"Welcome back, Sir Norlheim."
An older man, likely in his late fifties, bowed his head as he approached the group. His flawless posture and impeccable clothing marked him as the head butler of the royal palace.
"Your Highness is awaiting your arrival."
Raising his head, the butler fixed his gaze on Mika, his presence steady, unreadable.
Arthur grinned and gestured toward Mika. "Old man Elain, this is Mika—"
"Prince Mika," one of the knights cut in, voice sharp with correction.
Arthur waved it off. "Yeah, yeah, Prince Mika."
Noticing Louis momentarily distracted by the intricate decor of the hallway, Arthur seized his chance—he casually threw an arm around Mika.
"!!"
Louis' head snapped toward Arthur immediately, his gaze sharp and deadly, but he held himself back—risking harm to his master was unacceptable.
Elain remained unbothered.
"Please forgive me for my rudeness. My name is Elain, the head butler of the royal palace," he introduced himself smoothly.
Unlike Louis and Arthur, Elain stood at 5'7, his appearance fitting the archetype of a distinguished butler.
His neatly slicked-back silver hair carried a timeless refinement, the lines on his face speaking of years of experience.
But what made him truly unique—his eyes remained closed, carefully concealed from the world.
'Who?'
Mika stared, confusion flickering across his face.
He had never seen this character before—never encountered the head butler in the novel.
The author had never mentioned any of the King's servants.
'This is bad... I don't know anything about this guy.'
Arthur pulled Mika along, ignoring Louis' murderous expression entirely.
"Enough chit-chatting! The King is waiting for us!"
Elain chuckled softly as he led the way, and Mika noticed something—their steps were all different.
Louis walked stiffly, his posture rigid, each movement too calculated, as if expecting an attack at any moment.
Arthur's stride was easygoing, almost lazy, a carefree bounce in his steps, as though the palace itself were nothing more than a playground.
Elain moved with effortless precision, each step silent yet firm, as though the world itself adjusted to his pace rather than the other way around.
It almost made Mika think the three of them were important—figures with weight and purpose, so different from his own slow, relaxed steps.
Then, Arthur's hand was suddenly yanked away from Mika's shoulder.
Mika blinked in surprise, turning just in time to see Louis pushing Arthur's hand away, veins popping on his forehead.
"You touched him too long," Louis growled, his voice low, threatening.
Arthur only smiled, unfazed, as if more amused than irritated by Louis' anger.
"C'mon. I'm a Captain of the Royal Knights—Mika's safety is my concern."
Louis' grip tightened on Arthur's wrist, his glare hardening.
"He already has me."
Arthur laughed at this, clearly entertained.
"Can one person truly protect him? Face it, I'm more suitable."
Louis' expression darkened, his teeth gritting in frustration, while Arthur's bright grin never wavered.
A tension settled between them, thick and impossible to ignore.
Louis released Arthur's wrist just as their hands hovered toward their swords.
Then—
"Enough."
Mika's voice cut through the air, firm and steady.
Both men froze, turning toward the third prince.
"Behave yourselves."
Their fingers twitched, but after a tense beat, they forced themselves to relax, each turning away with reluctant restraint.
'Haah… they act like kids.' Mika sighed internally.
He hadn't expected Arthur to back down so easily—maybe the man had more restraint than he thought.
Unknown to Mika, who believed he had simply commanded them normally—
To Arthur, he saw the King in him.
The sharpness in Mika's tone. The way he looked down at him, a commanding presence unshaken by rank or authority.
A prince with the power to make even a royal captain fall to his knees.
"In here, my prince."
Elain paused in front of a large ornate door, its surface decorated with roses in every color. With a smooth push, he revealed the throne room, where servants and knights stood in neat formation, lining the path toward the throne.
Mika stepped forward, his breath hitching as his gaze swept across the lavish decorations—exactly what he expected from royalty.
That…
His feet carried him inside as his eyes locked onto the man seated atop the grand throne.
That was Mika's father.
King Zane Wyatt Verhault.
An older man in his late forties, his sharp, commanding gaze bore into Mika with undisputed authority. His shoulder-length pink hair, streaked with white, was styled in a half-updo, framing his powerful presence.
Upon his head sat a golden crown, simple yet elegant, adorned with rose engravings and glittering small diamonds—a symbol of sovereignty, but without extravagance.
Mika's gaze drifted—
To the throne beside the King's, slightly lower in elevation.
There sat a strikingly beautiful woman, her long blond hair braided meticulously, her grey eyes burning with disdain as she glared down at him.
The Queen, Jane Verhault.
Mika knew the truth.
She was never born into royalty.
No.
She had once been a commoner, just like Mika's mother.
In fact, Mika's mother and the Queen had once been close friends—childhood companions, who had grown up side by side.
And yet—
She killed her.
Why?
Mika continued walking, his eyes forward, his heartbeat steady, yet inside, something stirred violently.
He was no longer looking at the King nor the Queen.
Only forward.
Only toward the truth that had been buried beneath the throne for years.
'Why are you still sitting there… after killing my mother?'
Mika halted, tilting his head up to look at the King and Queen.
Yet—he did not kneel.
He simply stood there, staring back at them, his stance relaxed, his expression unbothered, indifferent.
His face made it clear—he was bored.
'Why would I kneel before my mother's killer?'
His chin lifted, a silent act of defiance. His posture unwavering, unshaken despite the Queen's burning glare of rage and the King's unreadable stare.
He didn't move. He didn't waver.
And he wouldn't kneel.
'That's what you always thought, Mika. In the novel, every time you had to kneel before her—you died inside.'
The throne room fell silent.
Arthur's eyes widened, shock rippling across his face just as it did across the expressions of everyone present.
Louis, however, smirked.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward, standing directly behind Mika, his presence firm—unmoving.
A silent declaration.
He, too, would not bow to a King and Queen who had never cared about him.
The ones who saved him from the underground arena were not them.
It was Mika.
So why should he bow to those who never even glanced his way?
"You insolent brat!!"
The Queen finally snapped, her rage boiling over as she slammed her hand against the throne, veins pulsing at her temple.
"How dare an illegitimate brat like yo—"
She stopped herself.
Her eyes flicked toward her husband, hesitation flashing through the fury.
Zane had his face buried in his hand, his shoulders shaking.
"Pfft…"
Slowly, he lifted his head, fingers pushing his hair away from his face—his lips twitching.
Then—
Zane laughed.
"Ahahaha!"
His booming laughter shattered the throne room's tense atmosphere, echoing against the marble walls.
The Queen's expression twisted—from fury to uncertainty—while the knights and servants exchanged confused glances, their heads lowering in unease.
Then—
Zane slammed his hand onto the throne's armrest, pushing himself up.
He rose from the throne and descended the stairs.
Walking down from the throne.
Walking down the stairs meant only for ascension.
Something no King before him had ever done.
At that moment—everyone in the throne room dropped to their knees.
Everyone except Mika and Louis.
They stood firm, their eyes locked onto the King.
Louis' fingers twitched, hovering near his sword—ready for any sudden move—but he held his position.
Zane stopped before Mika, towering over him.
His hand reached out, slow and deliberate.
Mika braced himself—expecting a slap, maybe worse—yet he did not flinch.
Then—
Zane wrapped his arms around Mika.
A firm, undeniable embrace.
Mika froze, breath caught in his throat as his father pulled him close, crushing him against his chest.
Zane's grip was strong, intentional, filled with unspoken emotions—as if pouring years of longing and love into that single hug.
Mika could feel it—the faint tremble in Zane's arms, the way the King held him so tightly, as if the mere thought of letting go was unbearable after nineteen years of absence.
Then, warmth touched his cheek.
It wasn't his own tears.
Mika's eyes widened in surprise as he tilted his head up—Zane was crying.
Tears spilled down the King's face, trailing down onto Mika's own cheek, as if the grief of father and son had intertwined after years of separation.
"My son… My son… My Mika…"
Zane's voice cracked, his words fragile—barely holding together as his chest shook with soft, broken sobs.
Slowly, his knees buckled beneath him.
Mika gasped, instinctively flinching in surprise, hands reaching out, gripping onto the King's arms—but Zane did not let go.
His fingers curled into Mika's shirt, gripping the fabric as if to ground himself, as if he were terrified that the son he had lost for so long would slip away again.
Then, he spoke—
"I'm sorry."
The words spilled from Zane's lips—raw, unguarded, achingly desperate.
Mika's grip on the King's arms tightened, his fingers pressing into the fabric as emotions surged violently within him.
"I'm sorry…"
Zane lifted his head, his tear-stained face trembling, but his smile—though shaky—was full of love.
Gently, his hands reached out, cupping Mika's face as if to memorize every detail, every change that time had carved into his son's features.
"You've grown so much, my son… I'm glad."
Mika bit his lip—forcing himself to remain composed, to not break, to not let the dam burst in front of everyone.
But they could see it.
The way his shoulders shook slightly, the way his eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
The third prince—grappling with emotions he had no words for.
Across the throne room, the Queen watched, her lips pressed into a thin, furious line—her gaze burning with disgust and rage.
But unlike her, everyone else wept.
The knights. The servants. The court.
Because this—this moment—was the first time their King had truly lived in nineteen years.
For nineteen years, they had seen him staring out the window, his expression etched with longing—missing the child he had lost.
For nineteen years, he had still loved his other children, still ruled, still smiled—but every day, the guilt of leaving Mika behind ate at him.
Because to love the rest, but to toss away one—to bury the weight of that mistake—had broken something within him.
And now, with Mika finally in his arms, the grief and relief of those years came crashing down all at once.
Mika let the King go, stepping back from him.
Zane gasped, his body tensing as his arms instinctively reached out to grab Mika again, panic flashing through his expression.
For a moment, in his fear, he believed—Mika was going to leave him again.
Abandon him.
Hate him for the loneliness he had caused.
His breath hitched, his wide, teary eyes frantically searching Mika's face, his mouth opening, ready to beg his son to stay.
But then—
To Zane's utter shock, Mika slowly dropped to one knee, pressing a hand against his chest in steadfast acknowledgment.
Zane froze, watching the gesture with trembling breaths, his emotions unraveling faster than he could control.
Louis, witnessing the moment, let out a quiet sigh, his expression unreadable.
For just a second, his mind drifted.
To his childhood.
To the memories he never wanted to relive—his father's fury, the harsh scoldings, the blows that left bruises that never fully healed.
To his mother's broken sobs, her trembling voice blaming him—blaming him for being born.
His fist clenched tightly at the thought.
Then—
With steady movements, Louis lowered himself to his knee as well, his presence unwavering behind Mika.
But there was no loyalty behind the action—not to the King, not to the Queen.
His loyalty belonged solely to Mika.
Zane hiccupped, his breathing unsteady as he looked at his son, the fragile remains of his composure shattering.
And then—
"Waaah, Elain! My son is here!!"
A pitiful wail left the King's lips as he burst into tears again, his cries filling the throne room.
Elain, ever composed, simply chuckled, kneeling beside him, his movements practiced—effortless.
With refined ease, the head butler pulled out a handkerchief, wiping the King's tears with the patience of someone who had done this too many times before.
"Yes, my lord. The young prince is here with us."
Mika sweatdropped at the sight, struggling to process this turn of events.
He had never expected the King—his father—to be this soft, this vulnerable—a complete crybaby.
In the novel, Zane was always described as a cold, calculating ruler—not a man who dropped to his knees and wept before his court, not a man who shamelessly called for his butler to dry his tears.
And yet—
Seeing him like this, seeing how much he truly cared, warmth spread through Mika's chest.
Zane had missed him.
Zane had longed for him enough to shed tears in front of his subjects.
Enough to kneel before the son he never had the chance to see growing up.