"I am a pure-blood," Ren whispered. "But your father... he was a strong wizard. One of the strongest."

Eiran’s eyes widened, curious and bright.

"For real?"

For the first time, he wanted to know about his real father.

"Yes," Ren murmured, voice low. "Your father was powerful... and dangerous."

"How?" the boy asked, curiosity sparkling like light on water.

Ren looked at his son and smiled slowly.

"He would do anything I asked him to. Isn’t that a great power?"

"For example?" Eiran pressed, eyebrows knitting as he tried to understand. To him, doing what a parent asked didn’t seem special—he listened to his Papa all the time.

"For example..." Ren paused, his expression shifting. The small smile faded from his lips as memories resurfaced. He thought about everything Ilyan had done for him—yet there was one thing he could never forget.

"He gave me what I wanted the most."

"Alright, but what was it?" Eiran urged, impatience creeping into his voice as he waited to hear of some extraordinary magic.

He still hadn’t manifested any abilities like Zayden, and the history books he secretly read only spoke of the imperial general—now a legend after more than a century since abandoning his title as imperial prince.

"He gave me my view."

Eiran’s face twisted in confusion.

"Does that mean you couldn’t see before?"

Ren chuckled softly.

Of course, Eiran wouldn’t understand—perhaps he never would.

"Yes... something like that. Have you heard of people who can’t see colours properly?" he asked, gently patting the boy’s head, careful not to ruin his hair.

Eiran shook his head, lips forming a small circle, deep in thought as if trying to unravel a hidden code.

"It isn’t dramatic," Ren continued softly. "They just don’t see the world the way most people do. So, your father took it upon himself to show me colours. And he succeeded. Now, I can clearly see that you—" Ren’s fingertips trailed down to the corner of Eiran’s eye, "—have your father’s eyes."

The child stared up at Ren, stunned. He had never known this. Not until now.

Was that why his Papa sometimes paused, gaze lingering on his face as if seeing something only he could see?

"My father’s eyes..." he echoed, the words tasting unreal on his tongue.

His heart thudded painfully, eyes growing wet with tears he didn’t fully understand. Was this what people meant when they spoke of family bonds—threads formed even without meeting, without memories? Just because they shared, perhaps, blood?

Despite knowing nothing about the man, his chest tightened with grief. His father was gone. He would never see him, never hear his voice, never feel the warmth of a hand that should have been his.

And if he, who had never known that man, felt this much...

How had his Papa endured this all these years?

"Have you eaten?" Ren asked, steering the conversation away.

He wanted Eiran to know about Ilyan—his father, the man who had once been his whole world—but perhaps Zayden wouldn’t approve.

Or maybe that was simply the excuse Ren clung to. It wasn’t that his love had faded; it never would. He could not forget Ilyan, and he could never scrape him out of his heart, no matter how many years passed.

But this was a new beginning. A fragile, precious beginning. For him and for Eiran.

And speaking too deeply of the past risked pulling open doors he had long held shut—doors full of secrets he was not ready for anyone to see. Those he didn’t want to unveil.

"Yes," Eiran replied, pointing toward the stack of empty plates on the nearby table. "You usually notice the moment you walk in. I guess you’re upset that your only friend is leaving."

Ren’s brows drew together.

"He is not my only friend."

"I’ve never seen you talk to anyone else the way you talk to him," Eiran countered, tone firm in that innocent, earnest way children often carried.

Ren only sighed, shaking his head. Sometimes he wondered if staying at Eiran’s side too long was making him the childish one instead.

"Alright. Whatever you say. We should go and see him off."

"Now?!" Eiran gasped, his jaw dropping.

"Unfortunately. It is quite an urgent matter."

Although I can’t understand why Lord Liam is dragging Yusha with him... What if he gets hurt?...

Ren wondered, the thoughts clouding his mind.

***

Yusha sat on the chair near the window, back curved gently as if protecting the soft bundle in his hands.

The needles clicked faintly—blue yarn winding through his fingers, slowly forming something small, something warm. Something meant for a child who did not yet exist.

The door opened.

He didn’t look up immediately. He always knew Liam by the sound of his footsteps. Over the years, he learned to recognize it. Or maybe it was because of how much he yearned for that that he knew his footsteps by heart.

Liam stepped inside, gaze falling to the yarn, then to the half-knitted baby sweater resting in Yusha’s lap.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"What in the world is that?" he asked—not a question, more like a warning.

His tone was sharper than Yusha had ever heard.

Still, the servant smiled, faintly, almost shyly.

"A sweater. I thought that since it’s winter now... by the time the child is born, it would need—"

Liam was already moving, his sudden movement causing Yusha to halt midsentence.

The sweater was gone from Yusha’s hands before he realized it. The needles clattered to the floor, the sound strangely sharp, echoing in the silent room.

Although confused, the servant parted his mouth.

"My Lord—" Yusha reached for the yarn gently, not forcefully—he had never been forceful. "What are you?—" he gasped. "No. Please—don’t."

But Liam had already pulled.

The fabric unravelled easily, threads coming loose in his fists, the shape that took his hours to make breaking in an instant.

Yusha’s fingers hovered in the air, following the motion as if he could catch the stitches before they disappeared.

He tried—he really did—but Liam tugged harder, dragging the delicate yarn apart until nothing remained but loose strands cascading to the floor like scattered glasses.

"Stop," Yusha whispered, voice cracking as he grasped Liam’s wrist—not to fight, just to hold, to keep something from slipping further away.

Yet, it didn’t matter to this man. Liam shook him off like touch was an offence.

Soon there was nothing.

Only yarn pooling at their feet.

Yusha stared at it, a painful ache swelling in his chest. He hadn’t cried—not yet. But something inside him felt like a torn thread too, pulled too far to repair.

Liam’s voice came out quiet. Too quiet.

"You don’t get to plan a life without my permission, beloved."

Yusha frowned, looking up at him in disbelief. Beloved. He called him that, yet destroyed something Yusha spent hours making without a hint of hesitation. Was this what love was supposed to be?

Fighting back the sting of tears, he asked, "What brings you here?"

"You finally asked!" Liam grinned. "We are going home."

The omega flinched at the word home. He didn’t have one—unless Liam meant his.

"Oh."

Yusha’s lack of reaction made Liam grimace. He reached out and gently took Yusha’s hands in his, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Aren’t you happy?" 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Yusha met his gaze, expression barely readable.

How could he be happy when the only thing that brought him peace was the very thing Liam refused to let him have?

Ren shouldn’t have said anything to the general...

His jaw tightened, muscles stiffening beneath his skin. Then, he bit his tongue.

He was trying to help. Who knew Lord Liam wouldn’t want this child?...

But no—he did know. He knew Liam would never welcome a child born beneath his status, a child that would tether them together in a way love never had.

And still, Yusha held onto that fragile hope, stubbornly knitting futures out of thread he never owned.

How foolish of him—a mere servant.

His gaze drifted back to the blue yarn scattered across the floor like wilted petals. His fingers twitched with the urge to gather the pieces, to hold them close, as if saving the mess meant saving the dream.

"Yusha," Liam’s voice softened, falsely sweet. The kind of softness that pressed, rather than soothed. "Look at me."

Yusha did, slowly—eyes dim, heart exhausted.

"You don’t need to burden yourself with things that don’t matter," Liam said, brushing a stray strand of hair from Yusha’s cheek with deceptive tenderness. "You have me. Isn’t that enough?"

For a moment, Yusha couldn’t speak.

His throat felt tight, words like needles stuck beneath his tongue.

Enough? Was Liam enough?

He wanted to say no. He wanted to scream it.

But all that escaped him was a trembling breath.

Because loving Liam meant swallowing truths until they turned to blood in his mouth.

"It is," he whispered.

He knew no one but him.

His sole refuge.

His only escape.

His beloved master.