Years had passed, and the palace with its laughter and warmth became a memory, soft at the edges but never fading. Alaric Thornewood was no longer the small boy who leaned against the doorway, watching the other children play. He was seventeen now, taller, sharper, and burdened with the weight of a name and family that demanded greatness.
His room was quiet, the thick curtains drawn to block the early morning sun. Outside, the world moved briskly, as it always did, but inside, he moved like a ghost — unseen, unheard, untouched. Books lay stacked in perfect order along the shelves, ink still faintly scented from careful writing, and every object sat exactly where it was expected to be. The room was a stage, and Alaric knew his role perfectly.
Lord Cedric Thornewood paced in the study below, his boots echoing on the wooden floors. Alaric imagined the words he would speak: sharp, precise, commanding. He had memorized them all, as if he could chant perfection into existence and satisfy his father's unyielding gaze. Lady Eveline's voice would follow, soft and precise, reminding him that appearances mattered as much as deeds.
And yet, despite every lesson, every expectation, Alaric remained in his room. He moved through the motions flawlessly in front of the staff, the tutors, the occasional visiting noble. He smiled when required, bowed when necessary, and recited his lessons without faltering. But beneath the mask, he did nothing. He refused to rise to the greatness demanded of him.
He spent hours staring out the window at the gardens, imagining corridors that were not real, sunlight spilling through tall windows, children laughing and chasing a wooden ball across polished floors. Miss Sora Everly's calm voice echoed softly in his mind, and Liora Hawthorne's quiet presence lingered like a faint fragrance. A palace he would never walk through again, a world that belonged to memory.
Edric Ravenscroft had written him letters once, small scraps of paper that smelled faintly of the palace — news of other children, simple games, fleeting victories — but they had stopped coming long ago. Time had moved on for them, as it had for Alaric, even if his heart had stayed behind.
Sometimes, when the house was quiet, Alaric would practice in secret. Not swordplay or etiquette — but small, strange things he remembered from the palace. A trick learned in laughter, a skill whispered in shadows, a tiny echo of the boy he once was. It was dangerous in more ways than one. Discovery would bring punishment, and failure to perform for his parents would be unforgivable. But the memory was alive. And for now, it was enough.
He wore the mask of perfection, played the obedient son, and obeyed every command. And yet, in the deepest hours of the night, when the house held its breath, Alaric Thornewood allowed himself to exist as he wished — unseen, untouchable, alive only in memory and imagination.
Because sometimes, survival meant pretending.
Because sometimes, survival meant waiting for the world to forget who you once were — while holding it quietly in your chest, safe from anyone else's reach.