In the room, Lucien lay asleep, but his rest was far from peaceful.
His brows were tightly furrowed, deep lines forming on his forehead. His hands trembled slightly, and his lips quivered as if holding back something heavy.
Sweat gathered on his skin, and his breathing turned uneven.
He was dreaming.
No, reliving.
In his nightmare, he stood in the middle of the palace hall, on his knees, his body pressed against the cold floor.
"I didn't do it," he kept saying. "I didn't do anything wrong."
But no one listened.
He looked around.
Every face was filled with disgust.
Judgment.
Cold indifference.
Then his eyes landed on Syran.
Standing to the side, watching.
Smiling.
A quiet, cruel smile that no one else seemed to notice.
But Lucien saw it.
He remembered it clearly.
That same expression, the one Syran wore when everything was falling apart for him.
When his life was being destroyed.
Then Lucien turned his gaze to the one person he wanted to believe him.
Anna.
But what he saw made his chest tighten.
There was no warmth in her eyes.
No trust.
Only coldness.
Disgust.
Doubt.
The moment he saw that, something inside him broke.
In reality, tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks.
His body trembled.
The humiliation, the helplessness, the pain, it all came rushing back.
Suddenly, he jerked awake.
He sat up abruptly, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
His entire body was drenched in cold sweat.
For a moment, he just sat there, trying to breathe.
But the memories would not stop.
They flooded his mind, one after another.
He wanted to forget.
But he couldn't.
Among all those memories, one face appeared clearly.
Evelyn.
The only person who had stood by him.
The only one who listened.
The only one who cared.
When he first entered the palace, everything had been unfamiliar and cold.
No one welcomed him.
No one cared.
Except her.
She had stayed by his side, quietly supporting him.
She listened when he spoke, comforted him when he broke, and protected him in ways no one else did.
She treated him like family.
Like a younger brother.
Even when the palace turned cruel, when whispers and schemes surrounded him, she never left.
She was his only warmth in that place.
But even that was taken away.
Syran.
He could not stand seeing Lucien at peace.
He worked in the shadows, planting lies, twisting truths, creating scenes that made Lucien look guilty.
Slowly, he poisoned Anna's mind.
Made her believe Lucien was unfaithful.
That he had an improper relationship with his own maid.
In the palace, that accusation meant death.
The truth never mattered.
Only what people believed.
The incident was kept hidden to protect Anna's reputation.
But someone still had to pay.
It wasn't Lucien.
It was Evelyn.
They accused her of being a traitor.
And executed her.
Lucien never understood why.
But he knew one thing.
Anna had not believed him.
If she had, Evelyn would not have died.
After that, Anna never spoke to him again.
Never even looked at him.
He wanted to explain.
He wanted to defend himself.
But she never gave him the chance.
He lived on.
Not dead.
But not alive either.
Enduring humiliation every day.
From the Queen Mother.
From Syran, who never showed his true face openly, but always struck from behind.
Lucien had once thought Syran was kind.
Gentle.
But that was a lie.
He was calculating.
Greedy.
Willing to destroy anyone in his way.
And Lucien had been the easiest target.
His background was never enough.
He was not royal.
Not noble.
Just the son of a military doctor.
Even his marriage had been arranged because of his father's connection to the old king.
Yet, despite everything, he had loved Anna.
From the very first moment he saw her.
He had given everything to that marriage.
His loyalty.
His patience.
His heart.
And in return, he received nothing but humiliation.
Pain.
And death.
…
Back in the present, tears continued to fall from his eyes.
His shoulders shook as quiet sobs escaped him.
After a while, he lifted his hand and touched his face.
His fingers came away wet.
He stared at them for a moment.
Then let out a bitter breath.
"Why are you crying?" he muttered to himself. "Don't you have any self-respect?"