They said time dulled pain. That it smoothed out the sharp edges of grief, wore it down until all that remained was a dull ache buried deep inside.
Edrick Rochester disagreed.
Even now, six years later, he remembered everything.
The scent of lilac perfume clinging to his mother's gown. The way her hands would card gently through his hair when he fell asleep in her lap. The sound of her laughter echoing down the long corridors of the Rochester estate, turning stone and silence into warmth.
And then—silence.
No lullabies. No soft arms wrapping around him. No warmth.
Just a sea of black clothes and whispering adults. A funeral too grand for a four-year-old heart to understand.
Edrick was only four when his mother died.
Old enough to remember.
Too young to make sense of it.
He sat now at the edge of the training grounds behind the estate, his wooden practice sword resting across his knees. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, throwing gold streaks across the ground. A breeze tugged at the edges of his blue hair, which had grown a little past regulation length.
The golden eyes in his reflection stared back from the surface of the polished blade—cold, sharp, and focused. Just like his.
Just like his father's.
Tutor: "Your stance faltered again."
Came the clipped voice of Sir Harven, his combat instructor. The man crossed his arms, face unreadable.
Tutor: "Again."
Edrick said nothing. He didn't bother explaining that his stance had shifted on purpose—to better counter a different angle. It didn't matter.
Explaining weakness never changed anything.
He rose silently and went back through the forms. Precise. Calculated. Unyielding. Sweat trickled down his brow and into his eyes, but he blinked it away.
Again.
And again.
Until his shoulders burned.
Until he felt nothing but the rhythm of movement.
Until Sir Harven finally dismissed him with a nod.
He didn't thank him. He bowed once and left the training grounds, boots crunching lightly over gravel.
"You can rest now, Young Master."
The words never came.
They never did.
There were no rewards for effort. No soft pats or gentle encouragement. Only correction. Expectation.
Perfection.
After his mother's death, the world had changed overnight.
His father, the Grand Duke of Rochester—once a man of fierce presence but hidden warmth—turned to stone. The transformation had been subtle at first. No more storytelling before bed. No more early morning walks in the rose garden.
And then, not even eye contact.
The man who had once hoisted Edrick onto his shoulders to show him constellations now barely acknowledged his existence.
He buried himself in statecraft, ledgers, military strategy, and letters from the capital. His study door remained shut for hours. Days. Weeks. Staff learned quickly not to disturb him.
So Edrick learned, too.
He learned to stay silent when his father entered the room. He learned to recite law and military history before he could read poetry. He learned to hold a sword before he could whistle a tune.
Tutors replaced caretakers.
Expectations replaced affection.
And yet, a part of him still waited—waited for the door to open, for his father to look at him and see the boy he once held in his arms.
But that never came.
Back in his chambers, Edrick pulled off the sweat-soaked tunic and poured cold water from the basin over his head. The sting brought clarity.
His gaze drifted toward the bookshelf near the window. Tucked on the bottom shelf was a book, old and worn, with faded pressed flowers between its pages—his mother's favorite.
He hadn't touched it in a long time.
Carefully, he knelt and pulled it free. When he opened it, a flower petal drifted out, landing silently on the floor. He stared at it.
And just like that, memory hit him.
A warm summer day. Sitting in her lap beneath a willow tree. Her voice, humming softly, reading the very same book aloud. He remembered her words.
"You must always try to understand and love people, Edrick," she had whispered. "Even if they're hard to love."
Even if they're hard to love…
His chest ached.
"Master Edrick"
A hesitant voice came from the door. The door creaked open, revealing a maid with wide eyes.
Maid: "The Grand Duke requests your presence."
His heartbeat faltered.
It had been weeks since his father called for him directly.
He stood up immediately.
Edrick: "Understood."
_______
The hall leading to the Grand Duke's study was long, cold, and lined with portraits of stern ancestors. The carved doors at the end loomed like a gate to another world.
He knocked once.
Grand Duke: "Enter."
His father's voice was as emotionless as ever.
Edrick stepped inside.
The room smelled faintly of ink and old parchment. The Grand Duke sat behind a grand oak desk, quill in hand, eyes not even rising to meet his son's.
Grand duke: "You missed the diplomatic seminar yesterday."
The grand duke said without preamble. Not even looking towards him.
Edrick: "I was assigned extra training hours by Sir Harven."
Edrick replied, standing at full attention.
His father made a small mark on the page.
Grand Duke: "That's no excuse. Time management is expected."
Grand Duke: "…Understood."
The silence stretched.
Then, finally, the Grand Duke looked up. His eyes cold and unreadable.
Edrick fought not to flinch under the weight of that golden gaze—so similar to his own, and yet completely devoid of warmth.
Grand Duke: "You're ten now,"
The Grand Duke said flatly.
Grand Duke: "It is time you began preparations for the midwinter council. You will attend alongside me."
Edrick's breath caught.
The Midwinter Council?
It was a place of noble strategists, generals, and tacticians. Children were rarely invited—only heirs deemed truly ready.
Edrick: "Yes, Father."
Edrick said, bowing his head low.
The Grand Duke turned back to his scroll.
Grand Duke: "You may go."
That was it.
Dismissed.
Edrick bowed once more and left the room, his mind a blur.
__________
That night, Edrick sat at the edge of his bed, staring out the window.
The estate was quiet. The stars glimmered above. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called.
He should have been proud.
He was finally being acknowledged. Trusted to represent the Rochester house in front of the Empire's most powerful nobles.
And yet… all he could feel was hollow.
It wasn't him being acknowledged. It was the version of him they molded. The flawless heir. The relentless swordsman. The boy who never cried.
He clenched his fists.
Edrick: "I'll become perfect."
Edrick whispered into the dark.
Edrick: "So perfect you'll have no choice but to see me."
A quiet knock on the door startled him. He turned quickly.
It was Harold, the old butler. One of the few who still treated him like a boy and not just a heir.
Harold bowed.
Harold: "Your evening tea, Young Master."
Edrick: "Leave it."
But the man didn't move. After a moment, he said softly,
Harold: "Your mother used to sit at this very window. Every night. She said it helped her feel less alone."
Edrick's throat tightened.
Harold: "She would hum lullabies to the stars. I remember her voice was soft, but it filled the room."
Edrick: "…Why are you telling me this?"
Harold simply gave him a sad smile.
Harold: "Because it's alright to remember her. Not just the grief. But the joy, too."
Edrick looked away, hiding his expression.
Edrick: "…Thank you."
Edrick said finally, his voice almost too quiet to hear.
After Harold left, Edrick sat alone with the cup of tea cooling beside him.
He looked out again at the sky.
For a moment, he imagined her sitting beside him, humming gently.
And in that moment, just for a second, the storm inside him quieted.