The Grand Duke's Son Is A Heretic

"Her self-doubt kept growing. She'd pace around the manor muttering, 'Why isn't the Duke happy with our son? What did I do wrong?' And the moment you started walking and talking, she figured it out…"

"That I didn't have enough talent," Kael muttered, eyes darkening.

Memories swam to the surface—memories of shattered vases, cold screams, and a woman's trembling voice shrieking:

"You're useless! Trash! A disgrace! If only you had power! If only you were gifted! Then maybe he'd have loved me more!"

Kael's hands tightened slightly around Elfie, who stirred but remained asleep.

"When love is denied," Ramos said slowly, "it doesn't disappear—it rots. It festers. That young blooming flower turned into poison. And when she looked at your face, all she saw was Ruth. That made her hate you even more."

Kael closed his eyes.

"We called priests, healers, doctors… everyone. But nothing worked. It got to a point where if she even saw Ruth—or you—she'd try to take her own life."

A cold sweat broke across Kael's back. "That far…?"

Ramos nodded. "Yeah. So, the doctors finally recommended separation. And… well, your grandparents and the current Duke of Salvatore—your uncle—they hated Ruth. Always did. If he hadn't been so much stronger than them, they would've taken her long ago. But once she cracked, they didn't wait. They swooped in and took her."

Ramos looked away, his tone filled with remorse. "And from that day on… we haven't seen her since."

A heavy silence fell between them. The room grew still, the weight of that truth settling like stone on Kael's chest.

'That… was a total shitshow,' Kael thought darkly.

After a pause, he finally asked, "Any contact since then?"

Ramos exhaled slowly. "None. Every letter, every messenger—we were stonewalled. Her family doesn't want anything to do with us. They even tried to push for divorce."

Kael blinked. "Divorce?"

"I managed to block it," Ramos said, waving his hand, "but it's hanging by a thread. They want nothing to do with Ruth. Hell, I think they wouldn't mind if the whole Duchy fell into ruin just to spite him."

"And what about Father?" Kael asked. "How's he taking all this?"

Ramos hesitated.

"That's the tricky part. From the outside? Same as always. Blank. Ice-cold. But if you've watched him as long as I have…" Ramos scratched his chin. "He was different with her. Just a little. Softer. He listened more. He gave her small things. Subtle gestures."

Kael was quiet.

"I think—no, I'm sure—he cared for her. But he just didn't know how to show it. And she was the kind of woman who needed her love returned in fire, not frost."

Ramos leaned forward, voice lowering.

"Now she's locked away in Salvatore, and he's here… and you—you're the only one who can breach that wall now. They can block letters and servants and envoys all they want. But you? You're her son. They can't stop you from meeting her."

Kael looked down at Elfie's tiny frame curled against him.

"I'm not sure if she'll want to see me."

"Maybe not," Ramos said gently. "But sometimes… people don't need to be ready. They need someone else to walk through that locked door first."

"Sigh...You won't understand cause you haven't seen her look.Such a beautiful soul,she shouldn't have married into this house."

"It's a bit of a regret."

Kael didn't reply immediately. His gaze drifted to the window, where the golden rays of the afternoon sun filtered through.

The past was a mess.

But maybe…

Just maybe…

It wasn't too late to untangle some of it.

...

Outside the room, a tall man stood—stoic, poised, and distant. His hand reached for the door handle, but just as his fingers brushed it, he froze.

Ruth.

The Duke's sharp senses were unlike any ordinary human's. And through the silence of the hall, past the wooden walls, he heard everything.

Every word Ramos spoke.

Every breath Kael took.

Each syllable fell into his ears like drops of molten iron—searing, impossible to ignore.

His face, as always, remained unreadable. Cold. Composed. But his eyes… they twitched, flickering with emotion too complex to name.

His breathing grew ragged, faintly trembling, as if something inside was struggling to surface after being locked away for far too long.

He stood there, unmoving, a silent statue of ice. But within that stillness was a brewing storm.

Eventually, his hand clenched tightly around the door handle, veins faintly bulging. And yet… he didn't open the door.

He stepped back.

His gaze drifted, pulled by a familiar shimmer through the hallway window.

Beyond the glass, golden sunlight bathed the garden where a patch of sunflowers swayed gently in the breeze.

His breath caught.

Her favorite flower.

Those cheerful golden heads danced in the wind just like they had that day… that first day she'd laughed. The sound was bright and clear and irritatingly loud, and yet, it had lingered in his mind for years.

That woman.

That damned, bright, annoying, radiant woman who thought she could melt ice with sunshine.

He clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth until it hurt.

Regret.

It surged within him now, flooding the cracks he'd sealed away for years.

Yes, he regretted it.

Not because he hadn't tried—but because when it mattered most, he failed to understand what she needed. In pursuit of peace, in the hunger for control, in the desperate desire for a moment of rest from his burdens—he had let his guard down. And by the time he realized, the chasm between them had already formed.

"For a fleeting emotion… for a selfish desire…" he muttered, his voice a low whisper of disdain toward himself.

"I gave in… unable to hold things together."

There was no sorrow in his voice. No tears in his eyes.

Only a bitter laugh—a quiet, cold laugh that echoed faintly in the empty corridor.

"At the end, I am nothing more than a cold, emotionless human."

He closed his eyes, drawing in a sharp breath. His hand slowly dropped from the handle. His feet turned away from the door.

And then, as he walked down the hallway, the echo of his own words followed like a shadow behind him.

"Yeah… that's how I should be."

The garden behind him rustled gently, a lone sunflower turning ever so slightly—stretching toward the sunlight.