In the back garden, where silence lived like a breathing creature among the trees, only the strikes broke the stillness.
The sound of the sword cutting through the air, then colliding with solid wooden targets built to endure anger before impact, echoed in a harsh rhythm—like a metallic heartbeat that knew no mercy. Splinters scattered with every blow, and the scent of torn bark mixed with the morning dew.
"You're still sparring… while you have a celebration waiting for you?"
The voice came from behind—clear, firm, as cold as a blade's edge.
"Useless as always. Didn't I tell you to find that old man?"
It was her.
Selena.
The woman who had held Damian in her arms the day he was born, who raised him not out of love, but duty. His caretaker, his old shadow, the harsh voice that spoke when the world softened too much. She had raised him for years… yet never once allowed him to forget that, to her, harshness was not a choice—it was necessity.
Damian didn't turn.
He steadied his footing, lifted the sword again, and struck.
"I didn't find him yesterday…" he said quietly, his voice barely escaping with his breath.
"I'll look again. There's still time. The celebration is at night."
But Selena was not someone who accepted excuses.
"You always delay…" she said coldly, as if stabbing an old wound in his chest.
The sword paused.
Damian took a deep breath, then turned his head slightly—a side glance that carried more warning than anger.
"Didn't I tell you…" he said slowly, heavily,
"not to interfere?"
Selena stepped closer. Her steps were steady—neither rushed nor hesitant.
Then she spoke, in a tone that knew exactly where to strike:
"Or do you not wish to reclaim your mother's right?"
She paused, then continued, sharper:
"That emperor lives in peace… while another woman pushes her way in to become empress."
Damian's grip tightened around the sword hilt.
The veins in his hand rose, his breath trembled.
"That emperor…" he whispered, his voice burning with restrained fire,
"I will kill him with my own hands."
Selena let out a short, mocking laugh.
"In the end… he is your father."
The words were a match thrown into a powder store.
Damian's eyes ignited. His face twisted—not just in anger, but in disgust at the very idea.
With a violent, uncontrolled motion, he threw the sword away. It cut through the air and struck the ground at Selena's feet, embedding itself in the soil like an irreversible verdict.
"I hate myself…" he said hoarsely,
"for being the son of such a fool!"
He turned sharply and stormed out of the garden, leaving behind shattered wood, a buried blade, and silence heavier than before.
Selena remained alone, watching his retreating figure, then murmured in a low voice, filled with quiet certainty:
"He's still… clinging to his mother's past."
And in the garden, silence remained witness.
…
The old district breathed in broken breaths, like a chest worn down by time that had never learned to rest.
The alleys were narrow, the walls cracked like the skin of an old man carrying seventy years of silence on his back.
At one corner, an old man sat on a rocking chair, his cloak simple, its colors faded as though washed by years rather than water. He watched children running and laughing, yet his eyes did not laugh with them… they remembered. As if their laughter carried faint ghosts of a distant past.
Damian approached hesitantly and stood before him.
"Sir… how long have you been here?"
The chair stopped creaking for a moment, then resumed its slow motion.
"Seventy years…" the old man said in a rough voice,
"I've seen boys and girls turn into ghosts, their traces fading in these alleys like smoke."
Damian followed his gaze, then looked back.
"Have you ever seen a woman… from long ago? Perhaps she was eighteen at the time?"
The old man smiled—the smile of someone opening a chest full of faces.
"Many… many were treasures in their time. But one… was different. I've never seen anyone like her. And I haven't seen her in a long time."
Hope flickered in Damian's eyes.
"Blonde… with violet eyes… short."
At that moment, the old man's eyes lit up, as if dust had been shaken off them.
"That… matches my girl."
He paused, then spoke the name like an old prayer:
"Doja."
Damian's expression softened, as if a heavy weight had lifted.
"Finally…" he whispered, then bowed deeply.
"Forgive me for not introducing myself… I am the second prince, Damian… Doja's son."
The old man broke.
Tears fell as he embraced Damian with trembling strength, as if time itself had folded into that moment.
"My God… my dear girl's son… my light that was taken from me."
---
They sat in a small, dim hut, candlelight casting trembling shadows on the walls. The scent of melted wax mixed with damp wood and lingering memories.
"Doja ran away from the baron's palace…" the old man began, his voice pulled from his chest.
"She couldn't bear the cruelty she lived through there. She came to me broken… but her eyes remained beautiful—painfully beautiful."
He paused.
"She lived with me for eight years. She sewed fabrics and sold them in the market… for my sick grandson. She loved him like a little brother… brought joy back into this house."
He smiled sadly.
"I thought her beauty drew customers. They were enchanted… then taken from her, and she drifted further away."
Silence.
Damian listened without interruption, as if afraid the voice might collapse if handled too roughly.
Suddenly, the old man stood and retrieved a long, ornate box. A carved emblem marked its surface. The moment Damian saw it, the old man quickly covered it, as if hiding a living secret, then opened it.
A white wedding dress.
Luxurious. Silent in its elegance.
"She told me…" the old man whispered,
"If you ever need to, sell it. But… her scent is still in it. Her kindness still lingers. I couldn't."
Damian touched the fabric.
He recognized it immediately—fine material woven in the East and North, worn only by the highest nobility.
He froze.
Because he knew… his mother had only left the palace once after her marriage.
"This was her wedding dress…" the old man said heavily.
"She married a man she truly loved. But the marriage lasted only a month… then she was reported."
Damian lifted his head, shocked.
"What do you mean? Did… my mother marry before?"
The old man nodded slowly.
"Yes. But I won't tell you his name now. Not yet. You must grow a little more… the truth isn't as easy as you wish."
The candle dimmed slightly…
as if the room itself felt the weight of what remained unsaid.
…
"My son…" the old man said gently,
"This is beyond your age. When you grow, I won't hide anything."
He made tea, movements familiar, ritual-like. Steam rose with a warm herbal scent unlike anything Damian had tasted.
"Your mother… sacrificed more than she lived. Endured more than she smiled."
Damian listened, taking a sip.
For the first time in his life… he felt something strange. Warmth. Belonging.
"You're not alone," the feeling whispered.
The old man continued:
"She used to talk about someone… someone who defended her, endured everything for her."
He looked up slightly.
"Not a parent. Not a sibling. Not a husband… but a half-sister."
Damian listened carefully.
"She lived with her mother… a woman who married a nobleman. But she hated Doja. Beat her often."
Damian clenched his robe unconsciously.
"No one defended her… except that sister. Even she was abused."
Each word pierced him.
"My girl… I raised her like my own," the old man said softly.
"But you must be patient. Care for those who remain."
Damian drank again, steadying himself.
"They endured… until the day Doja escaped with her sister's help. That sister sacrificed everything."
He smiled sadly.
"I found Doja in the streets… and raised her."
Damian hesitated.
"Does that mean… I have an aunt?"
"Two," the old man said quietly.
"One a blessing… the other a curse."
He lowered his voice.
"The blessing was blonde, with green eyes. Doja called her… Revi."
Damian's expression changed instantly.
"I think… I know them."
"Rivelina… and Elena?"
The old man nodded.
That was enough.
Damian froze.
Everything suddenly made sense.
The tension between the Empress and the Duchess…
was not politics.
They were sisters.
And behind appearances…
nothing was as it seemed.
There were hidden truths.
Secret meetings.
Unspoken histories.
Now… it all became clear.
Elena's imprisonment…
was never truly explained.
Now he understood.
Karina's words echoed in his mind.
She didn't sound like a child who hated.
She sounded like someone who knew.
What if… she was part of all this?
What if she was truly his cousin?
Then she wasn't just a girl.
She held knowledge.
Her behavior… her calm… her gaze…
none of it matched her age.
Her request for friendship…
was not weakness.
It was a choice.
There was something behind it.
Their relationship… was not normal.
It was interest.
And what he wanted—
was not her friendship.
He wanted what she knew.
He would make her speak.
Whether she wanted to… or not.
He had the right to know.
He had the right to understand.
He didn't know yet—
whether she was a victim… or an enemy.
But one thing was certain:
He would uncover everything.
In his own way.
Because what she didn't realize yet…
He was not ordinary.
He was Damian.
And he was not someone who could be deceived.