Shattered....

The Night Before...

Sleep eluded Octavius.

The punishment had left him hollow. Hope had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. He lay restless, the shadows of his chamber stretching long and still, save for the occasional flutter of the curtains as the night breeze crept in through the balcony. It kissed his skin—cool, unfeeling, and sharp.

Cruel. Unrelenting.

Like Luciana's expression.

Not simply cold—wounded. Beneath her distant eyes lay the pain of someone forced to accept a bitter truth. That memory burned him more deeply than the Emperor's wrath.

He tossed and turned, waiting—begging—for sleep to claim him. But even sleep had turned its back. He gave up. Rising with a resigned sigh, he wandered through the palace corridors. The marble floors were cold beneath his feet, the silence stretching far and wide like a void.

Then came the unexpected sound.

Laughter.

A child's, bright and bubbling. Followed by a woman's soft chuckle.

"Leila..." he murmured, recognizing the voice. Of course. Apollonia was no morning lark, and she'd inherited that from her father. Night-blooming flowers, now both of them.

"Say Mama," Leila's voice echoed gently.

"Pa!" came the high-pitched, delighted response.

"Ma~ma!"

"Ba!" the infant countered, defiantly cheerful.

Octavius paused. That innocent voice—so full of life—hit him like a blade coated in sweetness. Would the child ever understand the ache of absence when she was old enough to notice her dead father's missing presence? If she ever knew. Would that laughter one day fade into longing?

The thought struck deeper than he expected.

He remembered his own father. Did Rudolph smile the day he was born? Did he ever feel pride—not duty—when he looked at his son?

He doubted it.

The man had left. His mother—Aurora—had said nothing when Octavius shared the lie: that Rudolph had departed on a pilgrimage to atone for his sins. She simply lowered her eyes, lips sealed. She must have known. But she never spoke a word to stain his name, not even when that silence wounded her.

As those old memories clawed back into his heart, his path led him through the corridor toward the guest quarters—and he froze.

There, just ahead in the dim moonlight, stood Luciana.

In Erebus' arms.

Time stalled. Octavius couldn't breathe.

His jaw clenched. Rage flared from the depths of old scars. That man…

He'd taken everything.

The woman he loved. The throne he once desired. The admiration he longed for. Even Luciana's gaze, once Octavius' refuge, now passed him by unnoticed. Erebus shifted subtly, blocking her from view—as if shielding her, or worse, claiming her.

Their voices carried through the stone halls—soft, intimate.

Octavius didn't want to listen. And yet he couldn't look away.

Each word between them drove the knife deeper. Erebus' devotion—unapologetic, raw—left no room for denial. The way he held her, touched her... there was no hesitance. No doubt.

There was passion. And pain. Shared between them like a pact.

Octavius felt something in him crumble.

He turned quickly, the wind tugging at his golden hair, now damp with cold sweat. His heart drummed wildly as he stormed back toward his quarters—faster, before something inside him shattered beyond repair.

"Oh!"

A startled voice halted him mid-step.

He turned, breath caught.

"L-Lady Leila," he stammered.

She stood in the hallway, draped in a shawl over her nightgown, her lilac eyes wide with concern. In her arms was the child—Apollonia.

"You're out for a walk?" she asked, offering a soft, uncertain smile.

He tried to return it, but faltered. The sting behind his eyes betrayed him. She saw it.

"Ba! Ba!" Apollonia suddenly reached toward him, tiny arms extended.

Octavius blinked, stunned. Her demand was clear.

"Nia, no—don't be rude," Leila scolded gently. "He's not your father."

The baby hiccupped and began to sob.

"Hey now…" Octavius leaned closer, the grief momentarily forgotten. "Don't cry."

Leila hesitated as the child turned her teary gaze to him, reaching out again. His heart softened. How could he refuse?

"If you'll allow me," he said quietly.

"She's just being fussy. You don't need to—"

"I don't mind. I've always been good with children."

Carefully, he cradled the child in one arm. She nestled in easily, soothed in seconds, her ruby eyes gleaming with curiosity. The sight stirred something deep in him—something warmer than grief.

"Tiberius was like this, too," he murmured. "Always clinging. It brings back... good memories."

Leila smiled faintly. "You miss those days."

"I do." His voice caught. "Sometimes I wonder... does it show that I'm hurting?"

"You were in pain after the duel with Lord Erebus," she said quietly. "I saw it."

His brows lifted. Even his own mother hadn't noticed.

"They're just bruises," he muttered. "They'll heal."

"No," she said firmly. "Wounds—bruises or not—shouldn't be ignored."

Before he could argue, she turned abruptly. "Wait here."

He blinked in confusion as she disappeared down the corridor. Apollonia cooed softly, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"A half-demon…" he whispered, as Apollonia looked back at him. "And yet… so delicate."

He sat down on a nearby bench, placing her on his lap. She raised her small hands toward the sky.

"Pa!" she chirped again.

"What is it?" He followed her gaze.

"That's the moon," he explained softly. "And those are stars."

She listened, wide-eyed, as though she understood every word.

From the shadows, Leila returned—then paused. She watched him quietly, her breath catching in her throat at the tenderness in his voice.

Her grip on the small vial in her hand tightened.

Is it really so wrong… to love this man? she wondered, heart pounding. The only man who's ever looked at me without lust. Who respects me. Who sees me…

She approached.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Ointment," she replied, lifting the vial. "The imperial healer gave it to me once. I'd bumped into a table."

He chuckled. "So you're human after all."

She blinked. "Pardon?"

"I mean the other way," he said, smiling faintly. "You rarely show emotions."

"I do. I just… keep them hidden."

She stepped closer. "Your eye… it's swollen."

"Where?" He frowned, genuinely surprised.

"Please… lower your head a little."

He obeyed. Eyes closed. Her fingers brushed his skin, cool ointment meeting bruised flesh. Her touch was gentle—tender, but not without strength. Her fingers weren't the delicate tools of a noble flower sheltered in a glasshouse. They were real. Coarse in places. Human.

But her care was unmistakable.

"It's done," she whispered.

He opened his eyes and realized how close they were. Too close.

Flushed, he sat back quickly.

"A-Are you hurt anywhere else?" she asked, faltering.

"Yes… but I'd have to take off my robe," he replied, face reddening.

"O-oh!"

She handed him the vial, equally flustered.

He accepted it with a quiet thanks, then looked down at Apollonia, now asleep, her tiny body rising and falling in time with his breath.

Leila gently gathered her into her arms.

"Good night, my Lord," she said softly, bowing her head before retreating down the corridor.

"She didn't have to…" Octavius murmured to himself, eyes lingering on the small glass vial in his hand.

He looked up at the sky again. The stars above gleamed cold and distant—but for the first time that night, they didn't feel so far away.