When Vyan was five, he hadn't even understood what was happening. His father had sent him away with Benedict, and Vyan—naïve, innocent—had assumed he would be back home soon.
Days turned into months, months into years. At Fred's, he had convinced himself that his family was still alive, searching for him. But the memories—those memories—he had buried them deep, sabotaging his own mind to escape the pain Fred inflicted.
By the time he arrived at the orphanage, the truth had been twisted and tainted. He wasn't a lost prince, just another abandoned kid—at least, that's what all the cruel, mean children loved to tell him. And a part of him believed it.
But now, sitting here, in front of his parents' gravestones, the truth hit him with all the force of sixteen years' worth of unshed tears. He wanted to mourn them—no vengeance, no hatred, just the raw, aching grief of a boy who never had the chance to say goodbye.
