Chapter 97: No, I don’t want it anymore

In this photo, they were sitting on the carpet in the study, with a thick fairy tale book spread out in front of them.

He was telling a story to Freya, and she was looking up at him, her eyes full of admiration.

He remembered that it was “The Hero and the Dragon.” When he got to the part where the hero pierced the dragon’s heart with his sword, Freya clapped her hands and said, “Brother Ross will become a hero too.”

He puffed out his chest.

“Of course.”

Turn another page.

This one was taken on Freya’s seventh birthday.

She was wearing a white dress, her hair neatly combed, and a small silver crown on her head.

She stood in front of the cake, hands clasped, eyes closed, making a wish.

He stood next to her, tilting his head and asking what she had wished for. She opened her eyes, leaned in mysteriously, and whispered in his ear.

“I won’t tell you. It won’t come true if I say it out loud.”

After that, she never celebrated her birthday again.

After her mother passed away, the Duke of Dale took her away, and from then on, he rarely saw her.

Occasionally, they would meet at palace banquets. She would only greet him politely, calling him “Your Highness,” and then sit quietly in a corner, no longer chasing after him calling him “Brother Ross.”

He didn’t know why.

He asked the Queen Mother, and she said, “Her mother passed away. She’s in a bad mood.”

He believed her.

He waited one year, two years, three years, but all he got was her increasingly cold gaze.

He tried to get closer, tried to smile at her like he did when they were kids, tried to talk to her, but she just looked at him, her gaze as calm as stagnant water.

He didn’t know what had happened.

He only knew that he had lost her.

Ross closed the photo album, hugged it to his chest, and lowered his head.

Outside the window, the cold moonlight spilled in, falling on his golden hair, falling on his slightly trembling shoulders.

He didn’t know why it had turned out like this.

Ross lay on the bed holding the photo album and fell asleep without realizing it.

Outside the window, the cold moonlight spilled in, landing on his furrowed brows, landing on his slightly trembling eyelashes.

His breathing grew heavier and deeper, as if he were sinking into a bottomless darkness.

In his dream, there was nothing.

No light, no sound, no warmth.

He stood there, unable to see his hand in front of his face. The ground was cold beneath his feet, and all around was endless void.

He groped forward, step by step, each step feeling like walking on cotton.

Then he heard crying.

Very soft, very thin, like a wounded kitten. His heart tightened suddenly.

He quickened his pace toward the sound. The darkness wrapped around him like thick ink, and he almost struggled to move forward.

Then he saw—

A small figure sat crouched on the ground, arms hugging her knees, face buried in her arms. Light purple hair scattered down, glowing faintly in the darkness.

“Freya?”

His voice trembled slightly.

Little Freya looked up. Her face was covered in tears, eyes swollen from crying, nose red, lips still trembling.

She looked at him, those light purple eyes filled with grievance and confusion.

“Brother Ross.”

She sobbed.

“Why don’t you want me anymore?”

Ross’s mind went blank. He hurriedly crouched down, reaching out to wipe away her tears.

“I don’t, Freya. I don’t not want you…”

Before his hand could touch her face, Little Freya turned away.

She stood up, took a step back, and stared straight at him, tears still streaming down.

“You do.

You found someone else.

You don’t want me.”

“I don’t!”

Ross panicked, his voice cracking.

“Freya, please listen to me—”

But Little Freya had already turned and run. Her figure grew farther and smaller, her light purple hair like a flickering light about to extinguish in the darkness.

Ross wanted to chase after her, to grab her, to tell her that wasn’t it—

But his feet seemed nailed to the ground, unable to move a single step.

He struggled, he strained, his whole body trembled, but his feet were motionless.

He watched that light disappear into the end of the darkness, and a hoarse cry tore from his throat.

“Freya—”

No one answered.

Only he remained in the darkness, standing there like a forgotten dead tree.

“Your Highness.”

A voice came from behind.

He whirled around.

Irina stood a few steps behind him.

She wore a light pink long dress, her hair loose on her shoulders. Those pink eyes were filled with tears, falling down her cheeks one by one, landing on the ground silently.

“Your Highness—”

She called again, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Ross looked at her, at that face full of sorrow and helplessness.

“I just… just admired Your Highness…”

She lowered her head, tears dripping onto her skirt, staining a small dark spot.

“I don’t know what I did that made Your Highness stop talking to me…”

Ross’s lips moved.

“Irina…”

“I know my background isn’t good enough for Your Highness.”

Her voice grew lower, lower as if talking to herself. “But I never meant to harm Your Highness.

I just wanted to stay by Your Highness’s side, even if just watching from afar…”

She lifted her head, those tear-soaked pink eyes staring straight at him.

“Your Highness, did I do something wrong?”

Ross stood there, looking at that face.

He wanted to step forward to comfort her, to tell her it wasn’t her fault, to wipe away her tears—

But his feet still couldn’t move.

He stood there, like a sinner nailed to a cross: on his left was the direction where Little Freya had disappeared; on his right was Irina’s crying face.

“Your Highness…”

Irina’s voice grew farther and softer, her figure began to blur, like a painting soaked in water.

“Irina!”

He shouted.

But she had already disappeared.

Only he remained in the darkness, standing there, unable to move.

“Brother Ross…”

Little Freya’s voice came from afar.

“Your Highness…”

Irina’s sobbing echoed nearby.

The two voices intertwined, tangled, like two snakes burrowing into his brain, deeper and deeper, more and more painful.

He suddenly opened his eyes.

Ceiling.

Dim light.

Familiar room.

He gasped for breath, his chest heaving violently, his back drenched in cold sweat.

The photo album in his arms slipped, falling to the floor with a thwack, and opened—

On that page, Little Freya in her white dress was making a wish in front of the cake.

Her smile was bright, her eyes curved like crescent moons.

Ross looked down at the photo, looked for a long time.

Then he reached out, gently closed the photo album, and placed it by his pillow.

Outside the window, the moonlight had shifted. The sky showed a hint of pale dawn.

He lay back, stared at the ceiling without blinking.

He remembered how Freya used to chase after him calling “Brother Ross,” how she used to cry and show him her scraped knee when she fell, how she used to lean in mysteriously and whisper “I won’t tell you” when making a wish.

Then he remembered her cold face when she grew up, her back as she walked past him without turning her head, the way she looked at him—

Calm, distant, like looking at a stranger.

He closed his eyes. Irina’s face surfaced in his mind again—

She stood before him, smiling gently.

She sat beside him, listening to him seriously.

She lowered her head, tears falling one by one.

“I just admire Your Highness…”

He suddenly opened his eyes.

Outside, it was already dawn. The first rays of sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, falling on his pillow, falling on the closed photo album.

He sat up, put the photo album into the drawer.

Then he walked to the window, pushed it open.

The morning breeze rushed in, carrying the chill of deep autumn, stirring his golden hair.

He looked at the distant skyline, at the clouds dyed red by the morning glow.

“Freya.”

He whispered the name softly.

Then he thought of another name, his lips moved, but he didn’t speak it aloud.

He stood there, for a long time.

Vanessa stood at the end of the corridor, looking at the tightly closed door.

The maid stood behind her, holding a tray. The food on it had already gone cold—the grease had congealed into a white film, the vegetables had lost their fresh color, and the rice had clumped into hard lumps.

This was the third serving today—

Brought in, brought out, untouched.

“Your Highness—”

the maid said quietly.

“Perhaps we should have the imperial kitchen make a new portion…”

Vanessa shook her head, reached out.

“Give it to me.”

The maid hesitated, then handed over the tray.

Vanessa carried it to the door, raised her hand, and knocked twice gently. No response.

She knocked twice more. Still no response.

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The room was very dark.

The curtains were drawn tight, only a sliver of moonlight squeezed through the gap, falling on the floor like a thin scar.

The air was heavy with a stifling, suffocating atmosphere.

Ross sat by the bed, his back to the door, motionless.

His silhouette looked especially thin in the darkness, his golden hair messy, covering most of his face.

Vanessa stood there, looking at that back, for a long time.

Her son—

The Crown Prince who had always held his back straight and his head high, now curled up by the bed like an abandoned cub.

“Ross.”

She called softly.

Ross didn’t turn around, didn’t respond, just sat there like a stone statue.

The Queen carried the tray over, sat down beside him, and placed the tray on the low cabinet by the bed.

She turned her head, looking at his face—

That face was frighteningly pale, with deep dark circles under his eyes, his lips chapped and peeling, his whole being as if all vitality had been drained.

Her heart clenched tight.

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

Her voice was very soft, soft as if afraid to disturb something.

“Your mother will have the imperial kitchen make something hot. At least eat a few bites…”

“I’m not hungry.”

Ross’s voice was hoarse, almost inaudible.

Vanessa’s hand froze.

She looked at him, at those blue eyes that had once been as bright as stars, now dim like two stones covered in dust.

“Ross—”

She reached out, gently stroking his hair.

“Your mother knows you’ve been wronged…”