The drawbridge groaned as it descended over the glistening moat, chains rattling with the heavy turn of the gears. The portcullis lifted, revealing a vast courtyard—a garden sprawled beyond the gates, a riot of blooming flowers swaying in the breeze.
Ahead stood a Gothic castle in majestic splendor, its spires piercing the sky. Rows of arched windows lined its pale stone walls, while sweeping buttresses stretched outward like wings of stone.
They had arrived at the Sol Palace.
Castle attendants lined the stone steps leading to the grand entryway. Two women in elegant court attire watched the arriving procession. The Empress—and the other woman—
"That's your mother, right?" Lucien's eyes lingered on the woman whose features mirrored Tristan's.
"Correct." He nodded, then his lips curved mischievously. "Don't get too close to her; she might bite."
Ignoring him, Lucien returned his attention to the indifferent middle-aged woman standing beside the Empress. Helene Vazquez—or rather, Helene Atreilight now—the first wife of Cyrus.
While the story diverged in many places, some things still aligned. For example, the strained relationship between Tristan and his mother.
As the carriages came to a slow stop, the footmen hurried forward to open the doors. Castle attendants in imperial livery bowed deeply as the princes and Wilhelm descended.
"Your Highnesses. Your Grace. Welcome back to the Sol Palace!"
The group acknowledged the greeting with a nod before approaching the waiting figures at the steps.
"We greet Her Majesty the Empress and Her Highness the Consort."
Roseanne offered a warm smile. "Welcome back to the Sol Palace."
Beside her, Helene remained still, save for the barest incline of her head, hands clasped neatly before her.
Roseanne turned to Wilhelm. "Your Grace, thank you for bringing the Princes safely."
Wilhelm dipped his head. "It was my honor, Your Majesty—"
The sharp echo of hoofbeats broke the still air, drawing every gaze to a knight on horseback who dismounted swiftly and bowed low.
"Forgive my interruption, but His Majesty requests the immediate presence of Prince Tristan and Your Grace in the council chamber."
Since Lucien had not yet officially come of age, he was excluded from the court proceedings.
Wilhelm gave a curt nod. "Understood."
The knight turned to Lucien. "As for Prince Lucien, His Majesty said he will visit this evening."
He inclined his head. "I will await His Majesty."
Tristan and Wilhelm exchanged a glance, a silent understanding passing between them.
Wilhelm turned to Lucien and Roseanne. "I'll visit you both after the meeting."
Roseanne smiled faintly. "We'll be waiting."
After bidding each other goodbye, they stepped into their respective carriages.
Stepping inside, Roseanne tapped the seat beside her. "Come, sit next to me."
Lucien did as she asked. But the moment the door closed, Roseanne threw herself at him, trembling, her hands clutching his clothes as sobs broke through her composure.
"I'm so glad you're back," she choked. "I was so afraid…"
"It's alright," Lucien murmured, wrapping his arms around her and gently patting her back. "I'm here."
"How could I bear it if you—?" Her voice cracked as she clung even tighter to him.
"Please don't cry," Lucien whispered, easing her back and offering a handkerchief. "I'm sorry for making you worry."
She stared at him through red-rimmed eyes, tears streaking down her cheeks. Then she smiled—soft, full of relief—as she took the handkerchief.
"Thank you," she breathed out, hands cradling his face. "Thank you for coming back to me."
She pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.
Lucien's mouth clamped shut; his mind went blank.
The warmth of her touch seeped into him, and it felt so wrong to be comforted by it.
Roseanne dabbed away her tears, then rested her head lightly on his shoulder, her fingers entwining with his. She exhaled softly.
"…Sometimes, I just wish we lived somewhere simpler. Somewhere far from all this."
He understood. He truly did.
Life in the palace—where masks were currency and trust was a rare commodity—was suffocating. Even more so, knowing Roseanne endured three miscarriages before giving birth to Lucien.
From everything he'd observed, the House of Godfrey had been dragged into the aftermath of the mess Cyrus created. And Roseanne was just one of its victims.
Putting aside his thoughts, he asked, "If we weren't nobles… what kind of life would you wish to have?"
She straightened and looked at him in a daze, clearly caught off guard. After all, he never tried to prolong their conversations before.
A soft laugh escaped her as she leaned back against his shoulder once more. "Hmm, what do you think? Should we become wealthy merchants? You and me, traveling across the continent?"
A small smile tugged at his lips. "That sounds nice."
But as the conversation continued, a fleeting image flickered through his mind—Roseanne lying motionless, a jagged shard of wood pierced through her chest. His fingers tightened unconsciously around hers.
Was there a way to prevent her death…?
***
Tristan offered his mother a hand before following her into the carriage. Settling across from her, he turned sharply toward the window, arms and legs folded. As the door shut with a thud, the carriage fell into silence. The atmosphere grew heavy with tension, pressing in on them with each passing moment.
"You should've refused when the Emperor asked you to escort that child," Helene said, breaking the silence.
"He didn't ask," Tristan replied dismissively, eyes fixed on the blurring scenery. "I volunteered."
"Why do you always help him despite my warning?" Helene pressed.
A breath hissed through his teeth, irritation prickling under his skin—the same conversation, again and again.
He shot her a begrudging glance. "Then why don't you and that old man stop hurting him? Maybe then I'll start listening."
His mother's cold face didn't waver. "How many times must I tell you? Everything we do is for you—for your rightful place on the throne."
"For me?" He arched a brow, mockery curling his lips. "Do you take me for a fool? You insult my intelligence with that lie."
She sighed wearily. "Say what you will about your grandfather and me. But one day, you'll thank us."
"Thank you?" Tristan scoffed. "For what? I never asked to be Emperor." His voice dropped, gaze sharpening. "Don't pretend this was ever for my sake. I'm just a pawn in your game, aren't I?"
Helene let out a humorless laugh. "You think you're the only one being used? We all play the roles we're given, Tristan. Some of us simply don't have the luxury of choosing them."
Tristan held her gaze. "Is that what you tell yourself?"
Her smile faltered, fingers curled tightly around the folds of her dress. "I tell myself what I must to sleep at night."
The air thickened as silence stretched, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of wheels and hooves on stone.
Helene looked away, her composure settling back in place. "You're still too young to understand. Whether you like it or not, the throne will be yours. That child will never take it from you."
Tristan's eyes narrowed, his voice low. "Is that really what you want?"
She didn't flinch. "Yes."
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Lies."
He remembered the day he was named Crown Prince before he turned back time. She hadn't smiled. She hadn't even looked proud. Her expression had been cold and distant.
The only one smiling… was that damn old geezer.
The carriage jolted to a stop outside the council chamber. Tristan's gaze flicked to Helene—still turned toward the window, motionless, like a statue carved from ice.
"Instead of chasing someone else's desire," he said quietly, "why not chase your own? It's not too late to change."
He meant it. Maybe it was foolish, but a small part of him still hoped she'd hear him—really hear him, for once.
Silence met his words. No glance. No breath of acknowledgment. Nothing.
The door creaked open.
Tristan clicked his tongue, annoyance flaring beneath the weariness. Not surprised, just tired. "Whatever."
Maybe their relationship was already beyond repair.
Without waiting for a response, he stepped down from the carriage and left her behind.