Chapter 97 : Echoes of the Past in a Painted Wound

The room was quiet, the soft rustling of curtains barely audible over the distant echo of festival drums. Moonlight spilled in through the open window, casting a pale glow across the wooden floor.

Astra twisted beneath the blanket, her breath shallow, her body trembling.

Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the sheet as sweat beaded down her forehead. A faint whimper escaped her lips fragments of a nightmare clawing at her mind.

Xue stirred. The boy blinked sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he sat up, confused by the sudden tension in the room.

That's when he noticed the figure kneeling beside the bed.

Ryoma was there, his face calm but alert, one hand hovering just above Astra's shoulder, the other pressed gently to her forehead.

He looked at Xue and silently pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh."

Xue blinked, then nodded, his wide eyes fixed on the them with quiet curiosity. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and sat still, watching.

Astra's breaths finally began to steady. Her clenched fists loosened, and the tight furrow between her brows slowly eased. After a few moments, her breathing evened out, and she slipped back into a calmer sleep.

Ryoma waited until he was sure she was asleep again, then turned his gaze to Xue.

With quiet ease, he reached over and gently lifted the boy into his arms.

Xue blinked in surprise but didn't resist.

"Where we goin'?" he mumbled softly, rubbing his eyes and clinging to Ryoma's robe sleepily.

"Just somewhere quieter," Ryoma murmured. "You don't need to see her like that again." He turned toward the door, his steps light and soundless on the wooden floor. As he opened it, the hallway beyond was bathed in moonlight.

The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving the room calm once more Astra resting, unaware that the smallest light beside her had been quietly carried away.

An open veranda lined with smooth polished wood—offered a clear view of the sky. Beneath it, the night stretched vast and breathless, painted in hues of deep indigo and gold. Fireworks bloomed in slow, graceful bursts above the city, scattering sparks like falling stars.

Beneath it, Kaen stood alone edge, hands tucked into his long sleeves, his silhouette outlined against the fire-lit sky. His gaze, calm yet unreadable, followed each flare of light as though searching for something hidden within the explosions.

Footsteps approached behind him soft, deliberate. Ryoma stepped into the glow of the paper lanterns, carrying a drowsy Xue in his arms.

"Kaen?" Ryoma said, his voice low. "You're still awake?"

Kaen turned his head slightly and nodded, his eyes never quite leaving the night sky. Ryoma walked up beside him and gently set Xue down on the wooden floor. "Xue, Sit there." he whispered, ruffling the boy's hair. Xue blinked and settled himself, his gaze fixated on the fireworks with sleepy wonder.

Kaen spoke without turning. "Is she asleep?"

Ryoma exhaled, his breath visible in the cold night air. "She is now."

There was a moment of silence, long enough for the next firework to erupt in the sky.

"Ryoma…" Kaen said quietly, "are you doing the right thing?"

Ryoma blinked. The question, simple as it was, struck with the weight of something long buried.

Kaen turned to him fully this time, amber eyes serious. "Are we doing the right thing?" he repeated. "I know everything we've done every lie, every step, it was to protect her from the threat. But… how long can we keep hiding her from the truth?"

Ryoma's jaw tensed. He looked away, watching Xue trace stars with his finger against the sky.

"As long as we can," Ryoma said firmly. "We've been doing it for thirteen years. Every day, every moment… we lived with the fear. And yet, we didn't stop."

He met Kaen's eyes, voice steady, unwavering. "We won't stop now."

Another firework burst behind them golden trails spiraling like falling comets. But neither man turned to look.

Kaen nodded slowly, the flicker of uncertainty still hidden behind his calm. "Just like us trying to hide her… they will never stop trying to find her."

Ryoma closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose, as if trying to steady the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. Then, he opened them sharp, cold.

"You think they're the only ones coming for her? There's another, One who doesn't sleep. One who doesn't stop. One who doesn't forget. And one who's been waiting for her… far longer than any of us know."

A cold sweat slid down Kaen's temple, his fingers curling slightly under his sleeves. His thoughts were elsewhere pulled into a memory that never faded. The silence hung heavy between them, until Ryoma's voice sliced through it, low and steady,

"The same one… because of whom we lost everything."

Kaen's breath caught. He lowered his head and pressed a hand to his face, trying to steady the tremble in his chest. A soft, bitter sigh left his lips.

"If only I could return to the days when everything was still right…"

————

In the heart of the palace's east wing, hidden behind silken curtains and twin doors of ivory and gold was a chamber unlike any other. Vast and dimly lit by the warm lights, it carried the smell of fresh oils and old dreams. Paintings lined every wall, stretching from polished marble floor to the arched ceiling above, each one telling a story in silence.

A figure stood at the center, His Highness, the Crown Prince, poised halfway up a tall iron ladder before a towering canvas that loomed several meters high. His robes were tied carelessly at the waist, stained in streaks of crimson, gold, and midnight blue. A single brush moved in his hand like a sword in battle, slow and precise, leaving behind a deliberate stroke of red across the edge of the painting.

Upon the canvas half-finished yet already breathtaking was the back of a woman draped in a flowing pale robe. Her long hair fell like ink over her shoulders, and a single strip of red cloth was tied gently across her eyes. She stood before a mirror framed in soft light, but in the reflection… it was not her older form that appeared. Instead, a small child stood in her place, wearing the same blindfold, facing forward.

The red band across both faces burned quietly under the golden hues of the paint, haunting, and tender all at once.

The prince stepped down from the ladder, his brush still in hand, but his eyes no longer focused on the work before him. He turned slowly, glancing around at the other canvases that filled the room each a fragment of memory.

One painting showed a cloaked figure kneeling and offering a rose to a small boy beneath the moon.

Another, a little girl laughing as she climbed a tree, sunlight spilling through the leaves.

Third, a pair of silhouettes sitting under a starlit sky, the stars mirrored in their eyes. But no matter what the painting depicted, there was always one thing they all had in common.

Red.

Each canvas, no matter the scene whether it was a child watching stars, a woman offering a rose, a figure climbing toward light bore a streak. Evey painting had a handprint, a violent splash of red paint. Not part of the original work. Like…A scar. A wound.

The Crown Prince looked up at the towering canvas once more—at the blindfolded figure whose face would never meet his gaze. The woman in the painting stood still, graceful, timeless. Yet it was the reflection that held him still, the child with the same red cloth tied across her eyes, small hands folded before her, standing as if waiting for something… or someone.

And just beneath the child's feet, the Prince's hand moved. With the lightest stroke of shadow, he painted something barely visible, something almost hidden in the murk. A faint outline. A presence. Not quite a shape… something was standing just beyond the child's reach.

Watching.

Waiting.

A cold silence settled over the room as he lowered the brush. His eyes never left that shadow. His hand stilled. A breath caught in his chest. Then suddenly he exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening with a storm of restraint too long caged. The brush slipped from his fingers and clattered to the marble floor.

With no hesitation, he turned, walking to the basin of red paint in the corner. The light caught his face just enough to show what he was holding back.

Grief.

Rage.

Regret.

His hands plunged into the thick paint up to his wrists. Crimson coated his fingers like blood.And then he returned to the canvas, breathing hard, uneven.

He pressed one hand against the painting.

Then the other.

Again.

Again.

Red handprints smeared over the blindfold. Across the woman. Over the mirrored frame. It wasn't enough. With a sudden cry more breath than voice, he seized the basin and flung the rest of the red paint against the canvas. It struck like a scream, splashing across the figures, drowning them in scarlet.

The woman blurred into ruin. The mirror shattered beneath the force of memory, though no glass broke.

And then the prince fell to his knees.

One hand dragged down the ruined canvas, streaking the colors with his pain. His forehead dropped low, touching the floor, shoulders trembling. Paint dripped from his fingers, pooling beneath him like wounds reopening. Silence stretched, thick and thunderous.

In that moment, he was no longer a prince. He was a man cursed to remember everything.