Chapter 256: 256 — Greet Your Old Fiancée?

Walking down the snow-covered path, Yusha silently followed the group of knights.

Their armour clinked with every step, the sound familiar yet distant.

Liam led at the front, coat brushing snow as if it parted for him alone.

He didn’t look back—not once.

It was as though it didn’t matter who followed, as long as they obeyed.

Yusha pulled his cloak tighter around himself. Fog curled in the air every time he breathed. The cold normally soothed him, but today it was like it decided to become his enemy, chilling his bones.

They soon reached the edge of the forest where screams of soldiers echoed.

Flames scorched the whiteness, turning snow to hissing steam.

A dragon—massive, dark blue scales like the depth of the ocean—towered over the burned trees.

Its roar shook the earth beneath Yusha’s feet.

"Attack!" one knight yelled, rushing forward with a raised spear.

Liam’s sword flashed, slicing the air as he charged ahead fearlessly.

Knights followed, steel clashing against scales, sparks bursting with every strike.

Yusha stayed back—he could not fight like them. He didn’t even understand why he was brought here.

But when the dragon swung its tail, the ground split open beneath him.

Yusha stumbled, falling hard onto jagged stone.

The pain shot up through his abdomen.

His breath hitched. His hand flew instinctively to his stomach.

The baby.

His vision blurred at the thought. Maybe it was because of the sudden stress he couldn’t bear, or because of the shock from hitting his head.

His heart thundered in terror, louder than the beast itself.

No... no... please...

Liam noticed only once Yusha failed to stand.

He strode over, grabbed him by the arm, pulled him to his chest.

"You are bleeding," he said, his voice cold like untouchable frozen snow.

His eyes lacked urgency—lacked worry—almost too calm.

"I-Is my baby okay?" Yusha’s voice trembled, panic filling his tone as he looked up at the man before him.

He curled unconsciously, one hand pressing desperately against his stomach, fear gripping his entire body, not letting him move.

Liam looked down at him, expression unreadable.

"It’s fine even if it’s not."

There was no softness in his tone.

No hesitation in his words.

No grief in his eyes.

As though that outcome was preferable.

Yusha stared at him, a tremor running through him deeper than pain. His tears froze before falling in the cold weather.

He was lifted suddenly—arms under his legs, held like something fragile but not like a person. He felt like a bag of sand that needed to be brought from one place to another.

The dragon still roared behind them, but all Yusha could hear was his heartbeat breaking.

A knight approached, confusion lacing his tone.

"Count Liam—why carry a servant like that?"

Liam’s answer was simple, careless, almost amused.

"Because he is an omega," he replied. "And he isn’t made to withstand injuries like knights do."

As if that explained everything. As if that justified the lack of concern.

As if Yusha was merely something weaker to be dragged out of danger—not someone carrying his child.

Liam placed Yusha in a far corner before rushing back to the field. Soon, the fight ended. The dragon fell to the ground, its eyes lifeless.

Yusha kept caressing his stomach, his fingertips trembling with worry.

Was his baby truly alright?

***

After all the meetings ended, Soren finally stepped out of the court.

The hallways were quieter at this hour—warm light spilling from lanterns, shadows stretching beneath his feet. A few servants waited near the pillars, heads lowering respectfully the moment they noticed him.

"Your Imeprial Highness," they greeted, voices soft, careful.

Soren paused, offered them a gentle nod and a smile—measured, polite, charming. Just like a Crown Prince should.

Something he had worn like second skin for years.

He continued forward, footsteps steady against marble.

When he was far enough, their voices reached from behind him—quiet at first, then clearer, like wind picking up broken pieces.

"Poor our Crown Prince."

"I heard he was rejected by the Crown Prince Rihaan of Danshin."

"I know. What will he do now? Will he marry someone else?"

"They were engaged for a long time..."

"Not officially though!"

"Yes, but I was looking forward to seeing them together."

The words trailed after him like ghostly strings, stretching farther and farther until they finally faded into nothing.

Soren didn’t slow down. He didn’t look back. He merely drew a quiet breath—controlled and steady. The kind taken by someone who had accepted a wound long before it bled.

Although he did need to marry someone else now.

His father had made that clear—proposing to bring candidates, all at once, like delicate fabrics placed on display to be picked by a customer. Evaluate them. Judge them. Choose the one most fitting for the crown.

He understood. He was the future emperor. His heart was never just his own.

The only reason Rihaan required no approval was because he had already shaped himself under Revhara—studied here, learned here, witnessed the same politics as Soren did for a while. He was already suitable, the safest option.

Already perfect.

Until he wasn’t. Not when he decided to stand against this political agreement.

Soren stopped near the garden corridor, winter air brushing in through the open archway. Snow drifted like falling ash, quiet and slow.

He exhaled.

So what now?

Soren pushed open the door to his chamber after a little longer walk.

Darkness greeted him. No lamps, no soft glow of candles—just the quiet shape of furniture outlined by moonlight filtering through the balcony curtains.

He blinked, brows pulling together.

Why is it dark? The servants always light the room before I return.

A soft shift in the corner caught his attention—too slight, too controlled to be coincidence.

Someone was here.

His hand went instinctively to the sword at his waist. The silence in the room thickened, heavy—almost crashing on him. He stepped forward, slow and silent, eyes adjusting to the shadows until he could distinguish a figure beside the window.

Tall. Still. Facing the window.

Without hesitation, Soren drew his blade, the steel glinting faintly under the moon, and pressed it swiftly to the neck of the intruder.

A sharp inhale. A low gasp. Then—

"Woah—careful!"

Soren froze.

He knew that voice.

Even in the dark—he could never mistake it. Undoubtedly, the man who had rejected him stood behind him.

"...Rihaan?" he breathed.

The shadow moved, stepping into the silver light.

And there he was.

Crown Prince Rihaan of Danshin.

The man rumours whispered about. The man the empire believed had turned Soren away. The man Soren had once thought would stand beside him forever.

Rihaan raised his hands slightly as if to show he held no weapon, though his eyes—deep, steady, painfully familiar—never left Soren’s.

"Is this how you greet an old fiancé?" he murmured with a half-smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Soren’s grip tightened reflexively before he lowered the sword—slowly, but not entirely.

Because Rihaan shouldn’t be here.

Not in his chambers.

Not in the dark.

Not after all that had happened.

"...Why are you here?" Soren asked, voice calm only because years of discipline forced it to be.

Rihaan took one step closer.

The distance between them suddenly felt too small.

Too full of things they never said.

"To talk," Rihaan answered quietly. "Before things get more complicated."

Rihaan stood there, face half-hidden beneath the layers of white cloth, only one eye visible beneath the low light. His breathing was steady, almost too calm for someone who had broken into a prince’s chambers.

"I came to say goodbye," he murmured, voice softer than Soren remembered. "And to thank you... for how you handled everything. You could’ve made it worse. But you didn’t."

Soren didn’t move the sword yet. His gaze dragged over the faint crimson seeping through Rihaan’s bandages.

"You didn’t need to come yourself," he said, tone low. "You should be resting."

Rihaan huffed, something between a laugh and a wince. He lifted a hand and tapped the side of his face.

"Rest? I have had enough of that. Besides, I didn’t want you showing up to my bedside again, fussing over wounds that don’t concern you anymore."

There was no bitterness in his voice—only a strange warmth, a familiarity that stung.

Soren lowered the blade slowly.

"I wasn’t fussing," he muttered.

He simply happened to go visit him that night. And simply happened to see his wounds. And... he just tended to them because that was the duty of...

There was no such duty for an Imperial Crown Prince. Perhaps the duty of a decent living being?

"You came with medicine twice," Rihaan replied, raising a brow. "Is that not fussing?"

Soren said nothing. He did go visit him twice. And the medicines were just in case Rihaan might need them. The first time he found him injured, no one tended to his wounds as if the King of Danshin had instructed so.

Rihaan stepped forward, stopping close enough for Soren to catch the faint scent of blood.

"I mean it. Thank you. For accepting what ended... without chains or resentment."

Soren’s fingers tightened on the hilt.

"Is that all you came to say?"

"...Goodbye," Rihaan repeated—quieter this time, the word lingering like frost in winter air.

And for a moment, neither moved. They looked at each other one last time before Rihaan opened the window, jumping down the building with ease.

Soren didn’t panic, standing still in silence. He knew perfectly well that he wouldn’t get injured.

After all, he was a beast—the kind who could jump from anywhere and make it out alive—or so Rihaan always stated during the years they studied together.