Lucius Belmont had once been the heart of the palace. His presence alone was enough to bring smiles to the faces of nobles and servants alike. As the only child of the Belmont royal family, he had been adored beyond reason, showered with affection, and spoken of with admiration. The king and queen had never denied him anything—his whims were indulged without question, his laughter echoing through the halls as proof of his charmed life.
One of Lucius's earliest and dearest memories was of the royal gardens. The endless stretch of greenery was breathtaking, but nothing captivated him more than the roses. Red, white, yellow—each bloom stood in perfect rows, their petals velvety beneath his small fingertips. He had been enchanted by them, plucking handfuls despite the gardeners' gentle protests.
Lucius had always clung to roses. Their beauty was eternal, their petals soft, their scent intoxicating. He surrounded himself with them, convinced they would always remain—unchanging, constant, his. He would trace their delicate edges with careful hands, never daring to bruise them, believing that if he cherished them enough, they would never wither.
"You must be gentle, Your Highness," they would say with a smile. "A rose is delicate, just like you."
Lucius had believed them. He had been special, delicate, treasured.
But the world had changed. It happened without warning. One moment, Lucius was running through the gardens, laughter filling the air. The next, his legs gave out beneath him. A fever burned through his body, his vision swam, and the world tilted as servants shouted his name. When he woke, he was in bed—weak, aching, and since then his world was turn upsidedown.
At first It started subtly. The warmth in his parents' gazes dimmed, their hands resting on his shoulders a little less often. The servants hesitated before responding to his calls, as if waiting for someone else to handle him. It had confused him at first—why did they seem reluctant? Why did they no longer rush to meet his needs?
Then came the whispers. The ones he wasn't supposed to hear.
"He won't last long."
"What a shame. A sickly prince is a useless prince."
Lucius didn't understand. Indeed he was quite weak but he was always treated like a fragile glass. But he wasn't useless. He could still manage to run, still play, still laugh—just like before. He didn't feel much different, except for the occasional intense fever, the exhaustion that weighed down his small limbs. But the palace had already decided for him. He was sick. And sick things were unwanted.
The distance between him and his parents grew wider. They no longer visited him as often, always "too busy" with matters of the kingdom. His father, who had once carried him on his shoulders, now barely looked at him. His mother, who had once stroked his hair while singing lullabies, only offered small, distant smiles.
Lucius didn't understand. Had he done something wrong?
One evening Lucius hadn't meant to eavesdrop. He had only been walking past the council chamber when he heard his name, his small feet halting instinctively. He pressed himself against the wall, breath shallow, listening. His father's voice was sharp, clipped with irritation. "There's no use in pretending. He won't be king. The boy is weak." His mother's sigh followed, quieter, but no less painful. "I know… but what can we do? He's still our son." A pause. Then, in a voice so cold it made Lucius's blood freeze, his father muttered, "For how much longer?" The words slammed into him, harder than any fever, any ache, any wound. His own parents—they had already given up on him.
The servants were worse. Some still performed their duties out of obligation, but their hands were stiff when they dressed him, their eyes darting away when he reached for them. Others whispered behind his back, convinced he couldn't hear them.
"Don't get too close to him."
"Maybe the illness is contagious."
"Why bother? It's not like he'll be king anymore."
Lucius tried to ignore them. He tried to be the same bright, curious boy he had always been. He tried so hard to be good—to be better. If he behaved, if he smiled, if he made himself useful, surely they would love him again.
So he learned his lessons diligently. He spoke politely, bowed gracefully, listened intently. When he was allowed to sit with his parents during royal meetings, he sat perfectly still, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes sharp and attentive.
But none of it mattered.
They still ignored him.
And one day, when he reached for his mother's hand, she flinched.
The realization struck him like a blade.
She didn't want to touch him.
Lucius had always thought his mother was the gentlest person in the world. Her hands had once been his favorite place to rest his own, warm and comforting. But now—now she didn't even want to hold him.
He had never felt colder.
From that moment, something inside him cracked. And not only that Lucius also finally realize that the roses that he carefully kept by his bedside wilted, their vibrant color faded, their petals dry and brittle. He gently reached out, desperate to save them, but they crumbled at his touch. Even the things he loved couldn't stay.
He stopped trying. If they did not want him, then he would not beg. If they refused to see him, then he would become invisible. If they had abandoned him, then he would abandon them first.
But the loneliness was unbearable.
He spent his days wandering the palace halls, watching people who pretended not to see him. The maids who used to dote on him now walked past him as if he were a ghost. The guards, once protective and kind, barely nodded in his direction. The nobles who had once fawned over him found excuses to avoid him entirely.
Lucius hated it.
He hated the emptiness, the aching hole in his chest that no one wanted to fill.
He hated the pity in their eyes when they did look at him, as if he were something to be mourned rather than loved.
He hated them.
But more than anything—he hated how much he still wanted their love.
Desperation gnawed at him. It made him sick in ways his illness never had. If no one else would love him, then what was the point of existing?
Then, one day, he met Avirl.
The boy was nothing special at first glance—just another servant, another face in the palace. But unlike the others, he didn't shrink away.
He didn't whisper about Lucius behind his back.
He didn't avoid his gaze.
And when Lucius spoke to him, Avirl answered. Not in the nervous, forced tone of the others, but naturally. As if Lucius was still a person worth acknowledging.
It was the smallest kindness. But to Lucius, it was everything.
Something inside him latched onto Avirl instantly. A need, an obsession stronger than anything he had ever felt before. He had once been fixated on roses, on their beauty and their fragility. But Avirl was more important than any flower.
Avirl was warmth. Avirl was safety. Avirl was love.
And Lucius would never let him go.