James and Sara left the palace quietly, without ceremony. The King remained seated in his study, unmoving. His desk was cluttered, but he stared at nothing. When the Queen stepped in, her footsteps light but hesitant, she paused at the sight of him.
He didn't look up.
"It's not just James," the King said. "I failed him too. I neglected him. Maybe… if I had just listened once."
The Queen placed her hand gently on his shoulder, but said nothing. What could she?
Outside the door, Prince Aric stood, unmoving. He had overheard everything—about Edward, about that day years ago, and the wound left behind. His mind flashed back to a conversation before Edward had left for the eastern front.
"Aric, soon everything is going to change. Maybe I won't be there to see you in the future. But my friend… I always wish you the best."
At the time, Aric had smiled it off. But now… now that sentence felt like goodbye. Like Edward had already started leaving long before his horse ever galloped out of the palace.
At Bolton Mansion, the silence was suffocating. Servants tiptoed, their whispers brief and clipped. No one raised their voice. It was as if the walls themselves held their breath.
Two days later, the twins returned from their maternal uncle's estate.
Their names—Elric and Elara—filled the air with something the house hadn't felt in a long time: youth.
Sara welcomed them with open arms, hugging them tightly. They already knew what had happened in the capital. Elric asked to see Edward. Elara, softer spoken, nodded beside him.
Sara hesitated. "Not yet," she said.
The next day, after coaxing, pleading, and quiet insisting, Sara managed to arrange a family dinner. It would be the first dinner with Edward in over three years.
No one was eager.
But eventually, everyone agreed.
The long dining table was set immaculately. Silver cutlery, clean porcelain, a polished candelabra. The servants had outdone themselves—partly to impress, partly to not be the ones to break the tension.
Edward came down last. His footsteps were steady, but his face unreadable. Everyone else was already seated.
Dinner began.
Knives scraped plates. Spoons clinked gently. No one spoke.
The servants moved cautiously, aware that even the sound of refilling a glass felt too loud in that room.
Then Elric cleared his throat. "Brother," he said, his voice cracking the silence, "you've been away so long. Tell us something about the eastern front."
Elara followed up, her voice softer but more urgent. "Who did you meet? How were the people there? What did they grow? What did you see?"
Edward paused. He lowered his spoon, exhaled slowly, and forced a smile—but not a fake one. A worn, tired smile that still managed to be real.
"It was the eastern plains. Hot most of the year—summers that stretch out for six, sometimes eight months. Winter and rain only come for a short time. The land is flat, wide, perfect for wheat and grain. Every summer, they celebrate the harvest festival—it's not grand like here, but... it's honest. They laugh more there. They have less, but they laugh more."
The twins leaned forward, full of questions. And Edward answered them all. He didn't dramatize or brag. Just told them what he saw. What he remembered. What he missed.
For the first time in years, Edward smiled—fully, genuinely. Even the servants noticed.
Across the table, Sara kept her gaze low, but her eyes were glassy.
James looked at Edward like a man afraid to speak and lose the moment.
Dinner ended.
The twins left for their rooms, chatting about the eastern customs.
Edward walked slowly toward the staircase. Before he could start climbing, he heard Sara behind him.
"Edward."
He stopped.
James was standing just behind her.
Edward didn't turn around. He didn't need to.
"I don't hate them," he said softly.
Then he walked away.
Sara let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
James looked down at his feet. The man who once ruled a county couldn't find a single word.
That night, Edward sat on the edge of his bed, his hands still curled slightly, as if they hadn't let go of the dinner fork. The smile he wore earlier—it was gone now, or maybe it had faded slowly, like warmth bleeding out of him.
Someone knocked on Edward's bedroom door.
He was awake but didn't get up right away.
Another knock. This one is firmer, more deliberate.
He pushed off the blanket, walked to the door, and opened it.
Alyssa stood there.
Edward didn't say anything. His expression remained unreadable. But as he looked at her, his fingers curled slightly against the edge of the doorframe—like something inside him tensed, resisted, or remembered.
The hallway was silent.
Neither of them spoke.
And yet, something had already begun.