18. Graham
GRAHAM
T he bells ring loud across the kingdom.
Deep, commanding, final.
They echo through the castle walls, rolling over the hills and down into the streets where the people of Alveria have gathered, dressed in their finest, waiting to witness a new era.
Isaac has been crowned king.
The grand hall is filled to the brim—nobles and dignitaries standing in hushed reverence, their faces illuminated by the flickering golden glow of the chandeliers. The air is thick with the scent of burning incense and polished wood, with centuries of tradition pressing down on us.
At the center of it all, Isaac stands tall, draped in the deep royal blue of our house. A crown of gold and onyx now rests on his brow. The royal sigil—our family’s crest—has been fastened to the front of his ceremonial robe, heavy with meaning and responsibility.
I watch as he lifts his head, his shoulders squared, his expression unreadable as the High Chancellor makes the final declaration. I’ve forgotten just how tense coronations used to be. I shift a little, averting my gaze from my brother, who smiles and waves to his subjects.
“Long live King Isaac of Alveria!”
The entire hall erupts.
Thunderous applause. Voices raised in cheers. The sound of a new reign beginning.
My brother remains still for a fraction of a second longer; I know he’s letting it sink in, feeling the weight of the moment settle deep into his bones. Then, he finally exhales, stepping forward to greet the court, his movements deliberate and regal.
He was always meant for this.
He was always the one destined to rule.
And even though this was never meant to be my burden, I still feel the phantom weight of it pressing down on me as I slip out of the grand hall, away from the noise, away from the legacy I once ran from.
Later that evening, I sit in my father’s private study, my fingers curled around a glass of whiskey. The warmth does little to ease the tension in my chest.
The room hasn’t changed since I left, and it’s comforting that at least this remains the same.
The heavy mahogany desk still sits at the center, stacks of books and documents neatly arranged in perfect order. The fireplace crackles softly in the background, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. The scent of old parchment, leather, and aged bourbon lingers in the air, thick with nostalgia and something heavier.
The door creaks open behind me.
I already know it’s him before I turn. Considering how our first meeting ended, I brace myself for whatever Isaac has to say to me. Not like I don’t deserve it. I do.
Isaac steps inside, his presence just as imposing as ever, but there’s something different now. Something in the way he carries himself. The weight of the crown has settled on his shoulders, and it shows.
He closes the door and moves to the sideboard, pouring himself a drink before sitting across from me. For a while, neither of us spoke.
We just sit there, staring at each other, years of silence and distance hanging thick between us.
Finally, he exhales, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “They woke up today.”
I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around my glass.
I knew this already. I was outside their private ward when the doctors told us they had finally regained consciousness. But I haven’t seen them yet.
Because for seven years, I’ve wondered how they would look at me when this moment came.
Would they be relieved?
Angry?
Disappointed?
Isaac studies me carefully. “You should go see them.”
I let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over my face. “I don’t know if I can.”
His jaw clenches. “They asked for you.”
My heart stops.
He waits, giving me time to process that, to let the weight of those words crush me.
And then he sighs, leaning back slightly, his gaze still locked onto mine. “Look, I meant what I said before. You left, and you didn’t look back. I was hurt, Graham. I’m still hurt. You should have been here.”
“I know.” My voice is quiet. Raw. It’s the most honest thing I’ve said in a long time.
Isaac shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea what it was like? Watching them get older, watching the weight of the throne slowly break them down? Knowing they were waiting for you to come home, and you never did?”
Guilt slams into me like a freight train.
Isaac’s voice drops lower, quieter. “They never stopped asking about you.”
My chest aches. I grip the armrest of my chair, my fingers digging into the worn leather as I stare at the flickering flames in the fireplace.
I knew this conversation was coming. I knew the moment I stepped back into the castle that I’d have to face the truth—that I left, and they still waited for me.
Isaac exhales heavily, rubbing his fingers over his temple. “You think you were the only one who felt suffocated, Graham? You think I didn’t feel it, too? The pressure, the expectations, the constant weight of having to be enough?” His voice tightens, edged with something sharp. “The difference is, I stayed.”
I swallow, my throat thick with guilt. “I never wanted to abandon you.”
His jaw clenches. “Then why did you?”
I look down at my drink, the amber liquid swirling under the dim light. I don’t have an answer that will make any of this better.
“I couldn’t breathe here,” I admit. “Everywhere I turned, it was just… duty. Obligation. Expectations. I had to be perfect. I had to be someone I wasn’t.” I shake my head. “So I left. I chose myself.”
Isaac scoffs, slowly sipping his whiskey before setting the glass down with a quiet thud. “Yeah? And how’s that working out for you?”
I flinch. Because the truth? I don’t know anymore.
For years, I thought I had found peace in Bardstown. That leaving the castle, my family, my entire identity behind was the right choice. But standing here now, in this study—our father’s study—I feel the ghost of everything I walked away from pressing in on me.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I regret it.
Or if I regret that I let so much time pass.
Isaac shakes his head, letting out a bitter chuckle. “You know what’s funny? You ran as far as you could from this life, from this family, from all of it. But when things fell apart, when the world started closing in—” he gestures vaguely toward me, his expression unreadable— “you still came back.”
I don’t say anything. Because he’s right.
I did come back.
And I’m still here.
Silence stretches between us, long and heavy, until finally, Isaac sighs and leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “They need you, Graham.” His voice is quieter now, with less anger and more exhaustion. “I know you don’t want to hear that, but it’s the truth. You need to see them.”
I close my eyes for half a second before forcing myself to stand. My legs feel heavy, my chest even more so, but I nod.
“Okay,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Isaac watches me for a long moment before nodding back. Then he stands, draining the rest of his drink before clapping a hand on my shoulder as he moves toward the door.
Just before he steps out, he pauses. “You weren’t the only one drowning, you know.” He exhales, his shoulders rising and falling. “But at least now, I know how to swim.”
And with that, he leaves me alone in the study, staring at the empty doorway, feeling like I’ve just been split open from the inside out.
Because the truth is, I don’t know if I ever learned how to swim at all.
The walk to my parents’ private wing feels longer than it should.
The hallway is eerily quiet, save for the faint flicker of torches lining the walls. My pulse pounds in my ears, my footsteps too loud, my breath shallow.
I stop outside the heavy wooden door, staring at the carved crest above it—the same crest I used to see on every document, every letterhead, every royal decree. The same crest that once defined my entire existence.
I lift a hand to knock, hesitate.
Then, before I can second-guess myself, I push the door open.
The room is dimly lit, and the curtains are drawn to filter in only the softest glow of moonlight. My parents are lying in their grand four-poster bed.
For the first time in seven years, I see them.
My mother looks frail but peaceful, her hands folded gently over the silk blanket, her chest rising and falling in steady breaths. My father, always a towering force of power, looks smaller somehow, as if the weight of everything has finally caught up to him.
A lump forms in my throat.
My mother stirs first. Her eyes flutter open, hazy at first, then sharpening when they land on me. For a second, she stares as if she’s afraid I might disappear if she blinks.
Then, in the quietest, most broken voice I’ve ever heard from her, she whispers?—
“Graham?”
My entire body locks up.
Her lips tremble. Her eyes glisten. And before I can stop myself, before I can think, I’m at her bedside, sinking into the chair beside her.
“Hello, Mother,” I say, my voice wrecked.
She lifts a trembling hand, and I catch it, pressing my fingers over hers. They feel smaller than I remember, delicate like she’s made of glass.
Tears slip down her cheeks. “You came home.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I did.”
My father shifts beside her, a low groan escaping him as his eyes slowly open. The moment he sees me, his entire body stills.
The last time we spoke, it wasn’t kind.
The last time we saw each other, I was walking away.
But now, lying in that bed, looking at me with something unspoken, something I don’t have the strength to decipher, he lets out a shaky breath and rasps?—
“Welcome back, son.”
And just like that, something inside me breaks.
D inner feels surreal.
I never thought I’d be sitting at this table again, surrounded by my family, sharing a meal like no time had passed. But it has. The weight of seven years lingers in the quiet moments, in the pauses between words, in the way my father’s gaze flickers toward me like he’s still adjusting to the fact that I’m here.
The dining hall is just as I remember it—towering ceilings, gilded chandeliers casting a golden glow over the long oak table, and walls lined with centuries of history. The royal crest is embroidered into the deep blue table runner, and silver cutlery gleams under the light. It’s all so familiar, yet I feel like a visitor in my own home.
The meal is a feast—herb-roasted lamb, buttery potatoes, and fresh bread still warm from the castle ovens. The chefs went all out, likely because they knew I’d be joining. It’s a reminder that even though I left, people still notice my absence.
I sip my wine, listening as my mother asks Isaac about the coronation.
“Everything went smoothly,” Isaac says, his voice calm, measured. He’s always been like that—steady, reliable, unshakable. “The council was pleased. The people seem reassured.”
My father nods approvingly. “As they should be. A strong transition is vital for the stability of the throne.”
I glance at my brother, at the way he carries himself now—not just as Isaac, but as King Isaac. The title suits him, though I can’t help but wonder how heavy it must feel.
I keep mostly quiet, taking in the conversation, the easy way they all slip back into routine. It’s strange being here again, knowing I’m a part of this family, but also knowing I’ve been away for too long to fit seamlessly back in.
Still, it’s… nice.
Nice to sit here, share a meal, hear my mother laugh softly at something Isaac says, and watch my father’s sharp expression soften, if only slightly.
But underneath it all, there’s a tension in my chest that won’t settle.
Because no matter how much I try to stay present, my mind keeps drifting.
And, of course, my mother notices.
She sets down her fork and studies me carefully. “Something is troubling you, darling.”
It’s not a question—it never is with her.
I exhale, rubbing my thumb against the rim of my glass before finally looking up. “I left someone behind.”
The table falls silent.
My mother tilts her head slightly, her keen eyes locking onto mine. “Someone important?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “The most important.”
Isaac raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “So that’s what’s got you looking like a man with a death sentence.”
I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head. “If I don’t get back soon… I might lose her forever.”
My father, who has remained mostly silent, finally speaks. “Then why are you still here?”
I shift in my seat, my chest tightening. “I needed to see you all first.” I pause, glancing between them. “And I needed to say… I’m sorry.”
My father’s expression remains unreadable, but my mother’s face softens immediately.
I clear my throat, gripping the edges of the table. “I shouldn’t have cut off communication. I left, and I never looked back, and I—” My voice wavers, but I push through it. “I should have done better. I should have been better.”
My mother reaches across the table and places her hand over mine. Her touch is warm and steady, filled with the kind of love that has never wavered, even after all these years. “You’re here now,” she says softly. That’s what matters.”
I shake my head. “I can’t promise I’ll be here all the time.” My gaze flickers to my father, then Isaac. “But I swear—I’ll do better.”
A beat of silence.
Then my father nods. Just once. Just enough.
Isaac smirks slightly, swirling his wine. “About time.”
The heaviness in my chest eases just a little.
Dinner continues after that. The conversation is lighter, and the tension is not entirely gone, but it is less suffocating. I tell them about Bardstown, about the life I built away from the castle, and for the first time in years, I feel like they actually see me—not just as a prince, not just as an obligation, but as me.
Eventually, the plates are cleared, and the night winds down. My mother hugs me tightly before I leave, her fingers lingering on my arm. “Come back soon, my love.”
My father clasps my shoulder, his grip firm but warmer than I expected. “Be well, son.”
Isaac follows me to the entrance, watching as I grab my bag. “Try not to screw it up with her, yeah?” His voice is teasing, but there’s something genuine beneath it.
I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head.
Because he’s right.
I have unfinished business in Bardstown.
I need to make things right with Sophie.