The throne room was colder than usual.
Not in temperature — in memory.
Because Auren remembered this place as a boy.
A place where laughter went to die.
Where his mother sat like a statue carved from cruelty, cloaked in roses and ruin.
And now, here he was again.
Still smiling.
Still performing.
Still playing the part of prince — even when the script burned in his hands.
---
"Your Highness," the Empress greeted, her voice lacquered in honey and iron.
"Finally, you remember where the court sits."
Auren bowed. Perfectly. Beautifully. Like a prince who knew his chains well.
"How could I forget?" he said softly. "You've raised me so well."
The court didn't laugh.
They never did when it was about her.
---
He straightened, and the Empress beckoned with one finger.
A child's memory slammed into his skull — a memory of that same finger, summoning him after punishment. After silence. After shame.
"You have been seen at Lady Elara's side too often," she said. "It makes people talk."
"Let them talk," he replied.
The Empress's smile thinned.
"Do you love her?"
He paused.
Too long.
"I'm loyal to the empire."
"That's not what I asked."
A beat.
Then:
"You taught me love was weakness," he said. "Why ask if I'm infected with it?"
A murmur ran through the room.
---
The Empress stood.
Slowly.
Power clinging to her like mist.
"You forget who put the crown on your head."
"I never forget," he said, too quietly.
And then she stepped closer.
Close enough that only he could hear:
"You may wear it, Auren. But you do not own it. You will never be king. You will be a weapon. Until you break. Or until I do."
He didn't flinch.
He only smiled.
But this one…
This one didn't reach his eyes.
"Then let me sharpen myself, Mother."
---
The Empress stepped back.
And as Auren turned, the court saw nothing but perfection in his expression.
But if we notice — from the shadows — we can see how tightly his hands trembled.
Like a boy holding a blade pointed at himself.
---
Meanwhile…
In the Western Wing:
Elara stood at the top of the staircase as servants whispered below.
Cladus was missing from his post.
But not missing from her mind.
She knew now.
She'd found the records. The discarded insignia. The sealed bloodline scrolls.
All buried under dust.
"A prince in exile, sworn to a duchess," she whispered.
She traced her fingers over the parchment.
"You never told me."
And then her gaze turned sharp.
"But someone else just might."