Prince Damian stood before Karina with an air of solemn grace, his hands clasped behind his back, his steel-gray eyes reflecting the dying glow of dusk—as if the fading light itself had found refuge within them. He looked calm, almost frighteningly so, as though the place itself had been built to cradle his quiet, mysterious aura.
Karina lowered her gaze toward the flowers, her voice soft and hesitant.
"No one forbade it... I just don't wish to pick a flower from something so beautiful."
She spoke sincerely, though she lacked the courage to admit the true reason—that these blossoms were the only memory left of his late mother. She didn't wish to reopen a wound that time had never truly healed.
Damian raised his eyes toward her, his expression still and unreadable as he replied in a tone cold enough to slice through the air.
"It doesn't matter."
A silence stretched between them, fragile yet heavy. Karina tried to break it with a gentle smile.
"...You know, tending to flowers and caring for them is one of the loveliest things in this world."
He answered flatly, without a change in expression.
"Perhaps. Thank you."
Then, without warning, he reached out and plucked a single golden bloom. Its petals shimmered in the dying light, like a living ember of sunlight. He handed it to her and said quietly, with restrained formality,
"You can take at least one."
Karina stared at it for a moment before whispering, bashful and sincere,
"This flower… it looks just like you."
One of Damian's eyebrows arched, and a faint glint of mockery crossed his eyes.
"You're comparing me," he said dryly, "to a flower that birds might have… desecrated?"
Her eyes widened in alarm. She glanced quickly at the blossom, stammering,
"W–what? Is there something on it? Don't scare me like that!"
His features softened, and a quiet, rare laugh slipped from him—a sound so pure it momentarily shattered the distance between them. She realized then that he'd been teasing her, fully aware she'd fall for it.
Karina lifted an eyebrow, feigning indignation, then laughed too—a light, melodic laugh that melted the last of the tension. And as she laughed, something caught her eye: a faint glimmer around his left wrist.
Her breath caught.
That bracelet.
It was the same one she had given him long ago—still there, still worn. In that instant, warmth bloomed inside her chest. He had kept his promise. A wide smile spread across her face before she could stop it.
Noticing her gaze, Damian followed it to the bracelet. His expression remained composed as he murmured, eyes shifting sideways toward her,
"What is it? I'm not so dishonorable that I'd break my word the first time I give it."
Then, in a quieter tone, one edged with something serious, he added,
"I keep my promises… to those who deserve it. I just haven't decided yet if you're one of them—until I know who you truly are."
His words were calm, but there was something deeper beneath them, something unspoken. His voice carried a strange mix of sincerity and mystery, as though he were hinting at a truth he refused to say aloud.
He stepped closer, gently placed the golden flower in her hand, and closed her fingers around it. His voice dropped to a near whisper, almost secretive.
"In the coming days… I may send you letters. Respond quickly. There may be things you need to know."
Then he withdrew, his composure returning as if a mask had fallen back into place.
"I should prepare. Excuse me."
He turned and disappeared through the grand doors, leaving behind a trace of his cologne and a swirl of conflicted emotion—along with a single golden flower, warm in her palm.
Karina stood frozen, her gaze fixed on the now-empty corridor, before deciding to follow him toward the grand hall. Music and laughter spilled from beyond the gilded doors, light danced across the high walls, and the air shimmered with anticipation—as though the palace itself was holding its breath for what was about to happen.
Minutes passed. Then hours. Yet the prince did not appear. Whispered voices rippled among the guests, their elegant faces tightening with curiosity and unease.
And then—
the drums thundered.
The entire hall quaked beneath their echo.
The great doors swung open, and lines of guards and servants formed on either side of the red carpet leading to the Emperor's throne.
"Make way for His Highness, Prince Damian!" the head guard's voice boomed.
Damian entered with measured steps, his attire gleaming beneath the chandeliers—a white robe embroidered with gold thread, glowing like woven sunlight. He looked otherworldly, almost angelic, his golden hair aflame with reflected light, his silver eyes cool and distant as winter moonlight.
Time seemed to halt.
Even the proudest nobles bowed in silent reverence.
The Emperor ascended the dais, lifting his golden chalice. His voice filled the marble chamber, resonant and steady, like an echo of history itself.
"My esteemed guests… today marks the fourteenth anniversary of the birth of the Second Prince, Damian Bosachi."
He paused—a hesitation so brief yet so telling—before continuing, his tone softening almost imperceptibly.
"Son of the late Empress…"
The words trembled. Only those watching closely caught the flicker in his expression, the faint fracture in his voice. It was not grief alone that surfaced there—but guilt.
He regained his composure and spoke again, louder now.
"The woman who brought joy to these imperial halls… We celebrate today the coming of age of the true prince, whose growth and strength honor the Empire. One day, we shall see him stand as a shining example of courage and virtue."
His speech rang through the vast hall, echoing off crystal and marble.
The Emperor's eyes met his son's—filled with pride, and yet… something else. A flicker of unease, a hesitation. As if he was trying to convince himself of what he proclaimed.
Damian stood unmoving, his silver gaze glacial, devoid of emotion. When his father spoke of his mother, his jaw tightened, and a shadow crossed his face—a quiet, restrained hatred burning deep within.
The speech ended. The ceremony concluded.
Laughter and music returned to the air, and the nobles resumed their dancing, as though the moment of tension had never existed.
The prince remained where he was, bathed in the light of the chandelier. His golden hair gleamed like fire against the dark velvet of the hall. For the fourteenth year in a row, the Emperor had publicly declared him a "true and legitimate son."
Yet everyone in the room knew that truth was far more complicated.
Karina approached him again, her steps steady, her heart unsteady. The orchestra played a slow, elegant waltz; laughter floated like perfume across the room. She sat beside him in a quiet corner, near a tall open window where the night breeze carried the scent of roses.
She traced the rim of her crystal glass with one finger and asked softly, her words sharp in their honesty,
"I suppose the Emperor favors the other princes over you… How can he acknowledge you so openly, yet treat you so differently behind closed doors?"
The question lingered in the air like a challenge wrapped in silk.
Damian's lips barely curved. His expression didn't change, but a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes.
"I don't know," he said simply.
The brevity of his answer carried more weight than a dozen explanations.
Karina tilted her head, studying him.
"Strange…" she murmured.
He let out a quiet breath before replying, almost to himself,
"Perhaps… it's because of how I treat him."
His tone was sharp but calm—like a blade drawn slowly, deliberately, across glass.
Their eyes met, and in that long, silent exchange, there was more truth than words could ever hold.
---
Days later, news spread through the capital: the Imperial Palace would host a grand piano competition.
From childhood, the piano had been Karina's refuge—a place where her soul could breathe. So, she entered without hesitation.
Every morning, sunlight poured across her fingers as they danced over the ivory keys, her melodies drifting through the corridors like whispered confessions.
But soon, something began to feel… different.
Every time she played, she sensed someone outside her door.
Footsteps. A presence. A silence too deliberate to be empty.
And each time she opened the door—nothing. Only the faint lingering scent of imperial flowers in the air.
Then, one afternoon, as she played a haunting melody that trembled with sorrow, a voice—sharp and furious—cut through the room:
"That piano belonged to my sister… not to you!"
Karina froze. Slowly, she turned toward the doorway.
There stood san, his face a storm of anger and grief—
as though he were staring at a ghost from his past.