POV: Sebastian
I don’t sleep.
I sit on the edge of the bed long after Evangeline’s breathing evens out, staring at my hands like they belong to someone else. They are steady now. They weren’t earlier.
I keep seeing it—Mark flinching. Not because I struck him, but because his body expected me to.
That is the part I can’t outrun.
At dawn, I leave the chamber quietly.
The palace is still, the kind of stillness that pretends nothing ever breaks here. I walk the corridors alone, boots echoing against marble, passing portraits of kings who believed fear was legacy.
My father’s portrait hangs at the far end of the hall.
I stop in front of it.
“You taught me wrong,” I say softly.
The painted eyes do not argue.
I find Adrian in the training yard, going through forms with mechanical precision. He stops the moment he sees me, shoulders locking, posture perfect.
“Father,” he says.
“Stand down,” I reply.
He hesitates, then lowers his sword.
“You don’t need to be here,” he says carefully.
“I do,” I answer.
We stand in silence for a moment. He waits. He always waits.
“I handled yesterday poorly,” I say.
His eyes flick up, startled. “You were… angry.”
“I was afraid,” I correct.
He doesn’t know what to do with that.
“I should not have raised my hand,” I continue. “Even knowing I wouldn’t strike you.”
Adrian swallows. “It’s all right.”
“No,” I say firmly. “It isn’t.”
The word apology tastes unfamiliar in my mouth, heavy and exposed.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
The silence stretches, thick and fragile.
“You don’t have to be perfect for me,” I add. “You never did.”
His breath stutters.
“I thought—” He stops himself. “I thought if I didn’t do everything right, you’d… stop seeing me.”
The confession lands like a blade.
“I see you,” I say quietly. “And I failed to show it.”
His eyes shine, but he doesn’t cry. He nods once, accepting the words like something fragile he’s afraid to drop.
“Where’s Mark?” I ask.
“In his room,” Adrian replies. “He wouldn’t come down.”
“I will speak to him,” I say.
Adrian hesitates. “Please… don’t make it worse.”
I meet his gaze. “I won’t.”
I pray I mean it. Mark doesn’t answer when I knock. I knock again.
“Go away,” he says from inside.
“I’m not here to punish you,” I reply.
Silence.
“I’m here to listen,” I add.
That earns me a bitter laugh from the other side of the door.
“You don’t know how,” he says.
“Then teach me,” I answer.
The door opens slowly.
Mark stands there with crossed arms, defensive but tired. “You’re late.”
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
We stand awkwardly for a moment, neither of us sure where to begin.
“I shouldn’t have let it go that far,” I say. “And I shouldn’t have treated your anger like disobedience.”
He watches me carefully. “You almost hit me.”
“I know,” I reply. “And that will never happen.”
He scoffs. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can,” I say. “Because I see where that road leads.”
He doesn’t answer.
“You are not a problem,” I continue. “You are not reckless because you are broken. You are different because you are alive.”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t say that to Adrian.”
“I should,” I admit. “And I will.”
He studies me. “This isn’t a trick?”
“No,” I say. “It’s uncomfortable. That’s how I know it’s real.”
He exhales slowly. “I don’t want to fight him.”
“I know,” I say. “And neither does he.”
“What if she chooses him?” Mark asks suddenly.
The vulnerability in his voice hurts more than anger ever did.
“Then it will hurt,” I answer honestly. “And you will survive it. Not alone.”
He nods, eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t want to be like you.”
The words sting—but I deserve them.
“Then don’t be,” I say. “Be better.”
***
The four of us sit together.
Not at the formal table. On the low couches near the hearth, where hierarchy feels thinner. No guards. No servants. Just family.
“I expect honesty,” I say. “Not perfection.”
Adrian nods. Mark looks skeptical.
“You will argue,” I continue. “You will make mistakes. And I will listen before I command.”
Evangeline reaches for my hand.
“This will take time,” she says.
“Yes,” I agree. “And I will fail again.”
“But you’ll try again,” she adds.
I nod. The boys exchange a glance—uncertain, wary, hopeful.
For the first time, I don’t demand obedience. I ask for trust.
Breaking a cycle doesn’t happen in a single apology. It happens in moments like this—quiet, uncomfortable, fragile. But necessary.