The old man remained still for a moment, lantern swaying gently in his hand as moonlight spilled across the garden paths.

  Then he spoke.

  "Lord William himself was the one who tended this entire garden," he said softly. "Every tree. Every flower. Every stone placed with care."

  Joseph's breath slowed, his attention fully captured.

  The old man paused, his gaze lowering to the earth beneath his feet.

  "But after an... unknown cause," he continued, voice quieter now, “when His Lordship's health began to deteriorate... he summoned me."

  The lantern's light trembled faintly.

  "He asked me to take over the care of this place," the old man said. "He told me—if his condition were to worsen... if he were to be absent for a long time... this garden must never be neglected."

  Joseph felt something stir in his chest.

  "And then," the old man added after a brief silence, "his health declined further. Much further. Not long after... Lord William fell into a coma."

  The words landed gently— yet they carried weight.

  Joseph's vision blurred slightly, as if memories were being projected behind his eyes. Not his own memories— not fully— but fragments. Like old film reels flickering through time. Sunlight through leaves.

  Laughter echoing faintly. Stillness broken by warmth.

  He swallowed.

  "Why..." Joseph finally spoke, voice low, almost hesitant.

  "Why did he care so much about this garden?"

  The old man turned toward him slowly, surprise flickering across his weathered face.

  "Prince..." he said, studying Joseph more closely now. "It seems you truly have forgotten."

  Joseph didn't respond.

  The old man sighed softly.

  "Lord William once mentioned your sealed memories while we worked here,"

  he admitted. "But I never imagined the seal was this deep."

  Joseph's brows knit together, confusion and disbelief tightening his

  chest.

  "...How do you know about that?" he asked quietly. "That knowledge was never meant to leave these walls. It's a secret buried within the castle itself."

  The old man looked at him for a long moment.

  Then—he smiled.

  Not the smile of a servant.

  Not the smile of a subject.

  But the smile of someone remembering another man.

  "Lord William did not tell me this as a ruler," the old man said softly. "He told me while working here—as a father."

  Joseph's breath hitched.

  "As a husband," the old man continued, voice heavy with memory, "whose wife's last happiness lived in this garden. He spoke while trimming these trees. While planting these flowers. While watching the seasons change."

  The lantern light trembled as the old man lowered his gaze.

  "That night," he said, "the man standing beside me was not the Lord of the Vampire Kingdom."

  He looked back at Joseph.

  "He was a grieving husband... and a frightened father."

  A pause.

  "And that father told me."

  A gentle smile touched the old man's lips as he lifted his gaze toward the moon above.

  "This garden," he said, "is where the Lord's happiest memories reside."

  Joseph's heart thudded.

  "He created this place after marrying Lady Aria," the old man continued. "They spent most of their time here—walking, talking, laughing. And after you were born, Prince..."

  His smile widened, tinged with nostalgia.

  "He often watched from his chamber window," the old man said, lifting a hand and pointing upward.

  Joseph followed the gesture.

  High above, on the third floor of the castle, a single window stood dark and silent.

  "Lady Aria would play with you here," the old man said. "And the Lord... he would stand there, watching. Smiling."

  Joseph's chest tightened.

  He couldn't speak.

  Not because he didn't want to— but because something inside him refused to accept what he was hearing.

  The father he remembered had been distant. Cold. Severe.

  But this?

  This didn't fit.

  David stood quietly beside him, listening to every word. He could see it—the conflict twisting across Joseph's face, the disbelief clashing with something fragile and hopeful. David didn't interrupt. He knew Joseph needed to hear this. Needed it to settle, no matter how painful.

  Memories didn't return gently.

  They clawed their way back.

  Before Joseph could gather himself, footsteps approached from behind.

  David's ears twitched instantly.

  His posture shifted without conscious thought—muscles tightening, stance lowering. A werewolf's instinct. Old survival reflexes flaring to life before the mind could catch up.

  A calm voice cut through the tension.

  "No need to be alarmed, David," it said evenly.

  "No one attacks a guest within these walls."

  Lazarus emerged from the shadows, his cloak barely whispering against the stone. His expression was grave, eyes sharp with concern rather than hostility.

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  Joseph turned toward him at once.

  "It's you," he said. "Where were you? We were looking for you in the banquet hall."

  David crossed his arms. "Yeah. You vanished."

  Lazarus inclined his head slightly.

  "I was searching the treasure chambers," he replied. "For the Conjurare."

  "And?" David asked, sensing something wrong when Lazarus didn't continue.

  A pause.

  Then Lazarus exhaled.

  "There was no trace of them," he said quietly. "No hint. No residual magic. Nothing."

  Joseph absorbed the words slowly. Instead of panic, something colder settled in his chest.

  "I see," he said after a moment. "Then let's discuss this after the banquet."

  Lazarus studied him briefly—perhaps surprised by the restraint—but nodded.

  A heavy silence settled over the garden.

  Joseph turned back toward the old gardener and gave a small, respectful nod.

  "Thank you," he said simply.

  The old man returned the gesture, eyes warm with something unspoken.

  As Joseph, David, and Lazarus turned back toward the castle, the old man spoke again—his voice low, almost thoughtful.

  "...Perhaps," he said, gazing toward the moonlit sky, "...The prophecy has awakened and it moves with him."

  Joseph paused for half a heartbeat.

  But he didn't turn back.

  The old man smiled faintly to himself and returned to his work, lantern light swaying gently among the flowers as the night breathed around him.

  Later, as Joseph walked beside David and Lazarus toward the banquet hall—the grand, decorated throne chamber once more alive with light and sound—his steps slowed.

  They stood before the massive doors at the hall's entrance.

  Tall. Ancient. Carved with royal sigils that had witnessed centuries of celebration, grief, and bloodshed.

  Music seeped through the seams—laughter, clinking goblets, the low hum of voices carried on warm air.

  David was mid-sentence, Lazarus silent as ever at Joseph's other side.

  Then—

  Joseph stepped forward.

  The polished marble beneath his boots vanished.

  The Banquet Hall twisted.

  The gold-and-crimson decorations blurred, colors bleeding into one another as if the world itself had lost its focus. The chatter of nobles dulled, replaced by something softer—older.

  Music. Not the sharp, celebratory rhythm playing moments ago, but a smooth, gentle melody carried by strings and flutes. Warm. Intimate. Alive.

  Joseph staggered, clutching his chest.

  "What... is happening?" he whispered.

  His heart hammered violently, each beat echoing in his ears. Breath refused to come properly, as if his lungs had forgotten how to work. The air felt thicker, heavier—saturated with memory.

  The hall reshaped itself before his eyes.

  The banners were different.

  The colors softer.

  The chandeliers glowed warmer, casting golden light instead of sharp brilliance.

  People filled the hall—laughing, talking, celebrating. Their faces were blurred, indistinct, but their joy was unmistakable.

  Then Joseph saw them.

  Near the throne.

  His breath caught painfully.

  Lord William stood tall, dressed not as a ruler burdened by power, but as a man at peace. His posture was relaxed, his eyes bright—alive in a way Joseph had never seen.

  Beside him stood a woman.

  Lady Aria.

  Her presence struck Joseph like a blade through the chest.

  She was radiant.

  Not regal in the cold, distant way queens were portrayed—but warm, gentle, human. She smiled softly as she cradled a small bundle in her arms.

  A baby.

  Him.

  Joseph's vision shook.

  He watched—frozen—as Aria leaned slightly into Lord William, laughing quietly. William looked down at the child in her arms, and his expression—

  Joseph's throat tightened.

  It was pure happiness.

  Not duty.

  Not obligation.

  Not pride sharpened by politics.

  Just joy.

  A genuine smile broke across Lord William's face as he brushed his fingers lightly against the baby's cheek.

  The hall erupted in applause.

  "It's a boy!"

  "A prince!"

  "Blessed be the kingdom!"

  Joseph's chest ached as something deep inside him screamed in denial.

  That smile—

  It wasn't fake.

  It wasn't forced.

  He was happy.

  Truly happy... that Joseph was born.

  Then—

  The world lurched.

  The music distorted, notes warping and stretching into something wrong. The warmth drained from the hall as shadows bled into the corners.

  Joseph gasped.

  The decorations darkened.

  The faces of the guests twisted, joy collapsing into murmurs and suspicion. Laughter died, replaced by whispers sharp enough to cut.

  Lord William's expression changed.

  The smile vanished.

  His eyes hardened—cold, furious, filled with something Joseph

  recognized all too well.

  Anger.

  The same face.

  The face Joseph remembered.

  The throne room remained the same... yet everything felt different.

  Guards filled the hall.

  Aria was gone.

  Joseph saw himself again—older now, standing small and shaken as soldiers closed in.

  "Take him back to his room," Lord William's voice THUNDERED, echoing through the hall like a verdict.

  Joseph clutched his chest harder.

  Air refused to enter his lungs.

  His vision tunnelled.

  The two moments overlapped— a joyful father and an enraged king— colliding inside his skull.

  Pain exploded behind his eyes.

  A voice reached him from far away.

  "Joseph..."

  Faint. Distant.

  "...Joseph..."

  The world trembled violently.

  "JOSEPH!"

  He jolted hard, gasping as reality slammed back into place.

  Hands gripped his shoulders firmly.

  "Hey—hey!" David's voice cut through the haze. "You're back. Finally came to your senses."

  Joseph blinked rapidly, sweat clinging to his skin. His breathing was erratic, chest heaving as he struggled to steady himself. The banquet hall stood before him once more—bright, loud, unchanged.

  David's face hovered close, concern etched deep into his expression.

  "What happened?" David asked. "You just froze."

  Joseph swallowed, forcing his breath to slow.

  "No... nothing," he said hoarsely, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I just... zoned out for a moment."

  But his hands were still trembling.

  And deep inside his chest, something had shifted— cracked open.

  Because now he knew.

  Once— his father had loved him.

  And that truth hurt more than hatred ever could.

  To be Continued…

  They wait—until the heart is ready to break for them.

  What he believed about his father, his past, and his place in the kingdom is no longer as simple as anger or abandonment.

  The throne has a long memory… and it is starting to look back.

  If this chapter stirred something, the next ones will not let it rest.

  See you in the shadows.