The chandelier shone brightly above the long dining table. Around it, servants stood quietly, their eyes lowered, waiting for orders from their masters to follow.
Sitting stiffly on the edge of a chair, Ren stared at the plate before him—steamed rice, grilled steak glazed with sauce, freshly cooked vegetables oiled and neatly seasoned. He hesitated before reaching for the fork with unsure movements.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
Across from him, Eiran sat with his legs swinging freely, a bright grin across his face.
Zayden watched the child, a faint smile tugging at his lips. From the moment he brought him into the mansion, he’d treated him as his own child, and not a dragon’s. The day the boy was born was still vivid in his memory, like an old scar that never truly healed. Sometimes, late at night, he would imagine how different Eiran’s life might’ve been—if he hadn’t taken him in. Or worse, if he hadn’t killed his mother. And every time, guilt would overwhelm him. Those were the nights he wouldn’t sleep.
He lowered his eyes, stabbing a piece of broccoli with his fork and placing it in his mouth as Eiran’s voice filled the dining hall. The boy had grown up talkative, loud in a way that mirrored his own childhood despite their lack of resemblance when it came to their physical appearance.
He’d heard the whispers from the maids, the bold murmurs passed between servants, "The general doesn’t look like the young master—but the servant does. Maybe it’s the other way around."
How could a mere servant be placed on the same level as him? How could Ren, who barely spoke a word, be mistaken as the boy’s father—when he was the one who adopted Eiran as his son, and rescued him from the harms the outside world could have inflicted upon the child if Zayden hadn’t brought him to his mansion?
When the child begged Ren to join them for dinner, he hadn’t been able to refuse, breaking every rule set for the staff.
Not when Eiran had pulled at his sleeve and said, "Just this once. Please," his green eyes shining with an innocent plead.
"And then I ran into the garden!" Eiran exclaimed, waving his spoon. "None of the guards could find me!" He burst in giggles echoing in the dinning hall.
Zayden let out a low chuckle, chewing thoughtfully.
"They’ll have to try harder to find you from now on."
Meanwhile, Ren glanced at the maids quietly serving them. He watched the plates exchanged, the wine poured in Zayden’s glass, the folded napkins placed gently beside the dishes. He should’ve been the one doing all of this. He always had been performing his duty flawlessly—he’d like to believe. Standing at the corner, serving in silence as if he wasn’t even present.
Now, seated beside the general and the child, he felt misplaced. Like a piece of puzzle forced into the wrong picture.
He hadn’t been able to say no. Eiran’s insistence was firm, too stubborn. And when Ren had hesitated, the boy had looked at him like he was the one being unreasonable.
Zayden’s glare fell on him again, cold as always.
Ren had long grown used to it.
Perhaps it was hatred. Or envy. Or a complicated kind of resentment he couldn’t name. Sometimes, Ren himself felt guilty—like he was stealing something that didn’t belong to him. Sitting where he shouldn’t. Being called something he had no right to be called.
He’d told Eiran not to call him "Papa." Many times. But the child refused to stop. Each time Ren corrected him, Eiran only grew more determined, as if he believed the adults were the ones lying to him.
"Papa, why aren’t you eating?" Eiran’s voice snapped Ren out of his thoughts.
"I... I am," Ren replied, forcing a smile as he brought the fork to his mouth.
He bit into the piece of meat—soft, warm, tender—but it tasted bitter on his tongue. His chest stung. It felt wrong to even touch something this luxurious. He wasn’t used to food this rich. Servants were given leftovers—so he was told by Jian, the person who managed the staff’s meals.
At the back of his mind, something flashed. A long-forgotten memory.
He sat in the dark, the only thing he knew. The door creaked open, and the grey outline of a circle was placed before him, containing small pieces of things he didn’t even know how to name.
"Eat this!" A voice shouted at him, slamming the door.
A piece of dry bread. He touched it—cold and hard. Even so, he sank his teeth into it, chewing fiercely, as if his life depended on it.
"Papa?" A soft voice called him.
Ren blinked, looking before him.
Eiran was staring at him, fork in hand, concern written all over his face.
Ren quickly swallowed, forcing a faint smile. "I’m fine," he said, quieter than usual.
Zayden glanced at him, the corner of his jaw tightening.
No matter how much time he spent with Eiran, no matter how many gifts or promises—Ren always seemed to draw the boy’s attention every few seconds.
Not to mention Eiran uses a name that shouldn’t belong to him.
Without a word, Zayden picked up his glass and took a slow sip of his wine.
"Have I told you, Eiran?" Zayden said suddenly, breaking the silence.
The boy’s head turned toward him, eyes wide with curiosity.
"I’ve planned a banquet for you."
"Really?!" Eiran gasped, clapping his hands in delight.
Zayden nodded, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I’m inviting every noble in the empire," he said. "It’s time they all know—I have a son."
Ren froze, his jaw tightening. His fingers curled slightly around the edge of his plate.
A banquet? Every noble in the empire?
To anyone else, it might’ve sounded like a grand gesture. But to Ren, it meant danger.
Nobles. Crowds. Too many chances to be seen. Anyone could recognize him. He had to hide—somewhere no one could find him.
Should I leave this place before the banquet?
The thought slipped in his mind, his gaze flickering towards Zayden.
"When?" He asked before he even realized the words that left his mouth.
Zayden turned to him.
"Four months from now."