Chapter 232: Stop imposing your fairytales on my home

The silence that followed Elian’s proclamation was brittle, broken only by the sound of more knees hitting the cobblestones as they tried to revere him.

Julian felt the weight of the purple flower in his palm—it was cool, wet with dew, and thrumming with a life that shouldn’t exist. He felt like he was holding a live coal.

"This is not..." Julian started, but the words died in his throat.

"What is the meaning of this?"

The voice was like a low, dangerous crack of thunder. The crowd of servants and priests parted instantly, stumbling back to create a path.

Alaric was walking toward them, his mantle billowing behind him like a dark cloud. He didn’t look at the altar or the kneeling priests. His eyes were fixed entirely on Julian’s pale, panicked face.

Elian didn’t flinch. He gestured toward Julian’s closed fist with a serene, triumphant smile.

"Your Grace, you arrived just in time to witness the Heavens’ favor. The Saint has pulled life from the very heart of winter. A dead crocus, blooming at his touch."

Alaric stopped just inches from Julian, his presence a wall of heat that shielded them from the biting wind.

He glanced down at Julian’s instinctively clenching hand, then up at Elian. He clenched his teeth so tight that it looked like they might shatter.

"A miracle?" Alaric’s voice was dry, mocking. "You priests are so desperate for signs that you see them in every shadow. This is nothing more than the nature of the North."

Elian’s brow arched. "The nature of the North? To bring the dead back to life in an instant?"

"It is exactly like the incident of the frozen apple tree," Alaric stated, his voice flat and hard, projecting over the entire courtyard so even the servants could hear. "Months ago, the frozen apple tree at the center of my garden had one single withered apple on its dying branch,"

Julian’s eyes widened as he recalled that incident.

That... was their first meeting. It was the day he had fallen off the tree and into the Duke’s arms.

Back then... he had no idea he would remain in the Duke’s arms even till now.

But none of that. There were more important matters.

"That single withered winter apple is known as the ’Winter Heart’, and it comes back to life in the hands of someone with no evil thoughts."

This was precisely the point he was trying to make out of this.

"There are things like that in the North—spirits of the soil and the stone—that respond to ’good’ people, irrespective of divinity or your Empire’s gods." He narrowed his eyes at Elian. "Julian is a man with a kind heart that even nature recognizes, and the North is simply returning that kindness. So stop imposing your fairytales on my home."

Elian’s smile didn’t fade, but it sharpened. He knew the story was a lie, a desperate cover-up to protect a prize. Maybe half lie and half truth just to cover up this moment and make it seem ’reasonable’ but he couldn’t openly call the Duke a liar in front of his own people.

Without waiting for a rebuttal, Alaric reached down. He scooped Lucius up into one arm, the boy still staring wide-eyed at Julian’s hand. With his other hand, Alaric gripped Julian’s fingers—the ones still clutching the crocus—and pulled him toward the manor.

"We are done here," Alaric growled.

He led them through the heavy oak doors, his pace so fast that Julian had to stumble to keep up. They didn’t stop until they were deep within the confines of the East wing, behind the heavy doors of Alaric’s private study.

The moment the lock clicked, Alaric set Lucius down and turned. The mask of the stoic Duke fell away, replaced by a raw, jagged frustration.

This look made Julian’s heart skip a beat, and not in a good way either.

"Lucien, I... I truly didn’t know," Julian stammered, his voice trembling as he finally opened his hand.

The purple crocus sat there, perfectly healthy, mocking him with its beauty.

"I just wanted to comfort Lucius. I didn’t think... I didn’t do anything!"

Alaric looked at the flower, then at Julian. He didn’t move to touch him.

"The apple tree story was for the servants who know the tales of the North, Julian. That tree was a special case of ancient magic in the soil. But this?" He pointed a trembling finger at the crocus. "This has nothing to do with the North. You brought a dead thing back to life, Julian."

"I am not a Saint!" Julian cried, his eyes stinging. "If I had that power, Lucius wouldn’t have nearly died of fever! I wouldn’t have been so pathetic in that pit back then! There has to be a reason... maybe the priests had already done something to the flower?"

Alaric let out a sharp, bitter breath. He walked over to the window, staring out at the courtyard where the priests were likely still praying.

"I believe you," Alaric whispered, his back to Julian. "I trust you more than I trust myself, but that does not change what has happened. And that priest is not a fool. He saw it. He felt it. And now... now I don’t know if I can keep the gates closed long enough to find a way out of this."

He turned back, and for the first time, Julian saw a flash of genuine hurt beneath the Duke’s anger.

"I will keep believing you no matter what, but... this coincidence. How many more ’coincidences’ can we survive before they openly make a move to take you from me? How many... before I am forced to actually spill blood in order to keep you to myself?"

Julian looked down at the flower, then at Lucius, who was tugging on his robe, wanting to hold the ’miracle.’

He bit his lip, his shoulders shaking. He did not want to acknowledge this. It was a trap. It was all Elian’s doing. It...

Slowly, he unclenched his hand and showed the crocus that should’ve been squeezed to death in his palm, still perfectly whole and warm.

What in the world is going on now?

Lucius took the flower and then beckoned Julian to lean down. Julian knelt with one knee, his heart still pounding and his thoughts still spiraling, when Lucius placed the purple flower in his hair.

Smiling as he thought, It suits you, master.

Julian’s heart was conflicted and very torn. He didn’t know what was happening, but he didn’t want it to tear him away from the people he loved.

He wrapped his arms around Lucius, hugging the boy and silently crying so he wouldn’t notice.

"Thank you," he crooked softly, and Alaric looked down at him, his eyes and expression filled with hurt.

Was he too harsh?

"Julian," Alaric called, but Julian had already stood up to his feet, turning his head away so the child would not see his tears.

"I’ll be heading to my room to rest for now, Lucien. I have... a few things I want to think about."

And so, Julian turned and left the study, heading to his room where he would bury himself in thoughts.

Thoughts of how to not be consumed by the priest’s schemes, thoughts on how he would stay in the North with no interference.

Thoughts... about how all of this, the divinity and the dead flower back to life in his touch... is real.