The morning sun crept gently over the valley, painting the mist with gold. The air smelled of crushed herbs and freshly brewed tea — the quiet rhythm of Rin's days. Or what used to be his days… before Alaric came back into them.
Now, the once-peaceful home was heavy with tension.
At the table sat Alaric, no longer the wild, untamed prince of four years ago, but still carrying the same intensity in his gaze — tempered now by guilt. His hands, once accustomed to holding a sword, now fumbled awkwardly with the teacup.
Across from him, Rin moved with composed precision, brewing tea as if every motion could distance himself from the man sitting in his kitchen. His words, though polite, carried edges sharp enough to cut.
"Your Highness," Rin said evenly, "you could have just sent word instead of dragging half your knights through the mountains."
Alaric flinched slightly at the tone.
"I had to see you," he said, voice low. "To see them."
His golden eyes flicked to the twins in the corner — two boys,twins,both beautiful in different ways. The youngest , his golden eyes curious but cautious, peeked at him between strands of his father's brown hair. The older one, however, glared openly, his emerald eyes cold and wary — so much like his father's when he was angry.
"Don't look at Papa like that," the older boy said suddenly, his small hands clenched into fists. "You made him cry before."
Alaric froze.
Rin's hand paused mid-motion, the spoon clinking against the teacup.
The words hit harder than any accusation from the court, sharper than any battlefield betrayal. And for the first time in years, Alaric looked… human. Tired. Regretful.
He bowed his head, voice low and rough.
"I did," he said softly. "I was selfish… and a fool."
The older boy turned away with a scoff. "Then why are you here now?"
Alaric's gaze drifted to Rin — to the faint tiredness beneath his eyes, to the calm restraint that hid storms beneath. "Because," he said quietly, "this time, I'll stay by your side. Even if you hate me."
The room fell silent. The wind brushed through the curtains, carrying the scent of peach and earth — faint, nostalgic.
Rin exhaled slowly, setting the teacup down. His tone stayed polite, but his eyes softened, just slightly.
"Hate isn't the word, Your Highness," he said. "Disappointment, perhaps. But hate requires caring enough to wish you harm."
A bitter smile tugged at Alaric's lips — and yet, for the first time in years, the bitterness didn't hurt as much as it used to.
Because he was here. With them.
Because he could finally try, even if it was too late.
Outside, the children's laughter eventually broke through the stillness. The youngest tugged his brother's sleeve, whispering something about how "Papa's face looks weird when that man is around."
And in that quiet house, beneath the gentle scent of herbs and regret, the story that began in the shadows of the palace was about to bloom again — thorned, fragile, but still alive.