The road to the capital wasn't long, but with the four of them together, it stretched into something noisy, alive. The carriage wheels hummed on stone while sunlight poured through the curtains, catching dust motes that danced like sparks.
Elen pressed his face to the window. "Do you think the King looks like the paintings?"
"Which ones?" Lucien asked, lounging as if the jostling didn't bother him.
"The ones where he's waving a sword bigger than him."
Leya snorted. "That's propaganda. Nobody can lift a sword that size."
Elen turned, eyes wide. "Elias could."
Three pairs of eyes landed on him. Elias, sitting straight-backed with arms folded, didn't even flinch. "Flattery will not earn you more sweets later."
"See?" Leya muttered. "He didn't deny it."
Lucien's lips twitched. "He never does."
Elen leaned closer. "But… what kind of person is the King? Is he scary?"
"No," Elias said simply.
"Strict, then?"
"No."
"Then what?"
Elias finally turned his head, one blue eye catching the light, one red burning faintly in shadow. "Loud."
The children burst out laughing, and for once Elias let the sound fill the space, even if his expression hardly shifted.
---
By the time they entered the throne room, the laughter still clung faintly to them—until the King himself shattered the silence with his booming voice.
The throne room glittered with chandeliers and sunlit glass, but it was the King's laugh that filled the space first.
"Elias!" he shouted, springing from the throne as though it were on fire. His robes swirled, his crown nearly slipped, and half the courtiers gasped at such undignified eagerness. But ofcourse he didn't care.
"The moment I've been waiting for!" He practically flew from the throne, crown sliding, courtiers pale with shock. "Elias!"
, while Elias sat between thunder and stillness, the King's arm around his shoulders, the Queen's gaze soft on his face.
Elias barely had time to bow before the King crushed him into a hug that rattled his ribs. "You cursed brat, you should have come sooner! Do you know how dull this place is without you?"
"Your Majesty—" Elias started, but the King swatted the word out of the air.
"None of that. Not from you. We were boys together before titles weighed us down, don't think I'll let you stand there all stiff. Hells, look at you—" He stepped back, gripping Elias's shoulders with shining eyes. "Still unearthly as ever. My courtiers call me radiant. But beside you? I look like a sack of grain."
The court froze at the audacity. Elias only exhaled slowly, as if bracing. "Rounder, perhaps," he murmured.
The King went silent. The courtiers held their breath. Then the great hall shook with his laughter, echoing from the marble pillars. "Still merciless with that tongue!" He slapped Elias on the back like they were still schoolboys sneaking out of lessons.
The children watched wide-eyed. They had never seen their father treated so casually—and never seen him permit it. Leya whispered, "Elias… is smiling."
Before the warmth could fade, another presence drifted close. The Queen descended from her seat with quiet grace, her crown catching the light. She did not laugh or tease. Instead, she reached Elias with soft eyes and a hand that brushed his cheek as though to assure herself he was truly there.
"You look tired," she said gently, voice low enough only he would truly hear. "You always did push yourself too far."
Elias dipped his head faintly, neither denying nor confirming, but there was a flicker—just a flicker—of something unguarded in his gaze.
The Queen's smile deepened, maternal and calm, as though she had always been watching over him from afar. "But you are here. And that is enough."
Between them, the King thumped a goblet of wine into Elias's hand, already pouring another for himself. "Sit, sit! None of this standing about like strangers. Gods, I missed this."
The Queen laid a hand on her husband's arm, balancing his storm with her calm. "Let him breathe, dearest."
The King barked a laugh. "He can breathe later. For now, he drinks with me!"
And so Elias, for once, did not argue. He sat beside them, caught between thunderous laughter and quiet warmth, and for the first time in too long, the weight on his shoulders lightened just a fraction.
The children glanced at one another, then at their father—this father who was untouchable to everyone else, yet here was treated like someone simply… loved.
And they thought, perhaps, the world wasn't as cold as they had believed.
---
The feast rolled with laughter, the King telling wild school-day tales about sneaking out of lectures, dragging Elias into brawls, and somehow always ending up the one punished. The Queen listened with her patient smile, occasionally adding, "And Elias was the one who got you back home in one piece, wasn't he?"
Elias said nothing—his faint smirk was answer enough.
When the children were ushered forward, the King ruffled Rlen's hair, teased Elen for her solemn stare, and even dared to pinch Leya's cheek (earning a dangerous narrowing of Elias's eyes, which made the King quickly retract his hand with a sheepish grin).
Then his gaze fell on Lucien. The boy was quiet, his eyes bright, his silver hair catching the torchlight.
The King's laughter faltered. He blinked. Once. Twice. His goblet lowered, forgotten. "That hair…" he murmured. His joviality drained into something more fragile, almost wistful. "That face… I know it. I know it."
The Queen touched his sleeve. "Husband?"
The King's throat worked as he turned slowly to Elias. "Tell me, old friend… who is this boy? Truly."
The hall stilled. The children exchanged wary glances. Elias, calm as ever, rested one hand on Lucien's shoulder.
"I found him," he said, voice steady, "wandering when I returned to the village. Lost. Alone. I took him in because…" His gaze softened, rare warmth flickering in his mismatched eyes. "…because no child deserves to walk the world without a hand to hold."
Lucien blinked up at him, confused but touched, while the King's fingers clenched tight around the goblet. "No… Elias, you don't understand." His voice cracked just slightly. "He's not just any child. That hair—that is my brother's hair. My brother who… who is gone."
The Queen's eyes widened faintly. "You mean—"
"Yes." The King's voice thickened with conviction, almost desperation. "This boy… Lucien… he's my blood. My nephew. My brother's son."
Silence fell. The children froze. Lucien looked between them, bewildered, while Elias merely regarded the King with that piercing stillness of his.
Finally, he spoke. "If that is so… then don't declare it here like a command. He is not a trinket to be claimed."
The King startled, then met Elias's gaze. His old friend's words carried the weight of iron.
"Get close to him first," Elias continued softly. "Earn his trust. Speak with him. Show him you are not just a crown, but family. And when the time comes, if Lucien himself wishes it… then you may call him son."
The Queen's hand slid into the King's, calming his trembling. The King bowed his head, rare solemnity settling over him. "…You're right. Always you're right." He glanced at Lucien again, eyes shining. "Then I'll wait. However long it takes. I won't force him."
Lucien, who had been watching with wide, uncertain eyes, quietly slipped closer to Elias—his small hand brushing against Elias's sleeve, as though anchoring himself to the one person he already trusted.
Elias placed his hand lightly atop Lucien's. "Good," he murmured, eyes closing for just a moment. "That's how it should be."
And so, in the warmth of the palace, a bond was quietly born—not through decree or bloodlines, but through patience, choice, and the slow, gentle weaving of trust.
---