[Dear High Priest,
I hope your stay at the palace has been enjoyable so far. There will be a haunting festival soon.
I believe I do not need to tell you anything more. Right?
P.S.: Do not forget to burn this letter once you have read it, as always.
Your well-wisher,
Duke Danman.]
The parchment crumpled under the pressure of Enzo’s fists, veins visible beneath his skin. His jaw clenched, the muscles of his neck tensing beneath his white robe, as his breath quickened.
"Charles," he growled, voice trembling with anger. "You’d better not be scheming something again. You said we were coming here for peace!"
The older man seated at the table let out a snort. Setting his fork down, he turned his head slightly toward his mate beside him, a faint smirk curving his lips, almost mocking.
"Oh? And you think you have the right to tell me what to do?" His voice was calm, but fury laced in his words, unmistakable.
Enzo glared at him, his whole body trembling with anger.
"Where did you find it?" Charles demanded, his voice low and dangerous as he snatched the parchment from Enzo’s grasp.
The younger man gasped, startled by the sudden movement. The letter slipped through his fingers before he could tighten his hold.
"So, my dear bride," Charles said, rising from his seat, his tone dripping with mockery, "where did you find it?"
He turned slightly, moving toward the candles lined neatly along the table. A dozen of dishes were set on it, including a basket of fruits. With deliberate calm, he held the parchment over the flames. The paper caught fire, curling and blackening until it crumbled into ash that drifted down onto the polished surface.
Tears formed at the corners of Enzo’s eyes, but he forced himself to stay composed. Even without guards, servants, or Charles’s disciples around, he couldn’t cry. The only place he allowed his dignity to shatter was behind the closed doors of the bedroom he shared with this horrible man.
Charles exhaled, slicking his hair back.
"So, you are not going to speak, honey?"
Hearing that word, Enzo’s stomach twisted, a tight knot forming inside him. If he could, he would have flipped the table and walked out right then. But he couldn’t. He had to stay—no matter how much it sickened him to sit across from this man.
Returning to his seat, the High Priest leaned back, resting his head against the chair.
"I hate it when you go silent like this," he murmured, his gaze drifting from the ceiling down to Enzo.
Enzo, meanwhile, turned his head toward the door. There was no point in responding—nothing would change, no matter how he behaved. It didn’t matter when he was sold off to this man. Nor will it matter now, after twenty years.
But that letter... was it about attacking Zayden again? I need to tell Zayden know about this. No matter what!
He firmly wrapped his hand around the rim of the glass in front of him.
***
Zayden’s fingers moved a piece across the chessboard—his queen.
Eiran watched from beside him, focused. His hand hovered over a knight, ready to make his next move, but Zayden’s eyes were elsewhere—on the game, yet half-distracted by the sunlight catching the silver strands of Ren’s hair.
Ren sat nearby, holding a teacup, his gaze quietly fixed on Zayden. The edges of his usually neutral expression softened, something Soren, who sat beside him, noticed immediately. It wasn’t like before—there was gentleness in his eyes, something Soren hadn’t seen in years.
"He is nice, isn’t he?" Soren’s voice broke the quiet.
Ren blinked, slightly startled, then lowered his eyes to the floor.
"He... is," he admitted quietly. His tone was calm, yet carried a subtle warmth that hadn’t been there before.
Zayden had made sure Ren was properly clothed so he wouldn’t catch a cold. He gave him food and shelter, even after learning his secrets. He even allowed Ren to bend the rules he had set.
Soren smirked.
"Oh. So he doesn’t seem like that demon you spoke of anymore?"
Ren’s lips pressed into a thin line, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.
"Y-Your Imperial Highness... I was... I was always kept away from anyone who was non-human. So... I was simply shocked back then."
Soren chuckled softly.
"I see... But how is that possible? There are barely any pure-blood humans in Revhara."
Ren didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he nervously glanced at Zayden, watching the way he smiled at Eiran’s playful move on the chessboard.
"W-Well... my parents were. So I lived with them in the forest. They were not fond of non-humans..." he said, as if reciting a script. Or maybe it was one.
One he had improvised over the years. The lies slid off his tongue as if they were truths he had long carried.
"They... passed away?" Soren hesitated before asking. Although they had exchanged small conversations in the past, asking about Ren’s personal life was something he wasn’t sure he had the right to.
Ren nodded, faintly smiling at him.
"My condolences..." The red-haired man’s head dipped slightly. It wasn’t something he would usually do. But even if Ren’s parents had been peculiar, he couldn’t imagine what losing them would feel like. Or perhaps it was simply because Ren was a pure-blooded human.
"It’s alright. It has been a long time," the servant said, his expression unreadable.
"Yes... but you must feel sad when talking about them."
Ren blinked, slightly perplexed. Why would he feel sad? After all, he had never seen his parents.
"Yes. I do." He lied.
Letting out a quiet, steady breath, his grip around the teacup’s handle tightened.
It seemed he was bound to this life—to lie to every person who dared to come close to him. Yet one thought lingered in his mind.
Soon, he would tell Zayden the truth. That he had never lived in the forest, but in the Temple. Not just any temple, but the Temple of Hianshu. That he had been raised on the very land Zayden despised.
He glanced at the general again, his expression darkening.
And when I do that, will you finally kill me?
He almost chuckled at the thought. No—he would never let himself be killed. He had already made a promise to Ilyan. That he would live. For him—his beloved mate. And for their child.