinned, pride gleaming in his eyes. "Semantics, Lucas. The result is the same."
The aide pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something between a curse and a prayer. "Sometimes I wonder if your recklessness is inherited or self-taught."
"Neither," Alaric said coolly. "It's earned."
Lucas sighed, defeated. "Then perhaps, Your Highness, you might earn yourself some restraint before you give the King another reason to worry."
That last line lingered in the room like smoke. For a fleeting moment, Alaric's gaze faltered toward the sealed correspondence on his desk—reports of the King's worsening condition—but he quickly masked it with indifference.
"Enough, Lucas," he said, standing. "I've rested long enough. Prepare the horses. I'm going south again."
Lucas blinked. "To the village? You mean Vareth?"
Alaric's lips curved faintly. "Exactly."
---
Meanwhile, far from the royal walls, Caelum knelt on muddy ground, surrounded by the scent of ash and soap. The orphanage courtyard was small—barely enough space for the children to chase one another—but laughter filled it like sunlight.
He had spent the morning distributing bread and medicine, his sleeves rolled up, his posture relaxed. The people adored him for it.
But when his aide approached, the warmth in his eyes dimmed.
"Your Highness," the aide said softly, "a report came from the capital. The Queen Consort has made her move again. She approached the envoy herself after the treaty signing."
Caelum didn't look up, carefully wiping a child's scraped knee. "So Mother grows impatient."
"Yes," the aide replied, hesitating. "Do you not intend to—"
"To fight Alaric?" Caelum interrupted, his tone dry. "Oh, I intend to. But not with words or pointless parades."
The aide frowned. "Then what—"
Caelum smiled thinly, straightening as the child ran off laughing. "A better plan. One that guarantees victory and removes him from succession entirely."
There was something chillingly calm in his voice—something that made even the aide swallow nervously.
As they turned to leave, someone caught his wrist.
"...Amara?"
The voice was soft, trembling with disbelief. Caelum froze, turning to see a woman in her thirties, her cloak faded from travel. Her scent—a faint trace of recessive alpha—brushed the air, familiar yet foreign.
"I— I'm sorry," the woman said quickly, stepping back. "You just... you look so much like her."
"Her?" Caelum asked, voice guarded.
"My old friend," she murmured. "Her name was Amara."
Caelum's jaw tightened. "That's not my name."
Her eyes widened. "Ah— for-give me, Your Highness. I didn't realize—"
"It's fine," he cut off smoothly, bowing his head slightly in dismissal. "Be careful on your way."
As he walked away, his aide glanced at him nervously. "Your Highness... you don't think—"
"Find out who she is," Caelum ordered quietly. "And how she knows my mother's name."
---
In **Vareth**, the summer sun hung high over the rolling fields, glinting off the shallow stream that curved through the woods.
Alaric stood at its edge, boots half-soaked, watching the two small boys laugh and splash water at one another.
It had been days since he first arrived again in the village—days of Rin pretending he didn't exist. The man had mastered the art of indifference, and Alaric, for all his command, couldn't force the herbalist to even glance his way.
So he turned his attention elsewhere.
If he couldn't win the heart of the man, then perhaps… he could start with the hearts of his sons.
"Careful, you'll catch a chill," he called, stepping closer.
The boys looked up. Riven, the younger one with softer curls, grinned. "You came again, Mister!"
"I promised I would, didn't I?" Alaric said, crouching beside them. "What are you making?"
"Boat!" said the older twin proudly, holding a leaf folded in half. "Papa said boats can take you anywhere if you're brave enough."
A soft laugh escaped Alaric before he could stop it. "He's right."
They talked easily—childish questions, laughter, and small boasts that warmed even Alaric's guarded heart. For a while, the world seemed simple.
Until a splash broke the calm.
Riven shrieked in surprise as water hit his face. He rubbed at his eyes—only for the faint shimmer of the herbal dye to melt away.
Golden light gleamed where a brown should've been.
Alaric froze. His breath caught.
That color.
That impossible shade of gold—bright, alive, unmistakable.
He'd seen it before.
In mirrors.
On his own reflection.
The boy blinked up at him, confused by the sudden silence. "Mister?"
The other twin noticed too and panicked. "Riven, your eyes—!"
They both stumbled back, clutching one another as though caught doing something forbidden.
Alaric took a slow step forward, his throat dry. "...Your eyes…"
Riven stammered, voice trembling. "I-It's not— Papa said—!"
But before he could finish, the older one grabbed his hand and shouted, "Run!"
They bolted through the trees, their laughter from earlier replaced by frightened gasps.
Alaric stood rooted in place, the rush of realization coursing through him like lightning.
He already knew.
But he still had to make sure.
He had to confirm it—not as a prince, not as a man of pride, but as someone who suddenly found himself standing on the edge of something far more dangerous than politics.
---
Meanwhile, at the edge of the village ,in a small wooden house, Rin staggered slightly, a sharp pulse running through his veins.
His breathing quickened. His pulse—a beat too fast. The faint, unwelcome heat curling at the base of his throat.
His heart sank.
The heat was coming early—unexpected and violent.
He pressed a hand against his neck, his expression twisting in frustration as the familiar warmth began to burn beneath his skin.
No, he thought weakly, clutching the counter. Not now…Not when he's still here.
The air thickened. The faint pull—the unmistakable ache of heat—began to bloom.
And this time, there was no hiding it.