Paul Denton waited before the gates of Prince Rui's mansion, his heart heavy with grievance.
At the beginning of his diplomatic mission, all had gone splendidly—glory, ease, and satisfaction. Yet in its latter half, the moment Prince Heir Gavin Shea failed to return that day, an uneasy chill began to coil in his chest. When the young servant leapt into the river and vanished without a trace, his anxiety swelled beyond measure.
He fretted for the Prince Heir the entire journey home. Only two days before reaching Castleton, upon hearing that Gavin Shea had safely returned, did Paul's heart finally settle back into his chest.
He had thought, upon presenting his report and seeing the Prince Heir again, that he could at last go home, rest for a few days, soothe his strained nerves, and perhaps even pour out his tale of worry and indignation.
Who could have imagined that, the very moment he left the palace, he would be thrown straight into the prisons of the Supreme Court of Justice?
He had endured more than three months of that hellish confinement—Heaven alone knew how he had survived it. More than once, he had thought he would not.
He had barely scrubbed away the stench of prison walls upon returning home when his father demanded that he immediately visit the Prince Heir to beg forgiveness.
But what sin had he committed?
From beginning to end, what fault was his?
He and Prince Heir Gavin Shea had known each other since childhood—years of friendship and trust—and yet the Prince Heir had doubted him, suspected him, even accused him of plotting harm!
At the thought, Paul felt a fresh tide of bitterness rise, and tears nearly followed.
He dared not defy his father, who allowed no argument, yet deep down he believed it was the Prince Heir who owed him an apology.
How could the Prince Heir not trust him?
When word reached Gavin Shea that Paul awaited outside, his expression turned weary and irritable. "Send him away," he told William Chen. "I've no mood to see him now."
William bowed and went out to receive Paul Denton.
"The Prince Heir isn't in?" Paul asked dejectedly, gloom clouding his face.
"His Highness is occupied with pressing affairs," William replied tactfully, sidestepping the question.
Paul let out a long, dispirited hum, lowered his head, and began to rise, preparing to take his leave.
"Has the Seventh Young Master been keeping well these days?" William asked, seeing how despondent the young man looked, hoping a few words might lift his spirits.
"What kind of question is that?" Paul shot him a look. "Then again, I suppose you've never been inside the Supreme Court's dungeon."
"Oh, I have," William said with a thin smile. "Quite often, in fact—along with the Ministry of Justice's prison as well. The Supreme Court's cells are mostly underground, and so are the Ministry's.
Not long ago, the entire rear courtyard of the Supreme Court was cleared out and thoroughly scrubbed in preparation for the embassy's return.
Every member of the envoy was detained there—none exempt.
I visited often during those months, nearly every day, overseeing interrogations—each man questioned one by one.
All by Chancellor Pan's own orders."
"So what you're saying," Paul said sourly, "is that I should be thanking you and the Prince Heir for sparing me the dungeons?"
His tone was sharp, but the bitterness had softened somewhat.
"Well," William said mildly, "two members of the envoy were indeed discovered passing along His Highness's movements on the way out—and yours on the way back.
One of them was personally recommended by you."
He smiled as he spoke, watching Paul's reaction.
Paul froze, stunned.
His father had never mentioned a word of this—his father never told him anything of importance.
Seeing his startled confusion, William continued, still smiling.
"Chancellor Pan was furious at the time.
But His Highness vouched for you. He said, 'I've known Paul since childhood—he could never mean me harm. He must have been deceived.'"
"Yes, yes! Exactly!" Paul exclaimed, slapping the tea table in relief. "We grew up together! How could I ever harm him? What nonsense that was!"
"Precisely," William nodded. "That's why, for all my trips to the Supreme Court, I never once questioned you.
His Highness trusted you completely.
Keeping you there those few months was purely a necessity.
Think about it—an assassination attempt on the Prince Heir is no small matter. If everyone from the envoy was detained but you alone returned home, what would people think?
Wouldn't the others resent you?
You know how the world talks, Seventh Young Master.
His Highness was only protecting you—such is the bond of long friendship."
William's words were gentle yet deliberate, his smile never fading.
"True enough! His Highness has always been loyal to his friends," Paul said, visibly brightening as he leaned back in his chair.
"In Riverford City, His Highness was attacked not once, but three times," William continued gravely. "First he was poisoned, losing all his strength. Then he was gravely wounded—stabbed in the abdomen and thigh.
And the last ambush—you remember—the one when General Wu feigned losing some secret map, sending elite troops scouring the city?
They were all after the Prince Heir.
He escaped only by hiding in a night-soil barrel."
At that, Paul gagged violently.
"Only by Heaven's grace did he survive," William said, pressing a hand to his chest with heartfelt solemnity. "To this day, the scar on his back runs this long—this deep—and still bleeds when he turns in his sleep.
How he endured the journey back, none can fathom."
Paul's eyes brimmed with tears. "How terrible! It's my fault, too—I shouldn't have left Riverford just because that wretched servant said a few foolish words.
I should have gone to General Wu and found His Highness, no matter what. If I had brought him back first, he wouldn't have suffered like this.
Yes, it's my fault."
"How could it be your fault, Young Master?" William said kindly. "Who could have imagined anyone would dare strike at the Prince Heir?"
"Exactly! You understand!" Paul exclaimed, slapping the table again. "No one could've expected that—no one!"
"These days, His Highness is still recovering but already working with Chancellor Pan to investigate the attack," William went on. "His official duties are endless.
You can imagine the strain.
Truth be told, His Highness has been in a foul temper lately—he's even scolded Zhihe several times for no reason other than his own ill mood."
"Zhihe? But he's so patient and careful!" Paul gasped, eyes wide with gossip.
"Indeed. Yet who could blame His Highness? Anyone would lose patience under such pressure. He's always had a fiery temper, as you know."
"True, true!" Paul nodded vigorously, sighing. "It's no wonder—after all he's been through. If I were ill, I'd be bad-tempered too. There's nothing worse than being unwell."
"Spoken like a true gentleman," William said with a respectful bow. "If His Highness has been less than gracious lately, I beg your understanding."
"Oh, please," Paul waved a hand. "We've been friends since childhood—who keeps count of such things?
And I know his temper better than anyone. He may flare up, but his character is beyond reproach.
All right, I'll be off now. When His Highness recovers, I'll come to offer my apologies properly."
"Apologies are unnecessary," William said, rising with him.
"You're right," Paul laughed. "Between us, talk of apologies is too formal.
When he's well again, I'll host a banquet for him instead.
Ah, but Father won't let me make a public affair of it. Says it's all about the 'greater good,' the 'Southland affair,' and whatnot—nonsense!
Fine then, I'll just call it a small dinner, not a celebration.
Well, I'll be going now. No need to see me off—we're no outsiders."
Paul left, still muttering to himself as he walked.
When the Prince Heir recovered, he must invite him to a proper feast—something sincere, something new, something that would show his heartfelt loyalty.
He would have to think it through—very carefully indeed.