A warm summer day. Sitting in her lap beneath a willow tree. Her voice, humming softly, reading the very same book aloud. He remembered her words.
"You must always try to understand and love people, Edrick," she had whispered. "Even if they're hard to love."
Even if they're hard to love…
His chest ached.
"Master Edrick"
A hesitant voice came from the door. The door creaked open, revealing a maid with wide eyes.
Maid: "The Grand Duke requests your presence."
His heartbeat faltered.
It had been weeks since his father called for him directly.
He stood up immediately.
Edrick: "Understood."
——————
The hall leading to the Grand Duke's study was long, cold, and lined with portraits of stern ancestors. The carved doors at the end loomed like a gate to another world.
He knocked once.
Grand Duke: "Enter."
His father's voice was as emotionless as ever.
Edrick stepped inside.
The room smelled faintly of ink and old parchment. The Grand Duke sat behind a grand oak desk, quill in hand, eyes not even rising to meet his son's.
Grand duke: "You missed the diplomatic seminar yesterday."
The grand duke said without preamble. Not even looking towards him.
Edrick: "I was assigned extra training hours by Sir William."
Edrick replied, standing at full attention.
His father made a small mark on the page.
Grand Duke: "That's no excuse. Time management is expected."
Grand Duke: "…Understood."
The silence stretched.
Then, finally, the Grand Duke looked up. His eyes cold and unreadable.
Edrick fought not to flinch under the weight of that golden gaze—so similar to his own, and yet completely devoid of warmth.
Grand Duke: "You're ten now,"
The Grand Duke said flatly.
Grand Duke: "It is time you began preparations for the midwinter council. You will attend alongside me."
Edrick's breath caught.
The Midwinter Council?
It was a place of noble strategists, generals, and tacticians. Children were rarely invited—only heirs deemed truly ready.
Edrick: "Yes, Father."
Edrick said, bowing his head low.
The Grand Duke turned back to his scroll.
Grand Duke: "You may go."
That was it.
Dismissed.
Edrick bowed once more and left the room, his mind a blur.
——————
That night, Edrick sat at the edge of his bed, staring out the window.
The estate was quiet. The stars glimmered above. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called.
He should have been proud.
He was finally being acknowledged. Trusted to represent the Rochester house in front of the Empire's most powerful nobles.
And yet… all he could feel was hollow.
It wasn't him being acknowledged. It was the version of him they molded. The flawless heir. The relentless swordsman. The boy who never cried.
He clenched his fists.
Edrick: "I'll become perfect."
Edrick whispered into the dark.
Edrick: "So perfect you'll have no choice but to see me."
A quiet knock on the door startled him. He turned quickly.
It was Harold, the old butler. One of the few who still treated him like a boy and not just a heir.
Harold bowed.
Harold: "Your evening tea, Young Master."
Edrick: "Leave it."
But the man didn't move. After a moment, he said softly,
Harold: "Your mother used to sit at this very window. Every night. She said it helped her feel less alone."
Edrick's throat tightened.
Harold: "She would hum lullabies to the stars. I remember her voice was soft, but it filled the room."
Edrick: "…Why are you telling me this?"
Harold simply gave him a sad smile.
Harold: "Because it's alright to remember her. Not just the grief. But the joy, too."
Edrick looked away, hiding his expression.
Edrick: "…Thank you."
Edrick said finally, his voice almost too quiet to hear.
After Harold left, Edrick sat alone with the cup of tea cooling beside him.
He looked out again at the sky.
For a moment, he imagined her sitting beside him, humming gently.
And in that moment, just for a second, the storm inside him quieted.
——————
The early morning air at Black Rose Palace was crisp, carrying the scent of dewed grass and a faint woody aroma drifting in from the courtyard's edge.
Sunlight spilled through the tall glass windows of the north wing, casting long, golden bars across the marbled floors. A hush rested upon the palace corridors, broken only by the occasional whisper of footsteps or the rustling of trees outside.
Thin, silvery threads of rain was falling from the overcast sky, each droplet light and fleeting. They tapped softly against the windows and leaves, barely wetting the ground, as if the clouds were testing the earth with a tentative touch.
The palace was just waking—still drowsy, still quiet.
Except for Evelyn.
She sat cross-legged on a cushion beside the arched window of her private chamber, the hem of her silken robe brushing against the cool floor.
Her small fingers rested on the cover of a thick, worn book. Though the page was open before her, her eyes were focused far beyond the text—beyond the walls, beyond the columns of sunlight streaming in.
Evelyn: "Third lap."
Her voice broke the stillness.
Across the room, Cassy—feather duster in hand—looked up from the vase she was cleaning.
Cassy: "Third lap of what, Your Highness?"
Evelyn didn't respond right away. She tapped her index finger lightly against the open page, her gaze still fixed on the window.
Evelyn: "The laps Clair takes before delivering her report. She's watching the second-floor corridor near the east side."
Cassy blinked, stepping slightly closer.
Cassy: "You can see that far?"
Evelyn: "No. But I don't need to."
A beat of silence followed. Cassy frowned, her eyes drifting to the window, then back to Evelyn.
Cassy (thoughts): "She's not even looking at Clair… How can she tell?"
The morning passed like a well-rehearsed play—each act unfolding with quiet precision. One after another, Evelyn's five maids entered the chamber throughout the hour, their steps soft, movements rehearsed, and voices low. Each one knelt or bowed in turn before offering her their reports.
First came Lily, the most talkative of the group, though today she kept her tone subdued. Then Lora, composed and poised as always. Ella followed, cold and composed. After her came Melinda, cool and grounded, flour still dusting the hem of her apron. Lastly, as expected, Clair—precise in timing, silent in movement.
None of them raised their voices. Their words flowed in clipped, quiet exchanges—like messages passed beneath the surface of normalcy.