(Haru's POV)
People always notice the one standing in the light. That was what I was taught. From the moment I turned five, everything about me had already been decided—how I should speak, how I should walk, how I should be seen. I was trained to become something long before I even understood what that meant. Not a child, but a ruler. My father made sure of that. He stood close to the king—close enough that, at times, I wondered if his loyalty was truly to the crown, or to the idea of it. And through me, he reached for it.
I didn't question it. Why would I? Everything pointed to me. The court watched me. The ministers observed me. Every step I took was measured, corrected, refined. The future felt certain—mine. Until it wasn't.
I remember that day clearly. The garden was too quiet, too still, like something had already ended before anyone said it out loud. I was ten, and I was crying—not hiding it, not stopping it—because I knew someone would see.
And they did.
The king. My father. The ministers.
All of them turned the moment I stepped forward.
"What happened?"
My breathing broke—not entirely real, not entirely fake, just enough.
"She killed my cat."
Silence.
Good.
"She said it was suffering… that it was better to end it." I clenched my fists tighter, lowering my head. "She didn't even hesitate."
Their attention shifted.
Not to me.
To her.
Eri.
Small. Still. Quiet.
No defense. No fear.
Just that same calm.
And in that moment, something changed—not in her, but in them. They didn't look at her like she had done something wrong. They looked at her like she understood something they agreed with.
My chest tightened.
It was never about the cat.
It was about being replaced.
I felt it then—clear, sharp, unavoidable. The crown was no longer certain. Not mine. Not anymore. Because she existed. Because she fit something they were searching for—something I didn't.
Why her?
Why does everything shift just because she's there?
From that day on, I changed. I had to. If strength alone wasn't enough, then I would become something else—something better, something untouchable. I learned how to smile, how to soften my voice, how to make people believe what they wanted to believe. The good one. The understanding one. The one who steps back. The one who never competes. The one no one suspects.
Because power doesn't always belong to the one who reaches for it.
Sometimes, it belongs to the one who waits.
And I learned how to wait.
Years passed, and everything began to fall into place again—almost. The court trusted me. The ministers relied on me. The image was perfect.
Until her name appeared again.
Elara.
She was supposed to be part of the plan. An alliance. A future that made sense. Everything aligned—until Eri stepped in.
Again.
Always her.
Why does everything keep choosing her?
The crown. The attention.
And now—
Elara.
"…Choose your peace."
My own voice pulled me back. The past dissolved, and the present settled in—the garden of Vesperia, the warmth of the sun, the quiet movement of leaves in the wind.
And her.
Elara.
Standing in front of me.
I was still kneeling.
Looking up at her.
Her expression was uncertain. Conflicted.
Good.
That meant she was thinking.
I held her gaze, steady, patient. "You still have a choice." My voice remained calm, measured, careful—because that was what she needed, because that was what she would believe.
You don't force someone like her.
You let them believe they're choosing.
Her fingers tightened slightly at her side. She didn't speak, but I could see it—the hesitation, the doubt, the weight pressing down on her.
Perfect.
I lowered my gaze slightly, softening my expression just enough. "I won't force you."
A lie.
A necessary one.
Because force pushes people away.
But choice keeps them close.
I looked at her again—calm, understanding—everything they expect me to be, everything she's starting to trust.
And beneath that, something else remained.
Quiet.
Sharp.
Unseen.
If she chooses Eri…
My jaw tightened, just slightly—not enough for her to notice, not enough for anyone.
Then I'll make sure she regrets it.