The sound of boots on the marble floor echoed in the hall before Zayden’s voice followed.

"If you’re plotting something again, I’d like to know before the palace burns down."

`What if we were actually planning to do so? Soren asked.

Zayden`s steps faltered, his expression serious.

The Imperial Crown Prince laughed, leaning back in his chair.

"Relax, brother. We are simply having a friendly chat."

Ren looked up, gaze steady, and murmured, "His Imperial Highness is telling the truth, My Lord."

Zayden arched a brow.

"That already sounds suspicious."

"My Lord..." the servant’s gaze lowered. Did he not believe him?

The general burst into laughter, catching him off guard. Ren slowly looked up, and subconsciously, a smile tugged at his lips.

"Why are you here, leaving the poor child alone there?" Soren shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval, pointing toward Eiran, still seated at the table in front of the chessboard.

"Ren," the general called, his voice soft and warm.

"Yes?" The servant’s posture straightened instantly.

"Do you know how to play chess?"

Soren furrowed his eyebrows. This didn’t answer his question.

Ren blinked, confused, then quickly nodded. "Yes, My Lord... but why?"

"Well," Zayden turned toward the child who had been sneaking glances at them, as if eagerly waiting for something. "Eiran wants to play with you." He smiled.

He wanted to say that the boy simply wanted to spend more time with Ren—however, not in front of Soren. The servant’s reaction could reveal that things between them were not crystal clear, that there were still many unresolved issues between father and son.

While playing with Eiran, the boy kept asking about his real father. The questions began to prick Zayden’s curiosity as well, but he held back. Perhaps it was best for him not to know. However, the child was not at fault. He had the right to know everything about his identity.

"Alright." Ren bowed slightly to the two men before him, then walked toward Eiran. Usually, the child would run to him on his own, asking to play. So why had he asked Zayden to send him here instead?

"Papa!" Eiran exclaimed, quickly setting the pieces back where they belonged. "I didn’t think you’d agree to play with me."

Ren chuckled, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

"And why did you think that?"

Eiran didn’t answer, too focused on arranging the chessboard perfectly. He knew his father loved precision.

Once it was done, he looked up at Ren—but the man’s gaze was elsewhere, fixed on Soren and Zayden, seated where he’d been earlier, still deep in conversation.

"Papa?" Eiran tilted his head, placing his small hand over Ren’s, which rested on the table.

Ren blinked and turned quickly toward him.

"Yes? Shall we start?"

Eiran nodded, smiling faintly.

They played a few rounds, yet neither seemed eager to win. They kept capturing each other’s pawns, as if victory would somehow feel wrong.

"Papa," Eiran whispered, his voice low enough for only Ren to hear.

"Yes?"

"If I win, you have to do what I say," he said with a grin.

Ren let out a soft chuckle, giving him a nod.

"Alright."

So he wanted something. What could it be?

Ren ran through the possibilities—candies, cakes, biscuits, maybe a toy he’d seen the last time they went outside. Yet, none of these seemed to be the answer.

Eiran stifled a laugh as he neared victory. Since Ren hadn’t moved most of his pieces, it was easy to slide his queen across the board and corner his father’s king.

"Checkmate!" he exclaimed proudly.

Ren pretended to be startled.

"Oh no. It seems I have lost."

Eiran shook his head, grinning.

"Papa, you’re terrible at acting."

Ren rubbed the back of his neck, forcing an awkward smile. He’d been caught.

"Am I that bad?" He asked, locking gaze with his son.

Eiran nodded firmly, folding his arms.

"But you can’t back out on your promise."

"I never intended to," Ren said, smiling softly. "So? What do you want?"

For the first time, he truly didn’t know what his son was after. It must have been important if he felt the need to win, the need to take a promise so that Ren would not go back on his words.

Eiran glanced toward Zayden, who was still engrossed in conversation with his brother. Then toward the servants standing far away, near the corner of the room. No one could hear them.

Finally, he leaned forward and whispered, "I want you to tell me about my real dad."

Ren froze, his breath catching in his throat. The queen chess piece slipped from his fingers, clattering against the board.

"W-What?"

"I know that Dad isn’t related to me by blood. But you are."

The seriousness in Eiran’s voice—and the calmness with which he said it—sent a chill down Ren’s spine. His fingers curled into a weak fist. He wanted to run away.

Even though he had planned to tell Eiran the truth—about Ilyan, about their past—his body simply froze. The words refused to come out. He couldn’t even recall the lines he had rehearsed so many times in his mind, imagining this very moment and the questions his son might ask.

"Papa... tell me. Did he hurt you? Is that why you left him? Or did he abandon you?" Eiran’s voice trembled despite his effort to sound composed. "I’m old enough now. I’m not a child, you know."

He tried to hide the storm in his eyes, but his lips quivered. He wanted to know the truth—he needed to—but the way his father suddenly fell silent sent chills down his spine.

Was this fear? The way his chest tightened was worse than when he was abducted by those men. He often told himself it was alright if his father was a coward who didn’t want to acknowledge his Papa—or him. But if he were a bastard... then wouldn’t that mean looking at him hurt his Papa every time? That every glance was a reminder of that man?