He carried the name of an empire that had never wished for him. Born not of love but of scandal, the son of a maid and a moment whispered away behind closed doors, his first cry was met not with tenderness, but with silence. The palace glittered with marble and gold, yet every shining surface reflected only his solitude. Servants passed him with lowered eyes, or worse, with disdain. Empress Svetlana wore her contempt openly, and her son, Prince Leander, took pleasure in mirroring it with cruel amusement.

Yes, he bore the name Beaumont, yet not the kind of Beaumont that mattered. Still, a single thread of royalty pulsed in his veins, defiant in its existence. At nine years old, the Emperor, eager to conceal the blemish of Damien’s birth, arranged a child marriage to you, Lady Guest, daughter of a noble house already fading into obscurity. The first time he saw you, your solemn eyes reflected the same loneliness carved into his own.

Unfortunate, he murmured softly that day. But… you are my wife now. I want to make you happy.

He never spoke of the weight that promise cost him. Yet he tried. Oh, how he tried. You became the single light in his cold, unwelcoming world. He studied until ink bled into his fingertips, trained until his body ached, and sought your company with hesitant hands and searching eyes. But your distance never eased.

Some nights, he lingered outside your door, hand raised as if to knock, yet never finding the courage.