The banquet hall had thinned out, the clamor of laughter and clinking glasses now reduced to a murmur. The smell of wine lingered in the air, soaked into the wood and velvet like a stain that refused to leave. Cecilus stepped through the half-open door, his gaze calm, unfaltering. His father sat slumped down near a corner—Reymund, the once-proud royal now softened by drink, his cheeks faintly red, his eyes heavy.
Cecilus approached and spoke evenly.
"Get up. I'll help you move."
Regnier stirred, blinking at him.
"Where have you been? I haven't seen you around, Cecilus."
Cecilus didn't answer. He slipped a hand under his father's arm and began to lift him carefully, steadying his balance.
Alcohol intolerance... he muttered under his breath.
Regnier chuckled. "Here, have a drink!" he said, raising a half-empty goblet toward his nephew, the liquid sloshing against the rim.
He was ignored. Cecilus tightened his grip and helped his father stand, his expression composed, detached.
"Where are you going?" Regnier's tone carried that familiar edge of mockery. "Your father's a grown man—you wouldn't want to tarnish his name as someone who needs his boy to stand up for him, would you?"
Cecilus paused, then turned slightly, a faint smirk crossing his face.
"Uncle Regnier," he said, voice low and steady, "you really are a child wearing a man's body. Your son is running around rampant, breaking everything in sight, while you're ridiculing someone for caring about their father's well-being. I wonder who the good parent here is?"
Regnier's face flushed. He slammed his glass down and stormed forward, grabbing Cecilus by the collar.
"Listen here, you brat—"
Cecilus's calm expression didn't waver. "Arguing with a mere child seems a bit scummy, uncle. I thought you, of all people, would have better manners than that."
"Shut up, boy! You little elf cannot understand the affairs of adults like I!"
Cecilus leaned closer, his breath brushing Regnier's ear.
"I can understand that your son is a bastard," he whispered. "Still keeping the whore who produced him around as a maid, huh?"
Regnier froze. The color drained from his face, his grip loosening.
"H-how! How do you know that?"
Cecilus tilted his head slightly, voice soft. "Know what, uncle? A child like me wouldn't know much about anything."
Regnier stumbled back, a shiver running through him. His hands shook slightly as he stared at the boy.
Cecilus turned back toward Reymund. "Come on, father. I believe uncle has allowed us to leave promptly—haven't you, uncle?"
Regnier stood silent, mind racing.
How the fuck does he know? Did his father send him? Does Reymund know I've been backing the council? Damn it...
He swallowed hard. "Yes, you may leave. Take care of Reymund."
Cecilus said nothing more. Supporting his father's weight, he guided him toward the exit. Their steps echoed faintly against the marble, the sound fading into the dim corridor beyond.
***
Reymund's mind buzzed with what he had witnessed. His son's words—sharp, surgical—had stripped Regnier bare in an instant. As they walked, Reymund could barely bring himself to speak.
This boy... he dived deep into Regnier's soul and tore out his secrets. He planned it all—angered him, exposed him, left him hollow. Was it because Cecilus mentioned Regnier son earlier? Did that provoke the thoughts?
He looked at Cecilus, who seemed entirely unbothered, eyes half-lidded as though lost in some quiet thought.
He acts like this means nothing. Why did you intervene, Cecilus? I could've handled the ridicule myself. It only makes me look weaker... So why—why do I feel ashamed rather than grateful? Why does it hurt to know my son handled the situation better than I ever could?
They reached their quarters. The air inside was still and faintly perfumed with lavender, meant to calm nerves. Cecilus set his father down gently, helping him out of his coat.
"Take a bath," he said simply.
Reymund obeyed, saying nothing. The water rippled as he lowered himself into it, his reflection warping and shifting under the faint candlelight.
He stares at me like I'm a stranger. As if he's already dissected every failure, every flaw—and found nothing worth judging. Those orders aren't of one who sees me as his father.
On the bed, Cecilus lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Don't worry, Father. I would never expose anything about your life—or anyone else's. I've already seen what you think.
He thought back to the one time he'd seen his father truly lose control—years ago, when Cecilus was five. They had been traveling through the continent, attending meetings with nobles. During one, an insult was thrown that cracked Reymund's composure.
"Reymund... you sly bastard! Messed up your bloodline for a shot at the throne. Your wife will forget you even existed once you die! Dragging yourself through filth with their kind is betrayal!"
Reymund had struck the man across the face. That moment had stayed etched in Cecilus's memory—not for the outburst, but for what followed. It was the first time he ever heard his father's true thoughts, spilling from his soul like smoke.
I wish I were home. I wish I were with Ayas and Yeldove... This child—why do I wish my dreams wouldn't come true? I shouldn't have hit him. Cecilus will think I'm an idiot. He'll make sure he never fails, while I sit here, wishing for a life I threw away...
That was when Cecilus began to see through the veneer of ambition his father carried. It wasn't drive—it was duty wrapped around regret.
Days later, in a quiet carriage rattling along a dirt road, Cecilus had asked, "Father, why do you want me to become king?"
Reymund sighed, his tone rehearsed. "Because your mother and siblings won't live peacefully if the convergence doesn't occur. If someone under the council rules, elves will be hunted. This is for everyone, not just us."
"So you're doing this for Mother?"
"Yes. I wouldn't dare stay home until I've succeeded."
Cecilus's gaze hardened. "That's a lie."
"What? No, I—"
"Father, you know how I can hear a person's final thoughts when they die?"
"Yes..." Reymund's hands tensed slightly.
"I can also hear the inner voices of people who lose control of their emotions. When you hit that man... you wished to go home."
Reymund froze. His eyes darted to his son's expressionless face.
He knows. He knows everything.
"Don't do it again, Cecilus!" Reymund's voice cracked. "Don't ever look into my thoughts again!"
Cecilus nodded silently, though inside, he wondered, Why reject your own feelings, Father?
***
Years passed. Politics became blood sport. Cecilus watched from the shadows, reading the minds of enemies, unearthing secrets that won his father victories he didn't understand. The nobles whispered of the brilliant son and his dull father.
On the other hand, Reymund put up with insults and slander against his character.
"Reymund, you are lucky. Your boy seems to only taken your looks and instead his might and brains have surpassed you in every way."
People spoke to him, comparing his sons might to him. He couldn't get mad, or stay in an emotional state because then what he would fear most would happen, his mind being exposed to his son.
He's perfect, Reymund would think, bitterness choking his chest. Why am I not proud? Why does his success make me feel so small?
He watched his son grow, but his thoughts were not that of a proud father.
Cecilus beat me in a duel of swordplay. Seven year old beating an established knight...
On days where he had finished dreadful work his loneliness projected through his thoughts.
What if? What if Cecilus wasn't born? Would I be at home with Ayas and Zylee who have weak magic and enjoying life?
Cecilus heard it all. Every self-loathing whisper. Every comparison that cut deeper than any blade. He came to understand: Reymund didn't hate him. He hated the reflection he saw in him—proof of his own inadequacy.
Cecilus's resolve hardened. His decision then became to run, if he ran away his family would be safe and his father would be happy. Then Cecilus could do what he truly wanted, to get away from the fear. He was looked as a monster by his father and he knew that his brother Ayas was afraid and hated him as well.
He was never close to his mother and always distanced himself from Zylee. So leaving could be as easy as possible. As someone who had observed the relationships of others, he understood that growing attachment would only lead to him wanting to stay.
***
In the present day there was only three months left until Cecilus planned to abandon his family and leave the continent.
Reymund emerged from the bath, dressed anew. Cecilus sat near the window, the night air stirring his hair.
He must have heard everything I thought earlier... pathetic. My own son dragging me away in front of everyone.
"It's okay, Father," Cecilus said quietly. "You'll be happy soon."
Reymund blinked. The words felt oddly gentle. He sounds... reassuring. But why? How can he speak with such calmness, like he already knows something I don't?
"What do you mean, Cecilus? And thank you, for earlier."
"No need to thank me. I'm just looking out for the man who raised me," Cecilus replied. "And I don't mean anything. Just a hunch."
Reymund smiled weakly and sat across from him.
Despite everything, he's the one who knows the most. About me and the world. But... I don't know him. His favorite color, his food, his dreams and who he truly is. Am I really his father? Or just a shadow clinging to pride? Yet despite his perfection, he has no judgment and no qualms about how I act.
"Cecilus... what is your favorite color?"
Cecilus paused, tilting his head slightly. Why is he asking that? My favorite color...?
"I don't have one. I'm to become the next king. There's no reason to care about insignificant things like that."
Reymund smiled faintly. "Yes, Cecilus. Good job. Exactly what I would want."
Cecilus stood and left the room quietly, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
He paused in the corridor. The silence pressed in.
Why do I feel awful? Like I ruined something important?
I couldn't read his mind just then, Cecilus realized. How did he become so calm?
Inside, Reymund sat alone at the table. The candlelight flickered.