Soren left in the afternoon, just as he had said. Once again, Eiran cried until his eyes turned red. As a child, he had grown attached to both James and Soren quickly, making it hard to part from them.
"I will write you letters," Soren promised, patting the boy’s back before mounting his horse.
Ren kept his head bowed, quietly wiping the child’s tears whenever they fell, his hands wrapped firmly around the boy’s small shoulders to hold him close.
Zayden waved goodbye with a faint smile as the Crown Prince departed, escorted by the guards he had sent to ensure his safe return to the palace. He was used to the calm of his mansion, yet he couldn’t deny that Soren’s presence had warmed the place, even if only briefly.
After dinner, Hannah visited Zayden’s study to discuss the banquet preparations. He had been replying to some of the letters sent by omegas. After the reports, most of their messages were confirmed to be true.
As someone who mostly handled alphas losing their mind after a broken bond, he began to believe omegas were simply toying with them. Until Ren told him otherwise.
Hannah’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He often found himself connecting things to Ren for absolutely no reason, but he didn’t dwell on it longer.
"Make sure there is plenty of wine for the nobles." Legs crossed, leaning back in his chair, Zayden spoke without looking up.
If the Duke planned to tamper with them as James said, he needed enough to cover it.
And surely that isn’t the only trick he will plan for a banquet that will last this long.
"We have hired some workers to decorate the banquet hall in the east wing. They have already begun working on it. I would like your approval on the aesthetics."
She extended a few designs, placing them on the table.
Zayden grimaced at the sight of them. None suited his taste. As he reached to rip them, he halted midway.
"Ask Eiran what he wishes."
"Alright," Hannah picked up the papers. "As for the security—"
"I have assigned that to Helain," Zayden interrupted.
Once the important matters were settled, Hannah closed the notebook in which she had recorded every detail. Yet she lingered longer than necessary.
"Is there something else you need to discuss?" Zayden asked.
She hesitated before parting her lips.
"I was thinking... the Young Master has not manifested his second gender yet."
Zayden straightened in his seat. She was right. Dragons usually manifested as soon as they turned six—at least in appearance due to their rapid growth. It had been a while since Eiran had stopped growing, almost like a normal human child.
"His growth has stopped too, it seems..." She paused, looking at the General.
Zayden’s fists tightened as his gaze fell on the elderly lady.
"Perhaps... he is not a pure-blood," he added.
Her expression darkened.
"Does this mean... You have changed your mind about raising him?"
Zayden’s frown cut her words short. Abandoning the child he had orphaned—was that truly what she thought of him?
He had brought Eiran here to give him warmth, to atone for his mistake—the guilt that haunted him day and night no matter how hard he tried to forget. It did not matter what his origin or bloodline was. What mattered was that now, he was his son, and his heart ached at the thought of his absence in the mansion. He began to cherish him. More than he considered himself capable of.
"Of course not," his words came out too quickly after a brief silence. "He is my son—regardless of blood, regardless of anything."
The door swung open, banging against the wall with a loud slam.
Ren turned, wary of an attack, his hand reaching for the fruit knife. This time, he couldn’t kill someone like he did to Cael. However, he could threaten them in case— Follow current novels on novel※fire.net
To his surprise, Eiran stood there, tears streaming down his face, similar to the river Ren once saw. The river, the clean blue water was mesmerizing, but the liquid coming from Eiran’s eyes tightened his chest. It wasn’t beautiful at all.
The child didn’t move, nor approach him. Ren rose from his chair, kneeling before the little boy.
"What is going on, Eiran?"
After the child insisted he called him by his name, Ren began picking up the habit. Now, he called him by his name when it was only the two of them. He didn’t want the servants to begin gossiping about him again, now that it had died down after Jian was fired.
He didn’t mention it to Hannah and Lillia, assuming they didn’t tell him because they wanted to handle the matter without his knowledge.
Eiran looked left, right, then wrapped his arms around Ren’s neck, holding him tight.
Although startled, Ren held him, almost instinctively. He didn’t understand what he searched for before hugging him but he didn’t question it.
His hand rested on the trembling boy’s small body, a knot forming in his stomach. He patted Eiran’s back softly, with slow movements, trying to calm him.
His breath ragged, Eiran wiped his tears, sniffling.
"What is bothering you?" Ren asked, frown on his face, breaking the hug.
Eiran bit his lips, his gaze dropping to the floor. His mouth parted as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. He furrowed his eyebrows, upset at himself for not being able to speak up. His fingers brushed relentlessly against his palm, a heat slowly forming, almost burning.
As Ren studied the boy, his eyes fell on Eiran’s legs. They weren’t filled with mud but with the mansion’s dust. The windows were often left open, letting it in. The servants were scolded countless times but there was always someone who forgot to close the windows at night.
And strangely, Eiran was not wearing his slippers—or perhaps he lost them as he ran—
Why was he imagining everything?
Why was he analyzing every little detail about him?
He sighed, picking up the child and placing him on his bed.
"I will not force you to tell me anything. However, we need to clean your legs. They are dirty."
The child didn’t speak. His eyes didn’t twinkle like usual, brighter than any jewel Ren had seen.
Someone hurt him. But who would dare?—
Ren clenched his fists, his nails digging into his skin. A sharp ache ran up his arm, grounding him in the moment.
Feeling a soft weight on his hand, he looked down at the small hand—Eiran looked up at him, eyes wide, glistening.
"I think Dad hates me," he said, his voice no louder than a whisper.