Chapter 16 - Sleeping King

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How can one person harbor so much hatred for another? Aurelian could understand wanting to keep Fisé from being taken—but to hurt him again and again, despite knowing how much he despised it? That was something he couldn't fathom.

 

Half of the blood in his veins came from this man—and yet, they shared nothing in common.

 

And though a part of him mourned that truth, another part was quietly, deeply relieved.

 

He would never become like this.

 

"Give me the key," Aurelian said quietly. "I regret not taking a firmer stance with you sooner. I want to reclaim the time I wasted obeying someone who acts like a traitor to his own kingdom. I will release Fisé tonight. Hand over the key."

 

"Were you not listening to a word I said?" the king spat. "You will never lay a hand on the Rose King. And if you do, it will not be for more than thirty years. You truly don't understand what that means, do you? You're dimwitted—just like a disloyal, ungrateful son. I should—should have—"

 

"You can't," Aurelian cut in sharply.

 

Then, without waiting for permission, he closed the distance between them.

 

The king, perhaps not expecting him to act, raised his arm to strike—but Aurelian caught it. In a movement far swifter than expected from a man in poor health, the king clenched his fist tightly around the key. Aurelian wasn't able to grab it fully, but he managed to get a firm hold of most of it as the heavy chair shifted with the strain of their struggle.

 

"You insolent wretch—let go! Don't touch me!"

 

But Aurelian gripped his father's arm harder. He was prepared to wrest the key away, if it came to that.

 

He had tried diplomacy. He had tried patience. But it was already decided: he would get the key tonight and set Fisé free. On that, there would be no compromise.

 

Looking back, he realized he had been acting like a child until now—sixteen, sheltered, hoping to win his father's favor. Believing that if he tried hard enough, if he was kind and patient enough, one day his wish would be granted.

 

"You let go, Father. And give me the key. You're making a grave mistake. I didn't intend to say this, but I will now. The reason Twydal can still even function as a nation in its current state of decline is because of Fisé's white roses—and my mother's backing. No matter what testament you leave behind, you cannot take the crown from me."

 

"…You—how dare you… How audacious you've become… You disgust me! You thief!"

 

"I'm not finished, so listen until the end," Aurelian said coolly. "And you're mistaken about more than one thing. You seem to believe that you can bind Fisé for thirty years under the former king's will, but that's impossible. That will is only valid under certain conditions. If it causes great harm to the nation, it becomes void. There is no way a testament that imprisons the Rose King—the very foundation of our economy—and wounds his heart, can be allowed to stand. When I ascend the throne, I will nullify it."

 

Aurelian stood nearly eye to eye with the king—just slightly taller.

 

He hadn't raised his voice, not once—not because of restraint, but because he wanted to crush the king completely.

 

A man who relies on nothing but power is easily crushed by the weight of it.

 

In an age when Twydal thrived, perhaps the king's authority alone might have been enough. But now, what firmly secured Aurelian's claim to the throne was not merely his title as "heir to the king of Twydal," but a far more resplendent one—"the beloved grandson of the suzerain king."

 

No matter how the king brandished his authority, there was no logic by which he could strip Aurelian of his succession.

 

The king let out an inhuman shriek—perhaps an attempt to yell "How dare you! I'll show you!"—before hurling his clenched fist with all his might.

 

With the strength of one who never hesitated to hurt another, he wrenched his arm free from the grip of a son who would normally have overpowered him with ease. And then, with a staggering turn of his body, he spun toward the fireplace.

 

It looked like he'd nearly stumbled—but the movement of his arm was precise.

 

With a sound like a blacksmith hammering iron, the fire flared violently.

 

"—Father, what have you done!?"

 

"It's mine! Eternal youth, brilliance, even life itself—all of it belongs to me!"

 

Laughing maniacally, the king hurled the prison key into the heart of the flames.

 

As if the rage from moments ago had never existed, he raised his voice high and declared, "I win!"

 

But Aurelian didn't hear him.

 

Without a second thought, he launched himself toward the hearth.

 

Even if that was the only key, he could still force the cell open eventually. He could order a new one from the craftsman who made it—or remove the king from power, denounce him as mad, and send soldiers to destroy the door altogether.

 

He knew this. And yet… his body refused to stop.

 

He seized the iron poker with his bare hand, ignoring its proximity to the flames, and reached for the key as it fell among the crumbling logs. The moment his skin touched the heated metal, his mind was consumed by only two words: hot and pain. His instincts screamed to recoil.

 

But he held on.

 

His resolve, his will alone, kept him from fleeing the pain. He would get the key. He would free Fisé tonight.

 

The regret that had plagued him—and his love for Fisé—pushed him forward. Even as embers flew at his face, even as the heat kissed his eyelids, he scraped through the fire again and again.

 

At last, the key came within reach.

 

"Kh…aa… ah…!"

 

Aurelian dropped the poker and seized the key with his bare hand.

 

The pain was beyond anything he'd ever known.

 

His palm and the inside of his fingers burned like meat pressed against a red-hot pan.

 

This is the key… the key that will free Fisé. I finally… finally have it!

 

The searing pain, the acrid stench of burning flesh—it all blurred his vision. Even if he didn't want to cry, tears welled up on their own.

 

The pain wasn't fleeting. It didn't subside. He was still clutching the very source of it—how could it?

 

But he had resolved not to let go. So he would simply have to get used to the agony.

 

"…The Miracle Rose… The Eternal Rose… it's mine! I won't give it to you!"

 

Kneeling before the hearth, Aurelian turned at the king's roar.

 

Through tear-blurred eyes, he saw two hands flying toward him—swift, violent, unmistakably murderous.

 

There was no doubt. His own father… was trying to kill him.

 

This wasn't a threat. The air itself told him. His instincts screamed: Run!

 

Father… you would go that far…?

 

He wanted to believe this was a nightmare. But there was no time to pray or hope. His body moved for survival alone.

 

He kicked off the floor and hurled himself to the side. Reflexes took over.

 

The only thing held by sheer will was the key clenched in his right hand—he never let it go.

 

"GRAAAAAAAAH!"

 

The king's scream was otherworldly, draining all color from the air.

 

Relief that he hadn't been shoved into the fire himself lasted only a heartbeat—before his eyes beheld another unthinkable scene.

 

The king, who had tried to kill his own son, had instead plunged his hands into the flames. Fire now danced in his hair, and he writhed in agony.

 

His coat sleeve, shirt, cravat—everything began to burn. The flames spread rapidly, claiming him.

 

His screams echoed like a vision of hell—"GYAAAAAAAAAH!"

 

Sparks scattered through the dimly lit chamber, the stench of burning hair rising with the smoke.

 

"Father…!"

 

Aurelian leapt back from the thrashing man and ran for the bed.

 

With his left hand, he tore off the linen sheets, spinning around and returning in a breath.

 

He didn't care who the man was. He didn't care what he had tried to do.

 

To save a life—he smothered the flames with the linen, striking down on them with urgency.

 

"Guards! A physician! Someone bring a physician, now!"

 

The moment he cried out, a flicker of doubt crossed his mind—was this the right thing to do?

 

It had felt like the right thing to do. But sometimes even the righteous acts could lead to bitter ends.

 

Had he let the king die quietly, perhaps Fisé would be happier. Perhaps Twydal would be, too. Perhaps even this man himself would have found peace.

 

 

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