“Has something happened to him?”
My mother’s voice, usually a melody of calm, held a sudden sharpness, a tremor of concern that was rarely heard.
The attendant, a woman named Elara, bowed her head deeper, her gaze fixed on the polished marble floor.
“It’s not that… He was terribly drunk, Your Majesty, and mistook the annex corridor for a restroom, making a mistake. Even when the attendants tried to escort him, he kept looking for Your Majesty, so we had no choice but to…”
Elara’s words trailed off, a hint of exasperation underlying her respectful tone.
My mother didn’t wait for her to finish.
“I’ll go at once.”
She left the rose conservatory with the attendant, her silken robes rustling softly against the ornate arches.
I simply couldn’t understand.
A churning sensation of confusion and disgust swirled within me.
‘Why did she choose such a pathetic man as her partner?’
It wasn’t just because I was family; my mother was still remarkably young and possessed a beauty that could rival the most exquisite blooms in her conservatory.
Even knowing she was already married, nobles from other countries, men of power and influence, would shamelessly cling to her, saying they wanted to be her concubine.
She could have met anyone new, someone worthy of her grace and standing, yet my mother only looked at my father.
He had nothing better than others apart from his undeniably handsome looks, a superficial charm that masked a deeper emptiness.
Then one day, the persistent question gnawing at my mind finally surfaced.
I found my mother tending to her roses, her delicate hands expertly pruning a thorny stem.
“Mother, why did you specifically choose Father for a royal marriage?”
Around that time, there were successive testimonies from attendants who said they saw my father, high on drugs, cavorting with other women.
Alcohol and drugs weren’t enough; now other women too.
Such a man was a disgrace to the imperial family, a blight upon our noble lineage.
How could half the blood flowing in my veins be so shameful, so utterly contemptible?
My mother, sensing the unspoken question within my gaze, looked at me with sorrowful eyes, a profound sadness clouding their usual serene depths.
“Your father… he’s struggling so much, that’s why. He was originally the kindest man in the world, and he loved me. So if you just trust and wait a little, he’ll soon return to his old self.”
Her unwavering eyes held complete affection, a devotion so absolute that it perhaps transcended my own understanding, a degree of love that I couldn’t even begin to compare to.
‘Mother, why don’t you even resent him? How can you trust the man who deceived and betrayed you so much, who dragged our family name through the mud with his reprehensible actions?’
Sadly, people don’t change.
I had seen enough of the world, even in my young years, to understand that fundamental truth.
While there was an excellent and benevolent Empress like my mother, a beacon of light and virtue, there also existed pathetic humans who, from birth, put in no effort and lived by leeching off others.
One might call me heartless, but those were the only words I had to describe my father.
He was, to me, ‘The perfect mother’s sole blemish,’ a stain on an otherwise immaculate canvas.
And so, that day’s conversation ended, leaving deep distrust in my heart, a festering wound that would only grow.
But the real tragedy, the true unraveling of what little peace remained, began after that.
“Did you hear? Those people… they secretly snuck in, hidden in the envoy’s baggage cart.”
The hushed whispers of the palace staff reached my ears, their voices laced with a mixture of shock and illicit excitement.
“Huh, how bold. What did they plan to do if they got caught at the checkpoint?”
It was a day when the palace was abuzz, unlike usual, a hive of nervous energy and furtive glances.
The maids, scurrying away with bowed heads, seemed not to have noticed me, so engrossed were they in their scandalous gossip.
“I secretly overheard that the child had never seen his father’s face. So, they wanted to show him at least once before he died or something. And they resemble him so much… he looked more like a biological child than His Royal Highness the Crown Prince, they said?”
That last remark, delivered with a smug, knowing tone, grated on my ears like a rusty blade.
I stopped dead in my tracks, the blood in my veins turning to ice, and stared at the maids who were excitedly chattering, their faces alight with malicious glee.
“What… are you saying right now?”
Only then did the maids spot me, their eyes widening in terror, their illicit smiles vanishing instantly.
They hastily bowed their heads, trembling uncontrollably, their knees threatening to buckle.
“His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince… that is…”
“Speak clearly. Otherwise, you will pay the price for speaking so carelessly, a price you will not soon forget.”
What the maids were saying truly fit the description of utterly preposterous, an absurd fabrication designed to stir trouble.
‘What? My kin came to Hamilton?’
Apparently, the fellow was a tiger beast-kin born and raised in Teser, a barbaric land known for its untamed wildness.
My father, who came to Hamilton with my mother, had visited his homeland, Teser, only once, and that was due to the news of my grandmother’s death, whom I had never seen in my life.
And, as if by some twisted fate, they fell for each other, and the fruit of a one-night stand, born from that illicit affair, was supposedly him.
But when the man, my father, was having relations with another woman, I was in my mother’s womb, a protected haven from the ugliness of the outside world.
How could he, wearing a human guise, a mask of respectability, do such a thing, engaging in such a vile act of betrayal?
‘Disgusting humans. What nerve do they have… to parade their shame within these hallowed walls!’
At this rate, my mother’s standing would surely fall to the ground, her immaculate reputation tarnished beyond repair.
Already, there were whispers, insidious murmurs about my father’s disgraceful behavior, and this would only serve to fan the flames of gossip into a roaring inferno.
“So, where are they?”
My voice was dangerously calm, a deceptive quietude that masked the volcanic rage simmering beneath the surface.
“At the… the envoy reception area…”
Until I confirmed it with my own eyes, until I witnessed the undeniable truth of their audacious presence, I couldn’t fully trust those insidious words.
I immediately headed to the reception area where the envoy was, my every step infused with a chilling resolve.
Along the way, there were those who tried to stop me, frantic attendants and bewildered knights, but their resistance didn’t last long, crumbling under the force of my will.
“If you want to die before them, then stand in my way like this.”
My words were a cold promise, a stark warning that brooked no argument.
“Your Royal Highness…!”
Finally, upon arriving at the reception room, the doors of which stood agape, I saw a face unpleasantly similar to my father’s.
So much so that one couldn’t help but think he was a child of the same blood, a living testament to my father’s perfidy.
He was cowering, trembling, seized not by aching longing, but by sheer terror, his eyes wide and unfocused like a trapped animal.
‘How dare they… where do they think they are?!’
This was an insult to my mother, a direct assault on her honor and the sanctity of our imperial family.
I couldn’t tolerate it, not for a moment.
As I drew the sword from the waist of a knight guarding the reception room, the metallic rasp echoing sharply in the tense silence, a sudden, incongruous scene caught my eye.
Rather than a heartfelt and poignant family reunion, a moment of profound emotion, it looked like a ridiculous play artificially staged by someone, a crude theatrical performance designed for maximum impact.
“The child cried so much, saying he wanted to see your face before he died. You heartless man…! How could you not come to see him even once? Isn’t that just too much, Kerif?”
She was a woman who smelled of cheap perfume, a cloying, artificial scent that assaulted my senses.
Heavily made-up and ostentatiously adorned with gaudy jewels, but her speech and actions reeked of an innate vulgarity, a coarseness that no amount of finery could conceal.
“Yes, M-Mom…”
The child, Kerif, whimpered, his small voice barely audible.
The woman, his supposed mother, saw me, her eyes, chillingly emotionless, narrowed slightly, but the corners of her mouth were smiling, a predatory grin that sent shivers down my spine.
“Kerif, wasn’t there something you really wanted to say to your father? Say it now. You won’t be able to if not at this moment.”
Her voice was a theatrical whisper, a clear instruction for the child to perform.
“I… I love… you, F-Father.”
The words were forced, strained, clearly rehearsed, and utterly devoid of genuine emotion.
Looking closely at the child, despite the luxurious clothes he wore, his body was emaciated, a stark contrast to the richness of his garments.
His limbs were alarmingly thin, and his skin had a pallid, unhealthy cast.
If my guess was correct, there wasn’t much age difference between us; perhaps he was only a year or two younger than me, but our physiques were vastly different.
Mine, hardened by rigorous training and a healthy diet, was robust and athletic.
His, in contrast, was frail and underdeveloped, almost skeletal.
Moreover, the skin visible within his wide sleeves, where the fabric occasionally shifted, was mottled with purple bruises, like faded constellations scattered across his pale flesh.
‘Why would that…?’
The question hung in the air, unanswered, intensifying the unsettling nature of the tableau before me.
This unpleasant play, this grotesque charade, was sickening to watch, a theatrical performance of calculated misery designed to evoke sympathy.
But what was even more incomprehensible, more baffling than the woman’s performance or the child’s pathetic state, was my father’s reaction.
He stood there, transfixed, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his knuckles white with strain.
He was struggling, visibly, to hold back his rising tears, his jaw tight, his eyes swimming with a mixture of emotions I couldn’t quite decipher, but it was a feeling close to humiliation and degradation, a profound sense of personal shame.
The performance, it seemed, was hitting its mark.
“How could you possibly come here… how could you do this to me? I am also your child… how could you never…?”
The child, Kerif, his voice raw with what appeared to be genuine distress, choked out his accusations, his eyes fixed on my father.
My mother, who arrived late, her face etched with a familiar mixture of weariness and quiet determination, quickly covered my eyes with her hand, her touch gentle but firm.
Her voice, which followed, trembled helplessly, a reflection of the turmoil she was surely experiencing. ‘
“You shouldn’t see this, Allen. I will take care of it, Allen. Go and rest.”
Her voice was low, soothing, a desperate attempt to shield me from the ugliness unfolding before us.
“But, Mother…!”
I protested, my voice filled with indignation, a protest against being treated like a helpless child, against being kept in the dark.
“I know what you are worried about, my dear. I will take measures so that they cannot wander freely around the imperial palace. They will be sent back to their homeland very soon. So, until then… will you trust your mother?”
Her voice was soft, laced with an undeniable plea for my understanding, my faith in her judgment.
“…Yes, Mother.”
With that, the fight drained from me, and I left the place with the chamberlain who had come to fetch me, my mind still reeling from the shocking spectacle.
This time, they said they would send Teser’s envoy back to their homeland faster than usual, a clear indication that my mother had acted swiftly and decisively.
The remaining period, before their departure, was about two weeks.
Though not a short time, not an insignificant waiting period, the vulgar woman and that unsightly fellow thankfully weren’t seen in the imperial palace, their presence banished from our sight, at least for now.
The absence of their repulsive presence was a small mercy, a brief reprieve from the constant irritation they caused.
And when the envoys from Teser had completely departed, their presence a fading memory, my father, in a startling display of what appeared to be newfound dedication, made persistent efforts to impress my mother for a while.
It was a transformation so sudden and drastic that it was almost comical, a performance designed to regain her affection and trust.
He would pick beautiful flowers for her in the imperial garden, blossoms of exquisite beauty and delicate fragrance, and, unlike before, dressed impeccably, his clothes free of wrinkles and stains, his hair neatly combed.
He even began joining her for tea in the rose garden, a place where he rarely went, a sanctuary my mother cherished.
“The tea tastes wonderful. Doesn’t it, Argon?”
My mother’s face carried a deeper shadow than before, a subtle veil of sadness that even his newfound attentiveness couldn’t entirely dispel.
However, she didn’t dislike those moments spent with my father, her gentle smile a quiet affirmation of her enduring affection.
That was enough for me.
No matter how much I detested that man, no matter how much his very presence repulsed me, if my mother was alright, if she found even a modicum of happiness in his company, then it didn’t matter.
“Yes, Father.”
My response was curt, devoid of warmth, a deliberate coolness that reflected my true feelings.
However, what I absolutely couldn’t stand, what truly infuriated me, was how he was trying to act like my father belatedly, as if he could simply erase years of neglect and abuse with a few superficial gestures.
It felt like just yesterday that he would gag at the sight of my young self, his face contorted in disgust, and scream for such disgusting things to be removed from his sight, as if I were some loathsome insect.
It was truly laughable, an insult to my intelligence, how he was now trying to win favor, to ingratiate himself with me, as if I would forget his past cruelty so easily.
“What do you spend your time doing these days, Allen? Is anything difficult?”
His voice was solicitous, almost fawning, a stark contrast to the detached indifference he had always shown.
His presence, an unwelcome intrusion, suddenly loomed over me during my swordsmanship lessons, his shadow falling across the training grounds.
I was honing my stance, focusing intently on the precise angles of my blade, when he appeared, hovering awkwardly.
“…No, there isn’t.”
My response was clipped, terse, delivered without turning my head.
Except for your presence seeking me out, I silently added, the unsaid words a bitter truth.
Even when I tried to concentrate on my swordsmanship lessons, to immerse myself in the discipline and focus required, he kept lurking around, like a persistent, irritating fly, which was extremely annoying.
It wasn’t just a day or two; when it continued for several days, his attempts at interaction becoming increasingly persistent, it became hard to pretend not to see him anymore, to ignore his presence as if he were invisible.
“Why are you doing this?”
I finally asked, my voice laced with exasperation, my patience wearing thin.
I lowered my practice sword, turning to face him, my expression a mask of weary annoyance.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Allen. I just… I want to get along with you now… to build a proper relationship, as father and son.”
His voice was soft, almost pleading, a pathetic attempt to bridge the chasm that separated us.
“To be honest, this is quite uncomfortable, Father. It seems better for both of us to remain strangers, as we have been until now. There is no need to force a connection that has never existed.”
My words were blunt, unyielding, a reflection of the deep-seated resentment that festered within me.
There was no point in pretending otherwise, in playing a role for his benefit.
“…I’m sorry. I truly am, Allen. But hurting you wasn’t because I disliked you. I was just afraid… I was scared.”
His voice was barely a whisper, thick with a self-pitying emotion that I found utterly repulsive.
He spoke of fear, of being scared, but I saw only weakness, a craven refusal to take responsibility for his own actions.
But humans are creatures of forgetfulness, their memories conveniently short-lived, their capacity for self-deception boundless.
It wasn’t long before my father, predictably, returned to his drugs, sinking back into the familiar abyss of addiction, leaving his brief attempts at fatherhood in the dust.