Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Morning arrived with the sound of temple bells echoing across the kingdom long before the sun had fully climbed above the eastern hills, and from every corridor of the palace came the quiet urgency of servants carrying embroidered banners, priests preparing sacred offerings, musicians tuning ancient instruments, and royal attendants moving with practiced precision as though every heartbeat of the kingdom had synchronized itself with the arrival of the long-awaited festival.

The entire palace, which had rested beneath a peaceful silence only hours before, now breathed with ceremonial purpose, while the fragrance of burning sandalwood, fresh lotus blossoms, and incense drifted through the open courtyards until even the breeze seemed to carry traces of devotion.

Within his chamber, Namping stood patiently while several attendants adjusted the final layers of his ceremonial attire, fastening delicate ornaments upon his sleeves and settling an embroidered silk shawl neatly across his shoulders. Unlike the elaborate wedding garments that had exhausted him only weeks before, today's robes were lighter, woven from pale ivory silk with fine threads of silver that shimmered softly whenever they caught the morning light, while a narrow belt adorned with moonstone clasps rested comfortably around his waist. His hair was tied back with simple elegance rather than excessive grandeur, and the absence of heavy jewels allowed him to breathe a little more freely.

Even so, the constant movement surrounding him left little room for peace.

Every few moments another attendant entered to announce a change in the ceremonial schedule, another servant hurried across the chamber carrying folded banners or polished ceremonial vessels, and somewhere beyond the palace walls the distant sounds of celebration continued to swell as the people of the kingdom gathered within the capital streets. Children laughed somewhere below the balconies, merchants announced blessings to passing pilgrims, and colorful prayer flags danced above rooftops beneath a clear blue sky that seemed almost too beautiful to belong to ordinary life.

After the final preparations had been completed, Namping was escorted through the decorated palace corridors toward the great ceremonial hall where the sacred rites would begin.

The palace itself appeared transformed.

Golden lanterns hung from every carved archway despite the brightness of the day, long garlands of jasmine and marigold descended from polished pillars like flowing waterfalls of flowers, and sacred bowls filled with floating lotus blossoms reflected the sunlight so brightly that the marble floors shimmered beneath every careful step. The air itself felt heavier with incense and ancient prayers, while priests dressed in white robes moved silently through the halls carrying sacred scriptures older than many kingdoms gathered beneath the imperial banner.

Beyond the palace gates, the festival had already begun in earnest.

The great square before the royal residence overflowed with nobles, merchants, priests, travelers, and citizens who had journeyed from neighboring provinces to witness the annual rites. Musicians performed upon elevated platforms while dancers wearing embroidered ceremonial garments moved gracefully through slow, sacred choreography that honored the founding ancestors of the realm, and offerings of fruit, grain, flowers, and fragrant oils were carried toward the temples in carefully ordered processions beneath fluttering banners bearing the royal crest.

Yet within the royal hall itself, the atmosphere differed entirely.

There was celebration, but it was restrained by dignity.

Kings and rulers from the allied kingdoms of Vareenkarn had already taken their appointed places according to ancient rank and treaty, each accompanied by ministers and royal guards dressed in the colors of their respective courts. Though each sovereign governed his own lands, today they gathered beneath the authority of Suryathep, acknowledging the imperial succession that would one day place its Crown Prince above every throne assembled within the hall.

Namping entered quietly beside Keng.

The attendants guided them toward the elevated royal platform positioned beside the twin thrones occupied by the King and Queen, where two finely carved ceremonial seats had been prepared for the Crown Prince and his consort. Namping lowered himself gracefully onto his seat after offering the proper formal greetings, keeping his posture composed despite the immense gathering before him, while Keng settled beside him with the calm assurance of a man who had attended such ceremonies since childhood.

The contrast between them could scarcely have been greater.

Keng remained perfectly still throughout the opening rites, his expression unreadable as priests recited blessings over sacred flames, while ministers occasionally approached to whisper brief matters requiring acknowledgment before quietly withdrawing once more. His presence carried the silent certainty expected of the future emperor, and though he spoke little, every ruler present seemed careful to observe him with measured respect.

Namping, meanwhile, allowed his attention to drift toward the ritual unfolding at the heart of the hall.

He watched the priests pour scented oil into the ceremonial fire until pale smoke rose toward the painted ceiling in graceful spirals, and he followed the rhythmic movement of sacred bells whose gentle chime echoed through the vast chamber with almost hypnotic calm. For a little while, surrounded by ancient traditions older than memory itself, he found his restless thoughts gradually settling into quiet observation.

Then, without warning, the atmosphere within the hall shifted.

It was subtle.

The conversations among several ministers softened almost imperceptibly, while the herald standing near the great entrance lifted his ceremonial staff before striking its silver tip once against the marble floor.

Every eye turned toward the towering doors.

The heavy panels opened slowly.

A procession entered beneath banners embroidered with the crest of Averon.

Royal guards stepped forward first in polished ceremonial armor, followed by ministers clad in deep crimson robes, and at the center of the procession walked the young king himself with measured dignity befitting his station.

Aran.

The name echoed silently through Namping's thoughts before he could stop it.

His breath caught within his chest.

The chanting of the priests continued unchanged, the sacred fire still burned steadily upon the altar, and countless voices remained present throughout the immense hall, yet for one suspended moment every sound seemed to retreat into a distant haze as Namping's eyes settled upon the familiar figure he had spent so many nights trying, and failing, to forget.

Time had changed little.

Aran still carried himself with quiet confidence, and the golden ceremonial robes of Averon rested naturally upon his shoulders as though they had always belonged there. The royal crown caught the light of a hundred oil lamps, while the composed expression upon his face revealed nothing of the thoughts hidden beneath it.

Namping remained perfectly still.

His fingers tightened almost unconsciously against the embroidered fabric resting across his lap, and the steady rhythm he had finally found within the sacred ceremony dissolved into quiet uncertainty as memories, carefully buried beneath duty and distance, rose once more with painful clarity.

Beside him, the ritual continued.

Before him, kings exchanged formal greetings.

Above him, incense drifted toward the painted heavens.

Yet none of it reached him any longer, because the only thing his heart could see was the man who had just stepped across the threshold of the royal hall.

The moment Aran crossed the threshold of the royal hall, something within Namping seemed to lose its careful balance, because this was not a memory anymore, nor a name whispered by Saree in the privacy of his chamber, nor the face he had carried quietly within his thoughts during the lonely nights when sleep refused to come. This was the first time he had seen Aran since the day everything between them had been broken, and the reality of his presence struck him with a force for which he had prepared himself neither in mind nor in heart.

He remained seated upon the ceremonial chair beside Keng, his hands resting neatly upon his lap as etiquette demanded, while the sacred chanting continued around him and the fragrance of incense curled through the golden light of the hall. He could hear the priests speaking, could see the flames rising and falling upon the altar, and could even feel the subtle movement of Keng's robe whenever the Crown Prince shifted slightly beside him, yet all those things seemed strangely distant because his attention had become fixed upon the man approaching his appointed place among the visiting rulers.

Aran walked with the same measured confidence Namping remembered, carrying himself with the quiet dignity expected of a king, and there was something painfully familiar in the way he lowered his head to acknowledge the elders before taking his seat. Namping remembered another time when seeing that same face had brought him a warmth he had never known how to explain, when a single glance from Aran had been enough to make an ordinary day seem worthy of remembering, and the contrast between that memory and the man sitting across the hall now left him struggling to understand what he was supposed to feel.

His heartbeat quickened until he became painfully aware of it, and he lowered his gaze toward his hands, hoping that the movement would conceal the uncertainty written across his face.

He did not know whether he wanted Aran to look at him or whether he was terrified that he would.

For so long, Namping had imagined what their first meeting after the separation might be like, yet every version had somehow forgotten the most important detail, which was that he would no longer be standing before Aran as the same person who had once belonged to no one. The last time their eyes had met, Namping had been unmarried, unclaimed by another royal house, and still foolish enough to believe that whatever existed between them might eventually become something real.

Now he sat beneath the banners of Suryathep with the title of consort attached to his name, beside the very man who had become his husband through an arrangement neither affection nor choice had created.

Keng remained beside him, seemingly absorbed in the proceedings, and although his expression was as composed as ever, he appeared unaware of the storm quietly unfolding only a few steps away from him. Namping was grateful for that ignorance, because he could not imagine explaining the sudden trembling of his fingers or the reason his attention had become impossible to control.

Then Aran reached his seat.

He turned slightly before sitting, and his gaze traveled across the ceremonial platform.

For one terrible instant, their eyes met.

Namping forgot to breathe.

There was no accusation in Aran's expression, nor was there an obvious apology, and perhaps that was what made the moment so difficult to endure. His eyes simply rested upon Namping as though he, too, were trying to reconcile the person before him with the memory he had carried from another time.

Namping could not look away immediately.

Their eyes remained joined across the crowded hall, separated by polished marble, sacred fire, royal banners, and everything that had happened since they had last stood before one another.

Then Aran's gaze shifted.

It moved from Namping's face toward the man seated beside him.

Toward Keng.

Something changed within Aran's expression so subtly that another person might have missed it entirely, but Namping saw the faint flicker that passed through his eyes before his face returned to its practiced royal composure. He could not tell whether it was surprise, realization, regret, or something more complicated, and he found himself wondering whether Aran had truly understood what he was seeing.

Namping lowered his eyes.

He turned his attention toward the sacred fire and fixed his gaze upon the priest standing before it, determined not to look across the hall again. His hands remained folded carefully upon his lap, but his fingers had begun to press against one another beneath the sleeve of his ceremonial robe, giving away the unease he refused to show upon his face.

The priest's voice continued its solemn rhythm, and the musicians beyond the hall maintained the quiet cadence required for the ritual, yet Namping found it increasingly difficult to follow any of it.

He could feel Aran's presence without looking at him.

That knowledge alone seemed enough to make the air around him heavier.

Beside him, Keng remained silent, his attention directed toward the ceremony, unaware that the man seated across the hall had once occupied a place in Namping's heart that no royal decree could simply erase.

Namping kept his gaze lowered for the remainder of the ritual, refusing to offer Aran another glance, because he feared that if their eyes met again, the fragile composure he had spent weeks building within himself might finally give way, and he could not allow that to happen here, beneath the eyes of kings, priests, ministers, and, most dangerously of all, the husband whose presence beside him had suddenly become impossible to ignore.

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By the time the ceremony came to an end, the last notes of the ritual bells had faded into the evening air, yet Namping remained seated for several moments as though his body had forgotten how to rise, while the voices of the guests and the quiet movement of servants around the hall seemed to pass through him without leaving any impression. The sight of Aran standing among the visiting rulers had unsettled something he had spent the past two weeks trying desperately to keep buried, and although he had managed to remain beside Keng throughout the ceremony without allowing his expression to betray him, the memory of their eyes meeting continued to return with cruel clarity, forcing him to remember everything he had been trying not to remember.

He eventually slipped away from the crowded halls and walked through the quieter corridors until he reached the palace gardens, where the evening air was cool against his face and the fragrance of flowering trees lingered beneath the fading light. He settled beneath the shade of an old flowering tree, drawing his knees slightly toward himself as he stared at the still pond before him, where the last traces of sunset trembled upon the darkening water. He had come here hoping that the quiet would settle his thoughts, but instead his mind seemed determined to return to Aran again and again, remembering the person he had once believed would remain beside him and the future he had once imagined before everything had been taken from his hands.

He remained there long enough for the garden to grow quieter, until the sound of approaching footsteps reached him from somewhere behind the trees and a familiar voice spoke his name with the same calmness it had carried years before.

“Your Highness.”

Namping’s fingers tightened against the fabric of his robe as the sound passed through him, and for a moment he could not bring himself to turn around because he knew that voice too well, even after all this time. When he finally looked over his shoulder, Aran was standing several steps away, dressed in the formal garments of Averon, his expression restrained enough to belong to a king who had learned how to conceal every thought before allowing it to reach his face.

Namping immediately looked away again, fixing his gaze upon the pond as though the water held something important enough to demand his complete attention, because if he looked at Aran for too long, he feared that all the composure he had gathered throughout the evening would disappear. There were too many things he wanted to say, too many questions that had remained unanswered, and beneath all of them was an anger that had never truly found a place to go, yet none of those feelings could pass his lips now that Aran was standing before him as though the distance between them had been nothing more than a few ordinary days.

Aran studied him quietly before taking a small step closer, and his gaze lingered upon the crown resting upon Namping’s head, upon the fine ceremonial robes that marked him unmistakably as a prince of Suryathep, and upon the quiet signs of a marriage that had not existed the last time they had stood face to face.

For a moment, something unreadable passed through Aran’s eyes, but it vanished so quickly that Namping could not determine whether he had imagined it.

“How are you?” Aran asked at last.

The question was so simple that it almost hurt more than anything else could have.

Namping felt the corner of his mouth tremble, though he quickly lowered his gaze so Aran would not see it, because how was he supposed to answer such a question when the person asking it was the very reason the question had become impossible to answer honestly? He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, wanted to ask whether Aran truly expected him to speak of his days as though nothing had happened, as though he had not been left behind with a heart full of promises that had never been kept.

Instead, Namping slowly folded his hands together within the sleeves of his robe and answered with the only words he could manage.

“I am well.”

The lie settled quietly between them, while the evening wind moved through the branches above their heads and sent a few pale petals drifting across the path between them.

Aran did not immediately respond, and Namping kept his eyes lowered, refusing to meet his gaze again, because the last time they had looked at one another, Namping had belonged to no one and had still believed that perhaps, someday, Aran would choose him.

Now he wore another man’s crown beside another man’s throne, and the person standing before him was no longer the future he had once imagined, but a king from a distant kingdom who had arrived too late to claim anything that remained.

Namping kept his gaze lowered, refusing to look at Aran again even though he could feel the king’s presence beside him, and the effort of pretending that the encounter meant nothing was beginning to exhaust him more than he cared to admit. There was something almost unbearable about the calmness in Aran’s manner, because Namping had spent so many nights wondering whether the man had ever regretted what happened between them, whether he had ever felt the loss with the same weight that Namping had carried, and now that they were standing together again, Aran seemed capable of speaking to him as though the past had simply become another distant chapter that no longer deserved to be opened.

The silence between them stretched across the garden, filled only by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant sounds of servants preparing the palace for the evening, while Namping kept his hands folded within his sleeves so Aran would not see how tightly his fingers had curled into the fabric. A small, bitter part of him wished that Aran would look devastated, that he would speak with some trace of regret or sorrow, because perhaps then Namping could convince himself that what they had shared had mattered to him as much as it had mattered to Namping, but Aran gave him none of the answers he secretly wanted.

After watching him for a long moment, Aran finally spoke, and his voice carried none of the accusation Namping had expected, which somehow made the question more difficult to bear.

“Do you hate me so much that you cannot even look at me?”

Namping went still, and the question settled somewhere deep inside him because it was the first time Aran had acknowledged the distance between them instead of pretending it did not exist. He slowly lifted his eyes, meeting Aran’s gaze despite himself, and for a brief moment the garden seemed to fall away around them as he searched the king’s expression for something he could not name, something that might explain why Aran had come to him now and why he sounded almost wounded by Namping’s refusal to look at him.

Before he could find an answer, another voice entered the silence.

“Forgive me for interrupting, Your Highness, but His Highness the Crown Prince is waiting for you.”

Namping turned toward the voice and saw Saree approaching along the garden path, her posture respectful and her expression carefully composed, and the sight of her brought him abruptly back to the reality surrounding them. He had almost forgotten that he was not merely a heartbroken young prince sitting beneath an old tree with someone he once loved, because he was now a husband, a member of another royal household, and a prince whose every movement could be observed and interpreted by people far more interested in politics than in his feelings.

The thought of returning to Keng should not have brought him relief, yet at that moment, anything seemed preferable to remaining beneath the weight of Aran’s gaze, and he rose quietly from his place while Saree waited a respectful distance away.

Namping turned toward Aran once more, though he still could not bring himself to meet his eyes for more than a fleeting moment, and he lowered his head in a formal gesture that felt strangely distant after everything they had once been to one another.

“Thank you for coming,” he said quietly, keeping his voice steady despite the ache beneath it, and after a brief pause he added, “I hope you have a pleasant journey back.”

The words were courteous enough to belong to a prince addressing a visiting king, but there was no warmth in them, and Namping did not wait for Aran to answer before turning toward Saree and walking away with her along the garden path.

Saree remained silent as she fell into step beside him, and Namping was grateful for it because he did not trust himself to speak about what had just happened. The garden slowly disappeared behind them as they passed beneath the stone arches leading back toward the palace, while the sounds of the festival grew louder with every step, yet Namping could still feel the weight of Aran’s gaze lingering somewhere behind him.

Aran remained beneath the tree, watching them disappear into the palace, and his expression remained difficult to read as his eyes rested upon Saree for a moment longer than they should have. He remembered her from years ago, when she had been one of the few people who could move freely between their households and when she had treated him with the same familiar warmth she had shown Namping, yet the woman walking beside Namping now had barely acknowledged his presence.

There had been no smile for him, no familiar greeting, and no trace of the affection she had once carried so naturally.

As the evening wind moved through the garden and scattered pale petals across the empty path, Aran remained where he was, quietly watching the place where Namping and Saree had vanished, as though the distance between them had become far greater than the few steps that separated the garden from the palace.

.

.

Namping walked beside Saree through the quiet palace corridor, keeping his gaze lowered as the familiar sounds of the evening festival gradually faded behind them, yet no matter how steadily he tried to breathe, the question Aran had asked continued to follow him as though the words had been spoken directly into his thoughts rather than left behind in the garden. He had managed to remain composed while facing Aran, but now that the distance between them was growing with every step, the restraint he had forced upon himself began to weaken, and his eyes slowly filled with tears that he desperately tried to keep from falling.

Saree noticed the change without needing to ask, and she quietly slowed her pace, watching him from the corner of her eye as Namping pressed his lips together and turned his face slightly toward the tall windows, pretending to be interested in the moonlit courtyard beyond them. For several moments he said nothing, but when they reached the corridor leading toward his chambers, he finally stopped and drew a careful breath before looking at her with eyes that were already shining.

“Saree, I need a little time alone,” he said softly, his voice carrying more strain than he intended.

Saree studied him for a moment, and although concern remained visible in her expression, she understood that there were some wounds that could not be eased by another person simply standing nearby, so she lowered her head respectfully and allowed him to continue without questioning him.

Namping walked the remaining distance to his chamber alone, and when he reached the great wooden doors, he pushed them open and stepped inside before closing them firmly behind him. The heavy doors settled into place with a deep sound that seemed to separate him from the rest of the palace, leaving the room wrapped in a stillness that felt almost too complete after the crowded ceremony and the encounter he had just endured.

He remained with his back against the closed doors for several breaths, slowly trying to steady himself while the silence gathered around him, and when he finally lowered his head, one tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. He brushed it away impatiently, yet another followed, and soon he found himself wondering why Aran had chosen to speak to him at all when he could have simply allowed them to remain strangers.

“He knew,” Namping thought bitterly, walking slowly toward his bed, because there was no other explanation that made sense to him. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

The thought followed him as he crossed the room, and when he reached the bed, he sat upon its edge before eventually lying down and turning toward the window, drawing the cover lightly around himself as though the familiar weight of the fabric could somehow shield him from the memories he had spent so long trying to bury.

Perhaps Aran had seen the wound and deliberately pressed against it, perhaps he had wanted to know whether Namping still cared, or perhaps he simply had not understood how painful his calmness had been, but Namping could not decide which possibility hurt more. The question about whether he was hated had sounded almost wounded, while Aran had stood before him as though he had every right to ask for an answer, and that contradiction left Namping with nowhere to place the anger that had been building inside him.

He closed his eyes and remained beneath the covers, listening to the faint sounds of the palace beyond his chamber, where footsteps passed occasionally through distant corridors and muted voices rose and faded again, while inside his room everything remained still enough for his thoughts to become louder.

For the first time since returning to the kingdom he had once called home, Namping wished that the palace could simply forget he was there, because tonight he had no desire to be a prince, a husband, or the center of anyone's attention, and he wanted only to remain beneath the quiet darkness until the ache in his chest became something he could carry without feeling it with every breath.

.

.

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The chamber had grown quiet by the time Namping finally forced himself to leave the bed, though the heaviness within his chest had not eased with the passing of the evening. He moved through the room without any particular purpose, his fingers occasionally brushing against the familiar objects arranged upon the shelves, until his gaze settled upon an old storybook resting between two volumes he had not touched since returning to Suryathep.

For a moment, he simply stared at it, because he knew that book.

The worn edges of the cover, the faint crease along its spine, and even the small mark near the bottom corner were all familiar enough to bring back a memory he had thought himself capable of keeping buried. Namping reached for it carefully and drew it from the shelf, holding it against his chest for several breaths before lowering himself onto the edge of his bed.

His thumb passed slowly over the cover, and when he opened it, the pages carried the faint scent of old paper and dust, immediately reminding him of afternoons beside the lake when the world had seemed much kinder than it did now. He turned the pages gradually, allowing the familiar illustrations and faded lines of ink to return one after another, and with every page the memory became clearer until he could almost hear the sound of the water moving beneath the willow trees.

He remembered sitting there with Aran, the book resting between them while the afternoon sunlight warmed the surface of the lake, and he remembered how easily they had spoken about the story as though its characters were real people whose choices mattered beyond the boundaries of the pages.

A quiet breath escaped him as he turned another page, and the memory of Aran teasing him about his sorrowful stories returned with such clarity that Namping had to lower his eyes.

He remembered complaining about the princess, remembered insisting that she had suffered too much.

His fingers stopped upon the page.

The ink had faded slightly with age, but he could still remember exactly where they had been sitting when Aran had said that nothing like that would ever happen to him, and for a moment Namping could almost feel the warmth of the afternoon sun upon his face again.

He slowly closed his eyes, but the memory refused to disappear, and when he opened them again, his vision had blurred slightly.

A tear gathered along his lower lashes before slipping down his cheek, and Namping quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand, almost annoyed with himself for allowing something as simple as an old storybook to undo the composure he had struggled to maintain all evening.

He looked down at the open pages again, tracing the familiar words with his eyes while the silence of his chamber pressed gently around him.

Once, he had believed those pages were only a story.

Once, he had believed promises made beneath willow trees would remain promises forever.

Once, he had believed that if someone loved him, they would choose him when it mattered.

Namping swallowed carefully as another tear slipped down his cheek, and he lowered his head until his hair fell forward, hiding most of his face from the quiet room.

“Why does life never give me anything I want?” he whispered, though there was no one there to answer him.

The question remained suspended in the stillness, unanswered and almost painfully ordinary, while the book lay open across his lap and the fading light from the window stretched slowly across its pages.

He turned one final page, but he did not read the words this time, because his thoughts had already wandered far beyond the story and toward the life he had once imagined for himself, a life that now seemed to belong to someone else entirely.

Namping gently closed the book and held it against his chest, allowing himself a few quiet moments to mourn what he had lost before carefully placing it beside him, as though returning the story to the shelf might also return the past to where it belonged.

It did not, of course, and the silence that followed seemed to understand that better than he did.

The room had grown quiet again after Namping had closed the book, yet the silence no longer brought him the comfort it once had, for the memories awakened by those old pages continued to linger at the edges of his thoughts, refusing to settle no matter how many times he tried to push them aside. He sat upon the edge of the bed with the book resting loosely in his hands, his gaze lowered toward the worn cover while the last light of evening slipped through the tall windows and spread faintly across the chamber floor, turning the polished wood a muted shade of gold.

He had been staring at the same place for so long that he barely noticed the movement outside until the great chamber door opened with a quiet groan, and the sound immediately drew his attention toward the entrance because, for once, he had wanted to be left entirely alone with the memories that had been haunting him since the ceremony.

Keng entered without haste, his presence seeming to alter the atmosphere of the room simply by occupying it, and Namping instinctively placed the book aside before rising from the bed and lowering his head in a respectful bow.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted softly, keeping his eyes lowered.

Keng regarded him for a moment before speaking, and when his voice finally came, it carried the same restrained authority that Namping had come to recognize, although there was something quieter beneath it this time.

“I am planning to leave tomorrow,” Keng said, his gaze remaining upon Namping as though waiting to judge his reaction. “If you wish to remain here longer, we can stay for a few more days.”

Namping lifted his eyes slightly, surprised by the offer, before lowering them again as his fingers gathered lightly against the fabric of his robe.

For a brief moment, he considered the possibility of staying, of returning to the gardens where he had once spent long afternoons with Aran, of seeing his sister and Saree again, and perhaps of pretending that the memories no longer hurt, but even before he could fully form the thought, he understood that remaining here would only keep reopening something he had been desperately trying to close.

The palace that had once been his home no longer felt entirely like home, because every corridor seemed to carry a memory of Aran, every familiar garden seemed to preserve some forgotten conversation, and every place where Namping had once felt safe now seemed capable of reminding him of what he had lost.

“It is all right,” he finally said, his voice quiet but steady enough to carry across the room. “We can leave tomorrow.”

Keng gave a small nod, accepting the answer without question, and for a moment neither of them spoke as the silence settled between them once more.

Then Keng's gaze remained upon Namping's face for a little longer than before, and Namping slowly became aware that the Crown Prince had noticed what he had been trying so carefully to conceal, because his eyes were still wet from the memories that had overwhelmed him only moments earlier.

Namping felt strangely exposed beneath that silent attention, as though the lowered light and the quiet room had somehow made it impossible to hide anything from the man standing before him, and he quickly lowered his gaze again, refusing to meet Keng's eyes.

There was no accusation in Keng's expression, nor did he ask what had happened, yet somehow that silence made Namping more uncomfortable than any question could have done, because he could not tell whether the Crown Prince understood the reason for his sadness or whether he was simply observing what was plainly before him.

“I should freshen up,” Namping murmured after a moment, his voice becoming slightly hurried as he searched for an excuse to leave the room. “You may rest for a while, Your highness”

He bowed again before Keng could respond, and although every instinct within him wanted to disappear before the Crown Prince could notice another trace of weakness, he forced himself to walk calmly toward the adjoining chamber.

As he passed through the doorway, he could still feel Keng's gaze upon him, quiet and unreadable, and Namping resisted the temptation to look back, because he had already allowed one person to see too deeply into his wounded heart that evening, and he did not think he could bear the weight of another pair of eyes understanding what he could not yet bring himself to say.

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Dinner had already ended by the time the palace settled into its quieter rhythm, and Keng had taken his place at the royal table without comment, listening as the King spoke at length about matters of court and the arrangements that would follow their return. The Queen occasionally added her own thoughts, her manner gracious and carefully measured, while Keng answered only when necessary, his attention remaining fixed upon the conversation even as he became aware of the absence at the table once again. Namping's place remained empty, just as it had on evenings before, and although Keng did not ask where his husband was, his eyes lingered briefly upon the chair beside him before returning to the King.

By the time Namping finished his bath, night had settled fully over the palace, and the chamber beyond the bathing room was filled with the faint amber glow of oil lamps whose flames moved gently whenever the evening breeze slipped through the narrow spaces around the windows. He remained in the quiet warmth of the bath for a little longer than necessary, allowing his thoughts to wander without direction, moving from the conversation with Saree to the ceremony, from Aran's unexpected appearance to Keng's unreadable expression, and then back again to the strange reality that tomorrow he would leave the kingdom once more and return to the palace where his new life waited for him.

Eventually, he rose from the water and dried himself carefully before dressing in proper night clothes, choosing something modest and comfortable rather than the loose garments he might have worn had he been alone. The thought of returning to the chamber brought a quiet sigh from him, because he knew what awaited him there, and no matter how many times he reminded himself that the marriage had already taken place, the idea of lying beside Keng still felt like something belonging to another person's life.

He walked slowly through the adjoining corridor, his footsteps softened by the thick carpets beneath him, and when he finally reached the chamber door, he pushed it open with the expectation of finding the room empty except for the Crown Prince's belongings.

Instead, the sight before him made him pause.

Keng was already lying upon the large bed, one arm resting comfortably against the pillows while a book remained open in his hands beneath the warm light of the nearby lamp, and it took Namping a moment to recognize the familiar worn cover.

His book.

The same book he had left behind earlier.

Namping remained near the doorway, staring at it with a growing uneasiness that he could not quite explain, because there was something strangely intimate about seeing Keng holding something that had belonged entirely to his own private world. He immediately wondered whether he had written anything in the margins, whether there were small notes hidden between the pages, or whether Keng had come across some passage that might reveal more about him than Namping wished the Crown Prince to know.

He could almost remember every place where his fingers had rested against the pages, every faint mark he might have made without thinking, and the possibility that Keng had noticed any of them made him feel suddenly exposed.

Perhaps sensing his presence, Keng lifted his eyes from the book and looked toward him, but he said nothing before returning his attention to the page, continuing to read with the same calm expression as though Namping's arrival had disturbed nothing at all.

Namping swallowed quietly and stepped farther into the chamber, closing the door behind him while his gaze kept returning to the book in Keng's hands.

He did not know why the sight unsettled him so much, yet it was difficult to ignore the feeling that Keng was holding a small piece of his private life without asking permission, and even though there was nothing improper about reading a book that had been left in their shared chamber, Namping found himself wondering what the Crown Prince thought of the story and whether he had understood why Namping had kept returning to it.

He stood there for several moments, uncertain whether he should speak, approach the bed, or simply leave again and find somewhere else to sleep, although exhaustion had already begun to weigh heavily upon his shoulders.

Keng turned another page without looking toward him, and the quiet sound of paper sliding beneath his fingers seemed strangely loud within the otherwise silent room.

Namping finally moved toward the dressing table, deciding that arranging his hair would at least give him something to do while he gathered enough courage to approach the bed. He sat before the polished mirror and drew his long hair carefully over one shoulder, smoothing the strands with his fingers before taking up the comb and slowly working through the ends.

His reflection looked back at him beneath the soft lamplight, composed on the surface despite the uncertainty gathering beneath it, while behind him Keng remained upon the bed with the book open in his hands.

when he glanced at Keng's reflection in the mirror and saw him quietly reading the book that had once belonged only to Namping's memories, his fingers slowed against his hair, and the simple act of walking toward their shared bed suddenly seemed far more difficult than it should have been.

.

.

For several moments, the only sound within the chamber was the quiet passage of the comb through Namping's long hair and the faint rustle of pages turning from the bed behind him, creating a strangely peaceful rhythm that seemed almost enough to convince him that he had managed to leave the events of the evening somewhere beyond the chamber walls. He kept his gaze lowered toward his reflection, carefully smoothing the loose strands around his shoulders while Keng remained absorbed in the book, and Namping tried not to think about what the Crown Prince might be reading or what he might think of the story that had once meant so much to him.

Then, after another moment of silence, the sound of the book being closed made Namping's hand pause briefly against his hair.

Keng lifted the book from his lap and placed it upon the bedside table with little ceremony, his expression unchanged as he looked at the worn cover for another passing moment before murmuring, almost to himself, “This is a foolish story.”

The words were quiet, almost careless, but they reached Namping with surprising force.

His reflection in the mirror changed as his brows drew together, and before he could remind himself that Keng was the Crown Prince and that he ought to remain respectful, he turned around to face him, his expression carrying an unusual trace of offense that had escaped the careful restraint he usually maintained around his husband.

“It is not,” Namping said.

The sudden firmness in his voice made Keng look up.

For a moment, the Crown Prince simply regarded him, perhaps more surprised by the confidence behind those two words than by the disagreement itself, while úNamping seemed to realize only afterward that he had spoken without thinking. Nevertheless, the sight of the book lying abandoned upon the table brought the old memories rushing back again, along with the image of himself as a child sitting beside Aran and reading those same pages beneath the afternoon sun, and the sadness he had been carrying since their meeting earlier that day seemed to find an unexpected place to settle.

Namping lowered his gaze briefly before walking toward the bed, his steps quiet against the polished floor, and when he reached the bedside table he picked up the book with both hands, treating it with a care that made its age almost invisible.

He carried it across the chamber and placed it carefully upon the tall shelf where his paintings and other books had already been arranged, running his fingers briefly over the worn spine before withdrawing his hand.

“We cannot simply call something foolish because it is something we do not understand,” he said softly, keeping his back turned toward Keng as though speaking while facing him would make the words more difficult to say.

He did not know why he was defending the story so fiercely, nor why the dismissal had touched such a raw place within him, but perhaps the book had become tangled with too many memories for him to hear it spoken of so lightly, especially on a night when his heart was already heavy with everything that had happened.

Behind him, Keng remained silent.

Namping stood before the shelf for another moment, his fingers resting loosely at his sides as he tried to regain the composure that had slipped from him, and the quiet that followed felt different from the silence they had shared earlier because Keng was no longer reading and Namping could feel his attention upon him.

Finally, Keng spoke, his voice measured and unexpectedly calm.

“Why do you think this book is good?”

Namping slowly turned his head.

There was no mockery in Keng's expression now, nor any obvious interest in the story itself, for fiction of this kind had never held much appeal for the Crown Prince, whose thoughts were usually occupied by matters far more practical than tales of princes, princesses, beasts, and impossible promises. Yet there was something almost curious in his gaze as he looked at Namping, as though the intensity with which the younger man had defended the book had made him reconsider his earlier dismissal.

Namping remained where he was, caught between surprise and uncertainty, while Keng waited quietly for his answer.

Namping remained beside the shelf for a moment longer, his fingers resting lightly against the edge of the wooden frame while Keng's question lingered in the quiet chamber between them, and it was only then that the weight of what had just happened began to settle upon him. This was the first time the Crown Prince had asked him something that was not a matter of duty, travel, meals, or some other necessary arrangement, and the realization made the simple question feel strangely difficult to answer.

He slowly turned toward the bed and found Keng still watching him, waiting with a patience that did little to ease his nervousness. Namping's throat tightened as he looked at him, because despite having lived beneath the same roof for weeks and having shared the same table, the same chamber, and even the same bed, they remained almost complete strangers, and speaking directly to Keng still felt like stepping into a room where he did not know the rules.

His fingers curled lightly against the fabric of his sleeve as he tried to gather his thoughts, while memories of their earlier encounters passed through his mind in fragments, each one reminding him of how carefully he had always chosen his words around the Crown Prince. He had seen Keng's cold expression often enough to know that the man did not seem easily impressed, and after the emotional strain of the day, Namping was not certain he had enough composure left to endure being dismissed again.

Still, Keng had asked him.

Namping drew a quiet breath, steadied his throat, and finally spoke.

“I think the story is good because it shows what love can make people do,” he said, his voice cautious at first, as though each word had to be tested before he allowed it into the room. “The prince did not simply forget the princess after she disappeared, and although he believed she was lost, he continued searching for her until he finally found her.”

Keng listened without interrupting, his expression remaining difficult to read, and the absence of any immediate response slowly gave Namping enough courage to continue.

“And the princess waited for him,” Namping added, his gaze drifting briefly toward the book resting upon the shelf. “She had no certainty that he would come, yet she still held on to the hope that he would find her, even after so many years had passed.”

His voice softened as he spoke, because the words were beginning to feel less like an explanation of a childhood story and more like something painfully close to his own heart, although he did not allow himself to examine that resemblance too closely.

“I suppose that is what I like about it,” he continued after a small pause, his hands slowly relaxing at his sides. “It speaks about waiting, and sacrifice, and how someone can continue choosing another person even when there is nothing to assure them that they will be rewarded for it.”

The room grew very still as he finished, and Namping looked toward Keng almost hesitantly, wondering whether the Crown Prince had understood what he meant.

For a brief moment, Keng said nothing, and then the faintest curve appeared at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile but something closer to restrained amusement. He leaned back slightly against the pillows, studying Namping with an expression that suggested he had just been presented with an idea he found difficult to take seriously.

“That is what you find admirable?” Keng asked, his voice carrying a quiet disbelief. “Waiting endlessly for someone, suffering for them, and calling the suffering a proof of devotion?”

Namping's brows drew together, but before he could answer, Keng's expression shifted into a faint, almost incredulous smirk.

“It sounds remarkably convenient,” he said, his tone remaining composed and distinctly royal despite the dismissiveness beneath it. “A tale in which everyone mistakes endurance for virtue and suffering for something noble simply because the word love is placed over it.”

Namping stared at him, his lips parting slightly as the words settled.

Keng's gaze moved briefly toward the shelf where the book now rested before returning to Namping.

“If that is the greatest wisdom the story has to offer,” he continued calmly, “then I find it rather lacking in sense.”

The offense that crossed Namping's face was immediate, though he tried to contain it, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at the Crown Prince.

He had expected Keng might disagree, perhaps even question the story, but hearing him reduce something that had been part of Namping's childhood to little more than a foolish lesson left an unpleasant ache beneath his ribs, made sharper by everything he had already endured that day.

“That is not what it means,” Namping said quietly, although there was more firmness in his voice now.

Keng's eyebrow lifted slightly at the answer, and Namping realized that, despite his nervousness, he had somehow found himself arguing with the Crown Prince over a storybook.

The realization should have frightened him into silence, yet the hurt beneath his composure made it difficult to retreat, and he stood there with his hands gathered loosely before him, looking toward Keng with the quiet indignation of someone defending something far more precious than a collection of old pages.

For the first time since their conversation began, Keng seemed genuinely interested in the person standing before him rather than merely in the book itself, and the faint amusement in his expression remained as he watched Namping struggle to explain why the story mattered so much to him.

The room had grown quieter as the night deepened, with only the faint glow of the lamps falling across the carved furniture and the pale edges of the paintings arranged along the walls. Namping remained standing near the shelf where he had placed the storybook, his fingers resting lightly against the cover as though he were still protecting it from the judgment that had just been passed upon it, while the memory of Aran and the words from the garden continued to sit heavily within him.

“It is not lacking in sense,” he said at last, his voice firmer than it had been moments before, although the respect in his manner remained intact. “Your Highness simply does not understand it.”

The words seemed to linger longer than Namping had intended, and the moment they left his mouth, he wondered whether he had gone too far, because speaking so directly to the Crown Prince was not something he had yet learned to do without caution. Keng, however, did not reprimand him, and instead his eyes returned to Namping with a degree of attention that made the younger prince instinctively straighten beneath it, as though he had suddenly been placed beneath the scrutiny of an entire court.

For the first time that evening, the faint amusement in Keng's expression disappeared and was replaced by something quieter, something resembling genuine curiosity.

“Then make.” Keng said.

Namping blinked, caught off guard by the answer, and for a moment he simply stared at him as though he had misunderstood the words.

“Your Highness?”

Keng leaned back against the carved frame of the bed, his posture relaxed despite the intensity of his gaze, and nodded toward the book resting upon the shelf.

“Make me understand what you find so meaningful about it.”

Namping hesitated.

Had anyone else spoken to him in that manner, he might have dismissed the question altogether, particularly after the way Keng had spoken about the story, but there was something about being challenged by the Crown Prince that touched a part of him already raw from everything that had happened that evening. Perhaps it was his wounded pride, or perhaps it was the lingering ache left by seeing Aran again, but the thought that Keng could look at something so precious to him and reduce it to foolishness stirred an unexpected determination within him.

He drew a slow breath and stepped closer to the bed with the book in his hand, stopping nearer to Keng than he normally would have dared, while his fingers gathered lightly against the fabric of his sleeve as he searched for the right words.

“It is not merely about a prince rescuing a princess,” Namping began, and although his voice remained gentle, there was an earnestness within it that had not been there before. “The story is about what people are willing to endure for someone they love, and about how love can make a person wait even when waiting becomes painful.”

Keng watched him without interrupting.

Namping continued, his eyes drifting briefly toward the book as though the pages themselves might help him explain what his heart understood more easily than his mind could express.

“The princess waited for him even when she did not know whether he would come, and the prince searched for her for years when he could have chosen to accept that she was gone,” he said softly. “He could have continued living his life and allowed the memory of her to fade, but he did not, because he believed that she was still somewhere in the world and that he had to find her.”

His voice became quieter as he spoke, and something in his expression softened despite himself.

“That is what makes it beautiful to me,” he continued. “He did not stop loving her simply because finding her was difficult, and she did not stop hoping simply because she had been forced to wait. They both endured something for the sake of returning to one another, and perhaps that is what love is supposed to mean.”

Keng's gaze remained fixed upon him, unreadable as ever, while Namping, having finally begun, found himself unable to stop.

“It is about sacrifice, too,” he added, almost as though he were trying to convince himself as much as the Crown Prince. “Sometimes loving someone means waiting for them, even when you cannot know whether they will return, and sometimes it means searching for them even when everyone else tells you to stop.”

For a brief moment, Namping forgot who stood before him, and the room around them seemed to recede beneath the weight of the feelings he had been carrying since the ceremony. He had spoken of a story, yet somewhere beneath every word lay something far more personal, something he could not bring himself to name.

Keng, however, seemed untouched by the sentiment.

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, not quite into a smile, but into an expression that made Namping immediately suspect he had failed to convince him.

“So the prince searches for years,” Keng said calmly, “and because he eventually finds her, we are expected to call him extraordinary.”

Namping's brows drew together.

“He searched for her because he loved her.”

“And that makes his actions noble?”

Namping stared at him, already sensing where the conversation was heading.

Keng's eyes moved toward the book again before returning to him, his voice remaining composed and almost detached as he continued.

“The prince speaks of rescuing her as though wanting her is enough to make him worthy of her, yet where was he when she needed him?” he asked. “He arrives after everything has already happened and expects the reader to admire him simply because he claims that he loves her.”

Namping's expression changed at once, and whatever uncertainty had remained within him was replaced by unmistakable offense.

“But he loved her,” he replied, his voice still respectful despite the firmness beneath it. “Perhaps he was unable to reach her before.”

“Then he should have found another way,” Keng answered without hesitation, and the absence of anger in his voice somehow made his words more cutting. “Love is not proven by what a man says he would do if he had the chance; it is proven by what he actually does when the chance is placed before him.”

Namping fell silent, staring at him with growing disbelief as the words settled heavily between them, because Keng was speaking of the story as though he were judging a matter brought before a royal court rather than discussing a tale meant to be read beside a quiet lake.

“And as for the beast,” Keng continued, his attention shifting once more toward the worn book, “the story decides that he must be cruel simply because he refuses to let the princess leave, yet it never bothers to ask what made him become that way, or whether he might have protected her in ways the prince never could.”

Namping's fingers curled against his sleeve, and for the first time he found himself struggling to answer, because Keng's argument was not emotional enough to dismiss and not careless enough to ignore.

“That does not make the beast right,” he said eventually, his voice quieter than before.

“No,” Keng agreed, his expression remaining unreadable, “but neither does calling him a monster make the prince a hero.”

The words settled into the room with a strange finality, while the lamp beside the bed cast a shifting shadow across Keng's face and left Namping standing half within the light, half within darkness.the Crown Prince's interpretation even as another, quieter part of him wondered why the argument had affected him so deeply.

Keng watched him for another moment before speaking again, his voice carrying the same measured certainty.

“Perhaps the story is not foolish because the beast is cruel, but because it expects us to believe that the prince is heroic merely because he promises to save her.”

Namping lowered his gaze, unable to find an immediate answer, while the silence between them grew deeper and more complicated than it had been before the conversation began, leaving the two of them standing on opposite sides of a story that, without either of them realizing it, had begun to resemble their own lives far too closely.

The silence that followed Keng’s words did not settle peacefully between them, because something within Namping had already begun to burn with a quiet, stubborn anger that had been gathering with every criticism the Crown Prince placed upon the story. He had tried to remain composed, reminding himself that Keng had never read the entire book and therefore could not possibly understand what lay beyond the pages he had seen, but the more Keng spoke as though the prince were nothing more than a foolish man hiding behind beautiful promises, the harder it became for Namping to remain silent.

“It is not about that,” Namping said at last, his voice firmer than before, and he turned toward Keng with a faint crease between his brows. “Your highness is judging the story without knowing how it ends.”

Keng’s eyes remained upon him, calm and attentive, and that quiet attention somehow made Namping even more conscious of how deeply he cared about defending the book.

“The story does not simply praise the prince for finding her,” Namping continued, his fingers tightening slightly against the edge of his sleeve. “It is not about whether they finally returned to each other and lived happily afterward, as though love is only meaningful when two people remain together until the end.”

Keng’s expression shifted faintly, as though the explanation had finally given him something worth questioning.

“Then what is it about?”

Namping hesitated.

He knew the answer, yet saying it aloud suddenly felt strangely difficult, because he could already imagine the crown prince finding another reason to dismiss it, another flaw to point toward with that composed certainty of his. Still, Namping had already defended the story this far, and retreating now would only make him feel as though he had surrendered something precious.

“It is about how people can love each other and still become different people,” he said quietly. “Sometimes two people can spend years wanting the same thing, only to discover that neither of them is the person the other remembers anymore.”

Keng listened without interrupting, and Namping lowered his gaze toward the book.

“The princess loved the prince, and the prince loved her, but everything that happened to them changed them,” he continued, his voice growing softer as the memories of the story unfolded within him. “She had lived through years that he had never experienced, and he had spent years searching for someone who no longer existed in the same way, so when they finally stood before each other again, they could not simply return to the lives they had left behind.”

Keng’s brows lifted slightly.

“So they did not end up together?”

The question was simple, almost indifferent, yet Namping found himself unable to answer immediately.

His gaze remained lowered, and his thumb slowly traced the worn edge of the book’s cover while an uncomfortable feeling gathered beneath his ribs. He knew exactly what the crown prince would say next, because somehow every conversation about the story seemed to circle back toward the same judgment, and he was already tired of hearing the prince called foolish.

“They did not,” Namping finally admitted.

For a moment, Keng said nothing, and then a faint curve touched his mouth.

“After all that?”

Namping looked up.

Keng’s expression carried the restrained amusement of someone who had just been handed further evidence for an argument he already believed he had won.

“He searched for her for years, endured whatever dangers stood between them, and finally found her,” Keng said, his voice quiet but edged with unmistakable disbelief. “Yet after all that effort, he still lost her.”

Namping’s lips parted, but no words came.

“It seems the prince was remarkably skilled at arriving too late,” Keng continued, his gaze resting upon him with an almost analytical calm. “He spent years searching for a woman, only to discover that finding her did not mean he had earned the right to keep her.”

Namping’s expression tightened.

“That is not what the story means.”

“Is it not?” Keng asked, and there was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. “He searched, he promised, he suffered, and he returned believing that everything would simply fall into place because he had loved her faithfully enough, yet when the moment finally came, even his great love could not restore what had already been lost.”

Namping stared at him in disbelief.

“He was still the one who came for her.”

“And he still failed to keep her.”

The answer came so calmly that it struck Namping harder than if Keng had raised his voice.

Namping opened his mouth again, ready to defend the prince, but Keng continued before he could gather his thoughts.

“Perhaps the prince was not the hero you believe him to be,” he said. “Perhaps he was simply a man who spent years chasing an old memory and then became disappointed when the woman he found no longer belonged to that memory.”

The room seemed to grow strangely still around them.

Namping could not believe what he was hearing, because the story that had once made him dream of devotion, patience, sacrifice, and returning love was now being turned inside out before him, every beautiful quality he had admired in the prince being examined until Keng found some weakness hidden beneath it.

“He loved her,” Namping said, almost helplessly.

“And yet he lost her.”

Namping fell silent.

There was no immediate answer to that, and the realization irritated him more than he wanted to admit because Keng had managed to make the argument sound almost painfully reasonable. The Crown Prince had not shouted, mocked him openly, or tried to humiliate him, yet somehow he had dismantled Namping’s beloved story one quiet observation at a time, leaving Namping with nothing but the uncomfortable feeling that he had been defending something he could no longer explain properly.

Keng looked toward the book again, then back at Namping, whose expression had become increasingly wounded beneath his irritation.

“You said the story was about love,” Keng said after a moment, “but perhaps it is more honest than you think, because it shows that wanting someone does not necessarily mean you are capable of keeping them.”

Namping stared at him for another moment before finally lowering his eyes, his pride refusing to let him continue an argument he knew he had already lost.

Without answering, he reached for the book and placed it carefully back upon the shelf beside his paintings, taking considerably more care with it than Keng had earlier. The movement was controlled, but the slight firmness with which he pushed the book into place betrayed the irritation he was trying so hard to conceal.

He then walked toward the bed, climbing onto it with quiet reluctance before settling on his side and turning his back toward the Crown Prince. He pulled the covers slightly higher around himself, his posture carrying the unmistakable stubbornness of someone who had decided that the conversation was over even though the thoughts inside his mind had nowhere near settled.

“Your Highness will not understand,” he murmured, the words softened by the pillow but still clearly audible.

Behind him, Keng remained silent for a moment as he watched the small figure lying rigidly at the far edge of the bed, and there was something almost unfamiliar in the sight of Namping sulking over a storybook as though the fate of its characters were a matter of personal importance.

Eventually, Keng shifted beneath the covers and lay down as well, leaving a careful distance between them while his gaze remained fixed upon Namping’s back.

“I did not know you were interested in these kinds of stories,” he said quietly.

Namping offered no answer.

He simply closed his eyes and drew the cover a little closer, pretending that sleep had already begun to claim him while the story continued to turn endlessly through his thoughts, and beside him Keng remained awake for a while longer, quietly studying the strange tenderness with which Namping had defended a world that existed only between the pages of an old book.

.

.

.

.

Morning had barely begun to brighten the eastern windows when Namping woke, and for a few quiet moments he remained beneath the covers, staring at the pale strip of sunlight slowly appearing across the ceiling as though he were trying to convince himself that the day had truly arrived. The chamber was unusually still after the bustle of the previous days, with trunks being prepared somewhere beyond the doors and the distant footsteps of servants carrying out the final arrangements for their departure, yet Namping felt none of the excitement that usually accompanied the thought of returning home, because the memories of this visit had left too much behind for him to simply walk away from without carrying some of it with him.

He eventually rose and began preparing for the journey, choosing his clothes with quiet care while his thoughts wandered between the palace, the garden, Aran's unexpected appearance, and the uncomfortable conversations that had followed. By the time he finished arranging his hair, his expression had settled into something calmer, although the faint heaviness around his eyes betrayed how little peace he had found during the night.

It was then that the chamber door opened, and Namping looked toward the entrance to find Saree walking toward him with a familiar seriousness upon her face.

He did not need to ask what was troubling her.

Saree had been unusually quiet since the previous evening, and the way she approached him now carried the unmistakable air of someone who had spent the night deciding whether she should speak and had finally chosen to do so despite knowing he might not like what she had to say.

She stopped before him and regarded him for a moment before lowering her voice.

“My prince, I have told you this many times before, and I beg your forgiveness for repeating myself, but you must stop this and begin accepting your marriage,” she said gently, although there was firmness beneath the respect in her voice. “You cannot continue allowing yourself to be drawn toward Prince Aran, and you certainly cannot meet him privately as you did yesterday, because whatever your intentions may have been, people will not look upon it kindly, and in the end, it will be my prince who suffers.”

Namping lowered his gaze and pressed his lips together, feeling the familiar ache return before he had even managed to leave the palace.

“I did not go there to have a private conversation with him,” he said quietly, his fingers tightening around the edge of his sleeve. “He came to me.”

Saree said nothing, and her silence somehow made Namping feel even more defensive.

He released a small sigh and looked at her with tired disbelief. “I am leaving today, Saree, and you still chose to lecture me at the very last moment.”

The sternness in Saree's expression softened almost immediately, and the concern that had been hidden beneath it became impossible to miss.

“No, my prince,” she replied, her voice gentler now. “I am not trying to trouble you before you leave, and I am certainly not saying these things because I wish to scold you. I am worried about you.”

Namping looked away.

Saree watched him for a moment before continuing, and when she spoke again, there was a quiet certainty in her voice that made the words difficult to dismiss.

“There is only one thing I truly wish my prince would understand, and that is that you must begin forgetting Prince Aran.”

Namping's expression changed faintly.

“Prince Aran is not worth this much sorrow,” Saree continued, choosing each word carefully. “He was not even brave enough to choose you when choosing you mattered most.”

The words struck Namping more deeply than he expected, and his eyes fell toward the floor as though the polished stone beneath his feet had suddenly become easier to look at than Saree's face.

“We do not know what circumstances he was facing,” he murmured. “Perhaps there was something he could not tell me.”

Saree stared at him for several moments, and the disbelief that crossed her features was almost painfully gentle, as though she could not understand how Namping could still find reasons to defend someone who had already hurt him so deeply.

“My prince,” she said slowly, “he is going to become your sister's husband.”

Namping remained silent.

“Whatever his circumstances were, whatever difficulties stood before him, whatever reasons he believed he had, he should have fought for you if you were truly the person he wanted beside him,” Saree continued, her voice remaining respectful despite the firmness of her words. “I am not saying that my prince must suddenly love Crown Prince Keng, because feelings cannot be commanded in such a manner, but you must at least try to release yourself from Prince Aran.”

Namping swallowed quietly.

“I am certain Crown Prince Keng will be good to you,” Saree added, and there was no hesitation in the statement this time.

The words settled heavily within Namping, because there was no cruelty in them, only a painful honesty that he had spent days trying to avoid.

He turned toward the window, where the morning light had begun to spill across the palace courtyard, illuminating servants preparing horses and attendants carrying the final belongings toward the waiting carriages. Everything outside seemed prepared to move forward, while some stubborn part of him remained trapped in everything that had already happened.

After a long silence, Namping finally spoke.

“ I have told you before, and whatever Crown Prince Keng may do from this point onward, I know that I cannot look at him with the same eyes with which I once looked at Aran.”

Saree remained quiet.

“They are different,” Namping continued, his voice softer now, though there was something painfully certain within it. “I cannot simply replace one person with another because the circumstances have changed, and I cannot pretend that the feelings I had for Aran can simply be given to someone else.”

His eyes shimmered faintly, but he refused to let the tears fall.

“I know that prince Keng is my husband,” he said, almost as though reminding himself rather than explaining it to Saree, “but knowing that does not mean my heart understands it yet.”

Saree's expression softened, and for once she did not try to argue with him.

Namping lowered his head, gathered himself, and then turned toward the door, his fingers briefly resting against the handle before he finally opened it.

The morning air entered the chamber with the faint scent of damp gardens and distant incense, and as he stepped beyond the threshold, he carried with him the weight of everything Saree had said, including the part he hated most because he knew that some of it was true.

Behind him, Saree watched silently as he walked away, knowing that he had not accepted her advice, but also knowing that for the first time, he had allowed himself to hear it without immediately turning away from the truth it carried.

.

.

Namping had barely stepped beyond the chamber when one of the palace maids approached him from the opposite end of the corridor, her hands folded respectfully before her as she bowed.

“My prince, His Majesty has asked that you come to the council chamber before your departure.”

Namping paused, and for the first time that morning, something warm stirred beneath the heaviness that had followed him since waking. His father had summoned him, and despite everything that had happened during his stay, a small and almost childish hope rose within him that perhaps the king had finally wished to see his son rather than the prince who could be useful to the crown.

Perhaps his father had missed him.

Perhaps he wanted to speak to him before he leave.

The thought was enough to soften his expression, and he nodded quickly before following the maid through the long corridor, his footsteps becoming slightly faster as they approached the western wing of the palace. Morning light poured through the high arched windows, falling across the marble floor in long golden stretches, while servants moved quietly around him carrying documents, ceremonial cloth, and the final belongings being prepared for the royal departure.

Namping scarcely noticed any of it.

His mind had already gone ahead of him, imagining his father's face when he entered, perhaps hearing some rare word of affection, perhaps being asked whether he had enjoyed his visit, whether he had been comfortable, whether the journey home would be too tiring.

By the time he reached the council chamber, he was almost smiling.

The maid opened the great doors and stepped aside.

Namping entered.

The warmth disappeared from his expression before he had taken three steps.

The chamber was not empty, nor was his father waiting there alone.

Several ministers stood around the long council table, their robes arranged with careful formality, while maps and sealed documents covered the polished surface before them. His father sat at the head of the table, and beside him were senior officials whose presence immediately changed the meaning of the summons.

Namping slowed.

The door closed quietly behind him, and the sound seemed far louder than it should have been.

His father regarded him with the composed expression of a king accustomed to concealing every thought beneath authority.

“Come closer, Namping.”

Namping obeyed, though the pleasant anticipation that had carried him down the corridor had already begun to fade.

He bowed before the king.

“You wished to see me, Father?”

The king exchanged a brief glance with one of the ministers before returning his attention to his son.

“We have something important to discuss before you leave.”

Namping's fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of his robe.

“I thought perhaps you wanted to speak with me before my departure,” he admitted softly.

For the smallest moment, something unreadable crossed his father's face, but it disappeared before Namping could understand it.

“I do,” the king replied, though his tone carried the weight of duty rather than affection. “But there is a matter concerning Suryathep that requires your attention.”

The disappointment arrived quietly, almost without resistance, because some part of Namping had already begun to understand.

He lowered his gaze.

“Concerning Suryathep?”

One of the ministers stepped forward and unfolded a document across the table.

“The recent developments between our kingdoms have made the court increasingly cautious,” the minister explained. “Suryathep has strengthened its military presence along several important routes, and there are concerns regarding the movement of troops and supplies through the northern territories.”

Namping listened without speaking, although his uneasiness deepened with every word.

“What does this have to do with me?”

One of the senior ministers unfolded a carefully sealed document and placed it upon the table.

“You are now bound to the Suryathep royal household through your marriage to Crown Prince Keng,” he said, choosing each word with deliberate care. “That position gives you access to places and conversations that would remain closed to ordinary envoys.”

Namping's expression changed almost imperceptibly.

“What are you asking me to do?”

The minister looked toward the king before answering.

“We need information regarding Suryathep's military preparations.”

Namping stared at him.

The minister continued calmly, explaining that Namping would not be expected to steal documents or place himself in obvious danger, but rather to observe the movements of military officials, note which commanders were being summoned to the capital, pay attention to discussions concerning troop deployments, and quietly learn whether Suryathep intended to strengthen its forces along the northern borders. If such information could be brought back to Vareekarn, the kingdom would have time to prepare should Suryathep make any hostile move.

The request sounded almost reasonable when spoken in such measured terms.

That was what made it worse.

Namping slowly turned toward his father.

“You want me to spy on suryathep?.”

The king's expression remained steady.

“We want you to protect Vareekarn.”

“But I am married to their Crown Prince.”

“That is precisely why you are capable of learning what others cannot.”

Namping felt something cold settle beneath his ribs.

He had entered the room believing that his father had called him because he wanted to see him before he left, and now he understood that even this final meeting had been shaped around the needs of the crown.

“I cannot do this,” he said quietly.

One of the ministers frowned.

“Your Highness, you must understand that Suryathep is not merely another friendly kingdom.”

“They are our enemy,” another minister added. “Their strength has grown beyond what Vareekarn can afford to ignore.”

Namping shook his head.

“If they were truly our enemy, why was I sent there as part of a marriage alliance?”

“Because alliances are made when kingdoms require them,” the minister answered. “They do not erase history, nor do they guarantee trust.”

Namping looked toward his father again, searching his face for some sign that he disagreed with them, some indication that he had called his son into this chamber merely to speak rather than to place another burden upon him.

He found none.

“Father, I cannot betray them.”

The king's gaze hardened slightly.

“Betrayal is a matter of perspective.”

Namping's brows drew together.

“How can it be anything else when they have accepted me into their royal family?”

“They have accepted you because the marriage serves their interests as well as ours,” his father replied. “Do not mistake a political arrangement for innocence.”

The words left Namping strangely hollow.

He thought of the palace in Suryathep, of the rooms that had never quite felt like his own, of Keng's quiet presence, and of the countless eyes that watched every movement made by members of the royal family. He thought of the ritual ceremony, the crowded hall, and the moment he had seen Aran again after believing that the past could remain buried.

He thought, too, of how desperately he had wanted at least one place in his life to be untouched by politics.

Apparently, there was no such place.

One minister stepped closer, his voice softening as though kindness would make the demand easier to accept.

“You need not think of this as treachery, Your Highness. You would simply be protecting the people who depend upon this crown.”

Namping lowered his eyes.

“you must remember that a prince's first loyalty belongs to his kingdom.”

Namping's heart sank.

His father leaned forward slightly.

“You were born a prince of Vareekarn, Namping, and whatever title you carry in Suryathep, that truth has not changed.”

Namping swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I know what I am.”

“Then you know what you must do.”

“I know what you expect me to do,” Namping replied, and for the first time there was a faint tremor beneath his respectful tone. “That does not mean I can do it.”

The room fell silent.

His father studied him for a long moment, and when he finally spoke again, his voice carried the quiet authority that had shaped Namping's entire childhood.

“You are asking me to choose between your feelings and the safety of an entire kingdom.”

Namping's eyes lifted sharply.

“That is not fair.”

“No,” the king said, “but kingship rarely is.”

The words settled heavily over the chamber.

Namping stood surrounded by men who had already decided what duty required of him, while the one person whose affection he had secretly hoped to receive that morning had turned their meeting into another demand from the crown.

His gaze dropped to the documents lying upon the table, and for a moment the ink seemed almost to blur beneath the light.

He had been asked to become a bridge between two kingdoms.

Now they wanted him to become a hidden weapon between them as well.

“I will not steal military documents,” he said at last, his voice quieter but firmer. “I will not betray anyone's trust.”

The ministers began to object, but Namping continued before they could overwhelm him.

“If you want me to carry messages as a prince, I will do so. If you want me to represent Vareekarn with dignity, I will do so. But I will not sit beside my husband and secretly listen for information that I can bring back here.”

His father watched him without speaking.

Namping bowed deeply, though his chest felt unbearably tight.

“I am sorry, Father, but I cannot.”

For several moments, nobody moved.

Then the king's expression changed into something colder and more distant, and Namping understood that the conversation was not finished merely because he had given his answer.

“You will think about it before you leave.”

Namping slowly raised his head.

The king's voice remained calm, but the finality within it made the command unmistakable.

“You may believe this is about choosing between kingdoms, but one day you will understand that a ruler cannot afford to see the world only through the eyes of the people he cares for.”

Namping said nothing.

He bowed once more and turned toward the doors, carrying with him the heavy realization that the small hope he had brought into the chamber had been mistaken from the beginning.

His father had not called him because he had missed him.

His father had called because Vareekarn needed something from him.

Again.

.

.

.

The feast had been arranged beneath the high painted ceiling of the eastern hall, where morning light entered through the tall lattice windows and fell across the long table in pale bands, illuminating the silver vessels, porcelain dishes, and carefully folded linen that had been prepared for the final meal before the royal party departed for Suryathep. The servants moved with quiet efficiency around the room, placing the last dishes before the king and queen while the two princes took their places, and yet beneath the polished courtesy of the gathering there was a strange tension that seemed to linger between every exchange.

Keng arrived shortly afterward, his expression composed as he approached the table, and the king immediately welcomed him with the formal warmth expected between rulers bound by an alliance that neither side could afford to treat lightly.

“Your Highness, I trust the preparations for your departure are nearly complete,” the king said, gesturing toward the place prepared for him.

“They are,” Keng replied as he took his seat. “We shall leave shortly after the feast.”

The queen smiled pleasantly, her hands resting together upon the table as she regarded him with an expression of practiced warmth.

“We are pleased that you were able to stay with us for these days, Your Highness, and I hope our hospitality has not fallen short of what the Crown Prince of Suryathep deserves.”

Keng gave the appropriate acknowledgement, though his expression remained restrained.

“You have been gracious hosts.”

The queen continued speaking with carefully chosen compliments, praising the ceremony, the alliance, the strength of Suryathep, and the importance of the friendship between their kingdoms, yet beneath the sweetness of every sentence Keng could hear the careful calculation of someone accustomed to weighing every word before allowing it to leave her mouth.

He listened without comment, occasionally answering when courtesy required it, while the king spoke about the road ahead, the expected arrival time, and the arrangements that would accompany their departure from Vareekarn.

It was only after several moments that Keng's attention shifted subtly toward the empty place beside him.

The seat remained untouched.

His eyes moved briefly across the hall, taking in the servants and the members of the royal household before returning toward the entrance, but there was still no sign of Namping.

Something tightened along Keng's jaw.

He said nothing, although his fingers rested more firmly against the edge of the table as he listened to the king continue speaking about the journey.

Meanwhile, far from the warmth of the feast, Namping sat alone in his chamber with little appetite for the morning or the journey waiting beyond it.

The conversation with his father had remained with him long after he had left the council chamber, repeating itself in his mind with a cruelty that became sharper each time he remembered it. He had entered that room with the foolish hope that his father had wanted to see him because he had missed him, and instead he had been asked to use his marriage and his place within Suryathep's royal household for the interests of Vareekarn.

What hurt most was not even the request itself.

It was everything his father had never asked.

He had never asked whether Namping had been well.

He had never asked whether the journey had exhausted him, whether he had been treated kindly, whether he had found happiness in Suryathep, or whether the marriage had frightened him.

Not once had he asked whether his son was coping with everything that had been forced upon him.

Namping lowered his gaze toward his hands, which rested loosely upon his lap, and the ache in his chest deepened as another thought quietly followed.

His father had not even embraced him.

The realization seemed strangely childish for a prince his age, yet it hurt all the same because there had been a part of him that had secretly waited for that simple gesture since the moment he returned.

If his mother had still been alive, perhaps she would have asked.

Perhaps she would have noticed the weariness beneath his eyes and understood without demanding an explanation.

Perhaps she would have held him before asking him to carry another burden for the kingdom.

His eyes burned, and despite his efforts to contain it, a tear slipped quietly down his cheek.

Namping quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand and turned toward the window, embarrassed even though there was nobody there to witness him.

Outside, the palace grounds were already alive with preparations for departure, with horses being readied in the courtyard and servants carrying trunks toward the waiting carriages, while the distant sound of voices drifted through the open window and reminded him that there was no more time to remain suspended in this room.

He would leave soon.

Perhaps that was for the best.

Perhaps returning to Suryathep, despite everything waiting there, would at least take him away from the palace where every familiar corridor seemed to remind him of everything he had lost.

A soft knock came at the door.

Namping quickly composed himself before turning.

A maid entered and bowed.

“My prince, His Highness the Crown Prince has asked for you.”

Namping's brows drew together.

“The Crown Prince?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

For a moment, he simply looked at her, wondering why prince Keng would summon him when they were already expected at the feast and preparing to leave within the hour.

Had something happened?

Was there a matter concerning the journey?

Namping rose slowly from his seat and adjusted the folds of his robe, still carrying the heaviness of the morning within him as he followed the maid toward the corridor.

He did not know what the Crown Prince wanted from him this time, and the uncertainty followed him all the way toward the hall where Keng was waiting.

.

.

By the time Namping reached the dining hall, everyone had already taken their places around the long table, and the meal had begun beneath the soft glow of the hanging lamps. The quiet movement of servants continued around the edges of the room as silver lids were lifted from steaming dishes and fresh tea was poured into porcelain cups, while the king and queen sat at the head of the table with their two sons nearby, their expressions composed beneath the polished courtesy expected of a royal household.

Keng was already seated when Namping entered, and the Crown Prince's attention shifted toward the doorway almost immediately.

Namping slowed when their eyes met, suddenly aware of every gaze that seemed to turn toward him, even though several of the people at the table made an effort not to look too openly. He remained near the entrance with his hands loosely folded before him, uncertain whether he should approach at all.

Keng lifted one hand toward the empty chair beside him.

“Come and sit.”

Namping looked at the chair, then back at him, as though he had misunderstood because he had not expected to be summoned for a meal and, truthfully, he had grown so accustomed to eating alone that sitting among the royal family felt almost more uncomfortable than the thought of returning to Suryathep.

Keng's expression remained unchanged as he added, “Eat with us.”

The words were simple, yet they seemed to alter the atmosphere of the entire table, because the queen's pleasant expression became slightly more restrained while the two princes exchanged brief glances before returning their attention to their plates.

Namping stood there, uncertain what to do with himself.

He had not eaten with his family like this in years, not truly, and although the table was familiar and the faces around it belonged to the family he had been born into, the gathering felt strangely foreign to him. Meals had always been something he took quietly in his own chambers or somewhere away from the main hall, where he could eat without having to wonder whether someone was watching him or waiting for him to speak.

He lowered his head politely.

“Your Highness, it is all right. I am not hungry.”

The queen's gaze rested upon him for a moment, while the king remained silent, observing the exchange without interfering.

Keng's eyes narrowed slightly.

“Sit.”

There was no anger in his voice, but the firmness of it left little room for refusal.

Namping hesitated again, his fingers tightening against the fabric of his sleeve as he glanced toward the table and then toward Saree, who stood among the attendants at the edge of the hall. She met his uncertain gaze and, after a brief pause, gave him a small nod before subtly gesturing toward the empty chair.

Namping exhaled softly through his nose, accepting that there was little point in arguing, and slowly walked toward the table.

The moment he took the seat beside Keng, something in the room seemed to shift.

The queen's smile remained in place, but it had lost some of its warmth, and one of the princes lowered his gaze toward his plate with an expression Namping could not quite read. Even the servants seemed to move with slightly greater care around the table, as though everyone had suddenly become conscious of the unusual arrangement.

Namping felt the change without needing anyone to explain it.

He kept his eyes lowered and reached for the nearest dish, placing a modest portion onto his plate before taking up his spoon. The food had been prepared beautifully, with fragrant rice, delicate vegetables, and several dishes arranged in careful portions, yet the taste barely registered because he was far too aware of the person sitting beside him.

Keng ate with the same quiet composure he carried everywhere else, seemingly unaffected by the tension that had settled around the table.

Namping, however, could feel it with every passing moment.

He kept his posture careful, his movements restrained, and his gaze fixed upon his plate as he silently ate, determined not to draw attention to himself again.

For once, he wished the entire table would simply forget that he was there.

The conversation at the table continued around Namping as though he were not there, and he soon found himself slipping into the familiar silence he had learned to wear whenever his family gathered together. The king and queen spoke with Keng about the journey ahead, discussing the roads that would be safest for the royal procession, the arrangements awaiting them in Suryathep, and the formalities that would follow their return, while Namping quietly moved his spoon through the food before him and listened without allowing himself to become part of the conversation.

He had almost succeeded in making himself invisible when the subject gradually shifted toward him.

One of his brothers mentioned his name casually, and another followed with a faint laugh, recalling something from Namping's childhood that made the others at the table smile. The remarks began harmlessly enough, but Namping recognized the familiar direction of the conversation before it reached its end, and his shoulders became slightly more rigid as he continued looking down at his plate.

“He has never been particularly useful in matters that require strength,” his brother remarked, glancing toward him with an amused expression. “He does not even know how to hold a sword properly.”

Namping's fingers tightened around his spoon.

He had heard such things before, countless times in these same halls, spoken so often that he had learned to endure them without reacting, yet hearing the words while prince Keng sat beside him made something inside his chest draw painfully tight.

Keng had stopped eating.

He turned his head toward Namping, his expression changing with genuine surprise.

“You do not know how to sword fight?”

Namping's hand remained suspended above his plate, and for a moment he could not bring himself to answer.

The question itself was simple, but the way Keng looked at him made Namping feel as though some private inadequacy had suddenly been placed beneath the bright lamps for everyone to examine. He lowered his eyes, his lips parting slightly before closing again, unable to find a response that would not sound humiliating.

His silence answered for him.

Keng's expression became difficult to read, though surprise and something resembling disbelief remained visible in his eyes.

Before Namping could say anything, his brother laughed quietly.

“He knows nothing of such things,” he said. “He has always been like this.”

Another brother added, with little concern for the embarrassment settling across Namping's face, “He is a useless omega who was never suited for anything that mattered. He cannot fight, he has no interest in military affairs, and the only thing he has ever cared about is painting those dull pictures of his.”

The words were spoken with the careless confidence of people who had repeated them too many times to realize how deeply they could wound.

Namping lowered his head further.

The warmth of the hall seemed to disappear from his skin, leaving only the uncomfortable awareness of Prince Keng sitting beside him and hearing every word. He had endured those insults when he was younger because there had been no one before whom he needed to feel ashamed, but now there was someone from another kingdom sitting beside him, someone who had already seen enough of his weaknesses during their short time together.

He wished he had never come to the table.

He wished he had remained in his chamber, where he could have eaten alone and avoided this moment entirely.

His appetite vanished completely, although he kept his spoon in his hand so that nobody would notice how badly his fingers had begun to tremble.

The painting he loved, the stories he cherished, the quiet things that had once given him somewhere to place his thoughts, suddenly seemed painfully insignificant beneath the judgment of the people around him.

He remembered every childhood lesson he had failed to master, every comparison made between him and his brothers, every time someone had looked at his paintings and called them useless because they could not understand why he loved them.

He had spent years learning not to care.

Yet now, with Prince Keng beside him, the old humiliation felt strangely new.

His eyes remained fixed upon the untouched food before him as he tried to swallow the ache rising into his throat, silently wishing the meal would end.

The morning had already been difficult enough, and the conversation with his father had left him feeling as though he were nothing more than another piece upon a royal board, but now even the one place where he had hoped to remain unnoticed had become another reminder of everything his family believed he lacked.

He could feel the crown prince's presence beside him, and that awareness made it worse.

Namping did not look at him.

He was afraid of what he might see in the Crown Prince's expression, and more than anything else, he feared that Keng might now see him exactly as his family had always described him.

The brothers' laughter continued around the table, light and careless in a way that made Namping feel increasingly smaller within his own chair, One of his brothers made another passing remark about how Namping had always been better suited to sitting quietly with his paintings than learning anything useful, while the other laughed and added something about how even the servants probably had more skill with a sword than he did. Their words were spoken as though they were harmless teasing between siblings, yet Namping knew exactly what they meant, and he lowered his head further until his long hair fell partly across his face.

He had not lifted his eyes since the conversation had turned toward him.

His fingers remained wrapped around the spoon, but he had stopped eating, and he tried to concentrate on the small details before him instead, the faint steam rising from the dishes, the reflection of the lamps upon the silverware, and the delicate pattern carved into the edge of his porcelain plate, because looking anywhere else might reveal too much.

Then a single tear slipped free.

It fell quietly onto the finger curled around his spoon, so small that no one at the table seemed to notice, and Namping immediately tightened his grip as though he could hide even that tiny betrayal of emotion.

Keng noticed.

His gaze moved toward Namping, lingering upon the lowered face and the tear that had disappeared against his hand, and something in his expression hardened almost imperceptibly.

The brothers were still speaking when Keng slowly placed his spoon down, and then, with a controlled movement that seemed far louder than it should have been, he pushed his untouched tray away from himself.

The sound of porcelain shifting against the polished table was enough to silence the entire hall.

Namping finally lifted his head.

He looked toward Keng with startled uncertainty, his eyes still damp, and for a brief moment he could not understand what had happened or why the Crown Prince's expression had become so cold.

Was he angry?

The thought arrived with a painful simplicity, and Namping's stomach tightened.

Perhaps Keng was ashamed.

Perhaps sitting beside an omega who could not wield a sword, who knew nothing of military training and had been openly described as useless by his own family, had finally made him regret the marriage.

Namping's shoulders became tense as he waited, afraid of what would come next.

Keng slowly turned his gaze toward the others at the table.

His voice, when it came, was not loud, yet its depth carried through the hall with a quiet authority that made even the servants standing against the walls lower their eyes.

“Has everyone forgotten something?”

Nobody answered.

Keng's gaze moved toward Namping, and he gestured toward him with one restrained movement of his hand.

“This is my royal consort, and he is the royal consort of Suryathep.”

The words fell into the silence with unmistakable weight.

The amusement disappeared from the faces of Namping's brothers.

The king's expression changed, while the queen's carefully composed features tightened with sudden alarm, and even the servants seemed to become completely still as Keng continued in the same measured tone.

“To speak of him in such a manner is not merely to insult a member of your family,” he said, his eyes returning to the princes. “You are speaking against the dignity of Suryathep itself.”

Namping stared at him, unable to move.

Keng's expression remained cold, and there was something particularly frightening about the fact that he did not need to raise his voice to command the room.

“If I hear such words again, I will consider them an insult to the kingdom whose name he now carries, and I will not overlook an insult directed toward Suryathep.”

The king immediately rose from his seat, followed by the queen, both bowing toward Keng with expressions that had lost every trace of their earlier ease.

“Your Highness, please forgive them,” the king said quickly. “They meant no disrespect toward Suryathep.”

The queen joined him, her voice carefully humble as she continued, “They are brothers, Your Highness, and they have spoken to one another in this manner since childhood, without considering how their words might be understood outside the family.”

The brothers were forced to rise as well, their earlier confidence completely gone as they lowered their heads and offered their apologies.

“We sincerely apologize, Your Highness.”

“We did not intend to offend Suryathep.”

Keng watched them for several long moments before his gaze shifted back toward Namping.

His voice became quieter when he spoke again, but the meaning was no less firm.

“Namping is not only your sibling anymore.”

The entire table seemed to absorb the words in silence.

Namping's eyes widened slightly.

He could hardly believe what he had just heard, because for so long he had been treated as though his place within his own family could be diminished whenever it was convenient, yet Keng had just stood before them and reminded everyone that the position Namping now held was not something they were permitted to disregard.

Namping looked toward his father, then toward the queen and his brothers, whose expressions remained tense beneath the Crown Prince's warning, before his gaze slowly moved toward Saree.

She was already looking at him.

There was no surprise in her expression, only a small, knowing smile that seemed almost to say that this was precisely what she had been trying to make him understand all along.

Namping held her gaze for a moment, his eyes still damp, before slowly looking away.
Around them, the feast resumed only after the king gave a quiet indication to the servants, but the atmosphere had changed so completely that the earlier laughter could not return.

Namping lowered his eyes once more, though this time the shame he had carried moments earlier was no longer quite as heavy, because somewhere between the sharpness of Keng's words and the silence that followed them, he had understood something he had never expected to learn from the Crown Prince.

For the first time since arriving at the table, someone had not asked what Namping could offer the kingdom.
Someone had simply reminded everyone that he mattered.

And with that realization settling quietly within him, Namping remained seated beside Keng as the meal continued, still uncertain of the man beside him.

Namping looked down at his plate and took another quiet bite, allowing the meal to continue around him while the meaning of Keng's words settled slowly into his thoughts.

He still did not know what kind of man his husband was.
Perhaps, he thought, that was something he would have to discover for himself.