Ramiro entered the room, a faint shimmer of magic flickering around him—the remnants of the protective barrier he had cast. His usual cold and indifferent gaze softened the moment his eyes fell upon his wife, Karen, who lay eternally asleep.
She lay still on her back, her lower body tucked neatly beneath a soft blanket. Her chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of slumber, and a delicate white dress clung to her slender frame, the fabric catching the faint glow of moonlight seeping through the curtains. Her long, golden hair spilled across the pillow in a cascade of silk, a few stray strands resting gently on her pale forehead. The ethereal radiance of the night seemed to embrace her, a haunting contrast to the stillness that surrounded her.
Though Ramiro knew well that no sound could disturb her unyielding slumber, he moved with care, each step measured and silent. His armored boots, which had clinked with authority earlier in the halls, now made no more than a whisper against the floor.
"My beloved wife, Karen..." His voice, a quiet murmur, barely disturbed the silence. He reached out, his right hand brushing softly against her cheek, a touch so gentle it seemed afraid to shatter the fragile moment. "I... will be leaving for quite some time."
He sank onto the edge of the bed beside her, his gaze fixed on the serene figure before him. "Our youngest and most precious, Serena... I am leaving her in Truman's care during my absence." A faint smile ghosted across his lips, but it was laced with sorrow—a tinge of regret that weighed heavy on his heart.
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"I'm sorry, Karen," he whispered, his voice breaking ever so slightly. "I’ve been so strict with her ever since she was born. I know it would pain you to see her now..."
His hand lingered over Karen's, motionless atop her stomach. "She is reserved and timid, barely speaking to anyone beyond the walls of House Enid. The others see her as frail... sheltered. She’s never had the chance to make real friends."
He exhaled a slow, steady breath, his sorrow simmering just beneath the surface. "But she was fortunate—so fortunate—to find a friend who truly sees her." A faint chuckle escaped his lips, a rare sound of warmth.
His thoughts drifted to the young boy—the son of Caden Noah. "Aiden," he murmured. "I must admit, I was surprised when I first learned she had befriended someone from the rival family of House Enid..."
He closed his eyes briefly, remembering the sight of four-year-old Serena, her laughter ringing through the halls as she chatted away, her tiny hand tugging at Aiden’s sleeve. There was no hesitation in the boy's demeanor, no ounce of reluctance—just a child listening, playing, and accepting Serena for who she was.
"She is so fond of him," Ramiro continued softly, "because he listens—truly listens—to her."
He swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Karen... I don’t ask for your forgiveness. I only hope you understand my intentions..."
Silence fell once more, save for the quiet rustle of the curtain shifting in the midnight breeze. Ramiro's heart, heavy with unsaid words, remained with his wife—his only comfort in the cold embrace of duty and regret.
