In the Imperial Palace
The imperial palace was submerged in silence. The ancient walls told stories never fully narrated, and the vast hallways carried echoes of the past as if time itself refused to forget what had happened.
In the imperial gardens, where ancient trees wrapped around the royal mausoleums, Emperor Leonhard stood. His eyes were fixed on the white flowers he had placed around his wife's grave—Eternal Lotus Flowers, symbolizing a love that never dies, even if time covers it with absence.
Beside him stood Prince Adrian, silent. His features were sad but composed, as if he carried the weight of this memory on his shoulders without letting it break him.
A few steps away stood Countess Alenor, Niklaus's governess, watching the scene in silence, not daring to approach further. She knew this day was unlike any other. It was the day they lost Empress Elisia… and the very same day Niklaus was born.
As Leonhard watched his wife's grave, that heavy feeling returned to him. The memory that never faded. The day Elisia gave birth to their second child… but she didn't stay to see his first smile.
He never held his son in his arms when he was born. He couldn't even look at him. He was drowning in grief, in the shock of loss, in the painful realization that the moment that should have been his happiest day… was his greatest loss.
He knew Niklaus's birthday came every year. But it was never a day of joy. Just a reminder of what he had lost—what he could never regain.
Yet despite that, he didn't completely ignore his existence. Every year, the governess reminded him of the boy's birthday. But he would only respond by sending a servant to ask Niklaus if he wanted anything on that day. And Niklaus, every time, asked for nothing. Except once—and his request was strange and simple.
Then, without realizing it, he remembered an old moment from years past. When Niklaus was six years old. His little son was running after him, his jewel-red eyes full of wonder, his voice carrying childhood innocence, calling to him with pure eagerness:
"Father."
But Leonhard, who had stopped for a moment, slowly turned. He looked at that small child who resembled Elisia so much—his jet-black hair, his facial features—everything about him reminded Leonhard of her.
Then, as if he had heard nothing, he walked away without responding. He was exhausted from work and from remembering the memories he tried to forget. He also couldn't accept this easily. Couldn't accept his son's fate—a birth that alone heralded something he didn't want to remember or prepare for. So he always kept distance between them, without even realizing it. Those red eyes that reminded him every time he tried to forget or ignore. The eyes no one else had—different from Elisia and from himself. Which raised questions in the imperial palace about whether Niklaus was truly his son. That had angered him greatly, and he silenced anyone who tried to suggest otherwise, even with a hint. Because he knew Niklaus was his son. And that was both the wound and the cure at the same time.
His memories were interrupted by Adrian's voice:
"Happy birthday, little brother… I hope you're doing well, wherever you are."
It was the first time Adrian admitted to himself that this day was not only the anniversary of his mother's death, but also the birth of his younger brother. The younger brother he had always waited for when his mother told him he would have one—and he would smile with childish joy and say he would protect him. But he had failed the promise he made. Yet now he at least had hope. As long as he was breathing, and Niklaus was breathing, the relationship could be repaired. No, he would repair it himself, no matter what.
The emperor said nothing. Only a burning pain flickered in his eyes—stronger than before—and vanished within seconds. Then he quietly clenched his fist. The constant feeling that he had forgotten something important returned to him.
Countess Alenor watched quietly, sorrow in her eyes.
---
Alenor had been Leonhard's friend since childhood. She knew him before he became emperor, before he became the hardened man who never showed his feelings to others.
But she had seen how he changed when Empress Elisia entered his life. How he started doing things she never imagined he would. How he married her… and how she became her dear friend as well.
When Elisia was pregnant with her second child, there was something strange in her eyes. Something Alenor didn't fully understand until Elisia spoke those words—words that should never have been said:
"If something happens to me, take care of my child."
Alenor was shocked. She rejected the idea immediately. She told her she would be fine, that she would take care of her child herself. There was no reason to worry. But she understood from Elisia's gaze that Elisia knew she wouldn't live to see her child grow up. Yet she didn't hesitate to give birth to him.
She remembered that day—the exact same date as today. The day the entire empire mourned, not just the imperial palace. That dawn that loomed over the imperial court, announcing with one cry the birth of a life, and with another cry the end of a life.
A beautiful woman with long, silky black hair covering the pillow. Drops of sweat gathered on her forehead, on her body, blood covering the bedsheets. She held the newborn infant with a faint smile—yet carrying all the radiance within her. She whispered before her final breath, touching the child's forehead: "Nik… laus… Niklaus."
She murmured those final murmurs, announcing a name for her little one. Then she passed away.
That day, no one stepped forward to hold the child. Everyone was in shock. Even Emperor Leonhard didn't move. His eyes were fixed on his wife's body, as if the whole world had collapsed before him.
But Alenor couldn't leave the child there. She was the first to hold him in her arms. The first to care for him. The first to see him not as a tragic memory… but as a child who needed love.
As the days passed, she began to feel that her attachment to him was greater than anything else. She even thought that even if she had children of her own, she couldn't love them as she loved him.
She remembered how every year she would remind Leonhard of Niklaus's birthday. She didn't ask for a big celebration—just a simple reminder that this child had a day that should be acknowledged.
But he never responded. He just sent servants. And she understood his reason. But she also didn't understand why such distance. It was impossible for a father to distance himself from his son for just any reason. She understood the reason was significant, but she also understood that the child carried no blame.
Yet she never gave up. She would celebrate his birthday herself, with him. She would make a cake every year herself. She saw how happy it made him when he was small. But over time, he began to feel guilty toward her and told her to stop making it for him.
But she didn't listen. She sat beside him and told him it wasn't his fault—that his mother loved him more than anything, and that his father loved him too. He stayed silent at that moment and said nothing. He just held her hand, just as he used to do as an infant, and just as he always did whenever he felt sad.
When he started growing up, he had a few friends. He was happy with them. But he began to change. He started acting strangely toward them. He started fighting with them for no reason. He started withdrawing from everything. As if he no longer wanted to be part of any relationship. Even with her, he became cold—but at least he didn't ignore her.
And now, months ago, after waking from that coma, he had become even more different.
That coma—no one knew its cause. There was no medical explanation. But it filled her with overwhelming terror. She took care of him every day herself the entire time, never leaving his room. That made her remember the days she cared for him as an infant—never leaving his room for fear he might cry or fall ill.
She also saw the tension in the palace. She saw Leonhard's worry, even if he didn't show it.
Even Adrian, who previously never went near Niklaus, would stand far away, watching from a distance. And the look of worry in his eyes—he couldn't hide it.
And when Niklaus woke from the coma, he had become different than before. Colder. His gaze—she didn't recognize it at all. His eyes showed nothing but emptiness. No desire. Nothing. Literally nothing.
And that was what made her stop at the door, unable to step forward and embrace him as she used to.