Chapter Nine: A Smiling Letter
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The night slowly descended upon the great palace, while the child sat in his spacious room, half reclining on his velvet couch, a book open on his knees and a small pair of glasses resting on his thin face. The atmosphere was so quiet that the ticking of the clock sounded like repeated knocks on the wall of his silence.
The guard broke that stillness. He advanced with measured steps, bowed slightly, then whispered:
" Young master… the deputy director requests to see you."
The child lifted his green eyes from the book. He slowly removed the glasses, placed them on the pages, then said in a calm yet resentful voice:
" At this hour?"
The irritation in his tone was not because he hated the man, but because he hated being pulled away from his solitude.
At last he rose, leaving it to the servants to dress him and prepare his way. His steps echoed through the gleaming corridor, the tall walls reflecting his small shadow. Everything around him seemed grander than he needed, wider than befitted his age, as if the palace itself was trying to compensate for an absence no one dared to name.
In the reception room, the door opened with the usual ceremony, and his entrance was announced. He sat down slowly, while the servants placed an ornate tea set before him. He raised the cup quietly, took a small sip, then looked at the man waiting for him.
" What news?"
The deputy director smiled respectfully and answered in a low voice:
" A new financial transfer has been sent to the school."
The child's brow lifted slightly. He needed no explanation; there was only one person who sent such funds—the one who represented his only family.
He said coldly:
" And why now? Did you request this?"
The man replied after sipping a little tea:
" They are the dues for the coming semester."
The child remained silent for a moment, as though numbers rang in his mind, before he asked:
" How much did they pay?"
"Nine million Orel, and eight thousand Valor."
The child nodded slowly. The number was not shocking to him, yet it always seemed larger than his needs, as though his wealth tried to outrun his age.
On the other hand, the figure was shocking, for it equaled half a year's income for a wealthy family. This was a private academy under the protection of the most powerful organizations and states. And this particular state dealt in a strong currency—Orel.
" Are these all the dues?"
The man shook his head and continued:
" No, your meal card has been credited with one million Orel, in addition to the payment of club fees, external activities, and everything the academy has planned for this year."
The child turned the cup between his fingers, then said flatly:
"Well then… did they leave me anything else?"
The deputy director produced a small letter, carefully folded, and handed it to him with respect before excusing himself and leaving.
The child remained alone, the letter in his hands. He returned slowly to his room, lit the lamp, sat at the edge of his bed, and opened the paper.
Few lines, yet heavier than any amount of money:
"I hope you are well. Study hard and do not slacken. Do not worry about money, your brother will take care of everything. I will visit you soon… so stay well until I see you."
He read it twice. He smiled—not at what was written, but at the way his brother wrote, that simplicity that never tried to adorn itself.
He closed the letter, placed it near his pillow, and lay back with ease. For the first time that night, a calm smile overtook him before he closed his eyes and fell asleep with a lighter heart.
— In another place —
Voices rose.
Boards were lifted.
Lights flared.
They shone upon an alluring painting.
Everyone sought to claim it.
And in the end, the Raivorn family won it.
Not because they came for it,
but simply because it pleased them.
It was striking, captivating the eyes.
And since they were there, they bought it.
Then they left after acquiring their belongings.
—
"Father, where did you get it from?"
Aurélien walked calmly toward the living room.
He sat in his special seat beside his wife, Faileth.
Ashen sat opposite them.
"Father, didn't you go on business?"
The father leaned his face against his hand, sighed deeply, and studied his son.
"I bought it on the way."
Ashen spoke.
No—he pleaded.
His tone was soft, almost poetic.
"Let me have it, please, Father."
The father raised an eyebrow slightly,
watching his child's restless movements,
while the mother pressed her lips together.
She did not know the matter,
but a feeling told her the issue went beyond the two of them.
She looked at the painting.
She saw it.
And before her son could plead to the painting,
she gasped in astonishment.
She smiled, glanced at her son, and asked:
"Is this his second work?"
It was an extension of the previous conversation.
Ashen had once explained that there was only one known piece.
So she wondered—was this his second work?
How did she realize it?
One could say it was her sense as a good mother.
And what confirmed her conviction was the painting's allure,
a sacred piece that seemed to have descended upon them from nowhere.
"The second one?"
The father asked, unaware of the subject.
Ashen nodded, affirming his mother's words.
"Father, I'll do anything—just give it to me."
The father looked and studied his child.
Since the opportunity had come, he decided to seize it.
He pretended to think for a moment,
stroking his chin lightly,
his brows furrowing,
holding back a stray breath.
He straightened his posture and looked at his son.
"Return to your university and finish your interrupted studies."
Ashen was stunned by the words.
He tilted his head in puzzlement,
his eyes wide in disbelief.
He had not expected his father to make such a demand.
But he quickly recovered.
He brushed aside the hair falling over his face,
a radiant smile spreading across his lips,
and spoke in a cheerful voice:
"Give it here, now."
Instead of answering, he took the painting from his father.
He unveiled it fully and gazed at it.
He inhaled its scent.
It was incredibly sweet, ancient.
It recalled the atmosphere of an old library,
the fragrance of beloved books.
Yes—
it resembled the sweetness hidden among dusty tomes.
He breathed it in gently,
as though it were his very life,
his very air.
And he smiled—
a smile long absent.
He was so happy that he forgot his parents' presence.
He simply rested his forehead against the painting,
as if laying it upon another person.
He inhaled more deeply.
How could he not recognize that fragrance?
It was the scent of his only love.
He realized he had lingered too long.
So he pulled away.
"Thank you, Father."
He thanked his father and quickly left for his room,
to continue an unfinished ritual—
a ritual welcoming the arrival of his beloved's supreme art.
He gave his parents no chance to speak.
And as Ashen's shadow vanished like lightning,
Aurélien quietly turned,
gently drew Faileth into his lap.
She sat upon him.
He stroked her back slowly, tenderly,
kissed her forehead softly,
and buried himself against her.
He spoke in a hoarse voice,
his words breaking between strands of her hair:
"What's this about a second one?"
He asked the reason.
And Faileth did not refuse—
neither his embrace and caresses,
nor telling him the truth.
So she recounted what had happened,
adding her own conjectures,
while enjoying the delicate affection of her husband.
---
The sun set and rose again,
and nearly set once more—
and Noya had not moved from his room.
His fever did not subside,
despite all the suppressants and injections he had taken.
Even the cold compresses were useless.
He did not know the reason.
Or perhaps he pretended not to.
In either case, he did not wish to reveal what was inside him.
He did not leave his room.
He barely rose from the bed to change the water in the small basin before him.
"Ahhh… hhhhhh—"
Each time he tried to breathe,
a cry escaped his lips,
like a beast longing for release,
like a beast whose mating season had come but had found no partner.
He growled with every breath.
He panted heavily whenever he tried to move even a little.
His eyes darkened severely,
his face distorted with fever,
like a rotting sickness spreading across his skin.
Yet still he struggled to hold onto consciousness.
But his determination and will to endure always shattered here.
And this time was among his hardest, most violent fits.
"Haahh—"
He barely let out a weak sigh.
He twisted in pain,
yet he did not scream.
Still, his scent escaped against his will.
He cursed it.
Truly, he was in full heat—
like any Omega radiating an enticing fragrance
that could drive any Alpha mad.
He barely controlled it.
And now, he was losing that control.
He tried to resist,
but it was useless.
"Ahh… ahh—"
He stifled his cries,
for he knew what words would escape his lips if he continued.
He did not want to remember him.
He did not want to cling to that name.
"Ahh… Ash—"
He began to beg for the pain to stop.
His insides churned, pressed against him.
His heart urged him to confess what he hid.
Noya writhed like a crawling insect.
He clenched the sheets violently.
His scent scattered everywhere.
His clothes were disheveled.
He drowned in sweat and cold water.
He grasped at his heart fiercely, refusing to yield.
Yet he was defeated.
He called out as his eyes darkened,
barely able to open them.
All that surrounded him was darkness.
He drowned in it—
while crying out the only name that could save him,
his rescuer, his sole salvation,
the only one who could take this torment away.
"Ashen… Ashen…"
His voice was hoarse, broken,
like a beast on the verge of death.
He was in agony, in sorrow,
because he could not forget the one he loved—
the only one he had fought so hard to overcome.
And this time he knew.
It was nearly impossible to defeat himself and his own soul—
the self and the soul that had loved Ashen
with a love that went beyond all boundaries.
Noya curled up tightly, panting heavily,
as tears streaked his beautiful lashes like a calm stream,
a gentle river beginning to flow.
The pressure eased only when he admitted—
that he longed for his beloved.
And in that terrible torment,
that violated him with all its strength,
the call for his lover's name was his only hope for survival.
Even knowing he would not come,
still he continued,
until he lost consciousness,
his vocal cords torn from crying out too much.
Once again, Noya's hope was shattered.
He found no partner at his side.
There was never one to begin with.
He fell asleep after a struggle with fever and emotion.
And he ended up losing both—
and losing himself to illusions.
He awoke the next day to unbearable chaos.
"I couldn't forget you."
He rubbed his face harshly with his hands,
as if trying to erase memory itself—
but he could not.
His hands traced slowly, sensitively across his lips.
Then he leaned his head upon his knees,
burying tears that almost fell from his eyes.
Yet he did not cry.
Not because he willed it,
but because he could not.
He had long since dried up,
like a tree at the edge of death.
"I really missed you."
He spoke to himself,
aware that after a while,
he would blame the lingering heat,
as if he had never spoken the words.
He rose and entered the bathroom.
He remembered that his spouse's elder brother would be visiting today.
He tidied the room and erased the traces of fever,
only to sigh each time he saw the mess he had caused.
"I don't need you, nor do I need anyone else."
And as expected,
Noya returned to hating his mate,
denying his longing.
And that was precisely what would hurt him
even more than he already was.
And through it, he would wound Ashen as well.
He put on comfortable clothes,
trying to rid himself of the lingering scent before stepping out.
He walked down the stairs and went to the living room.
He found the family seated at the table with a new guest.
Noya observed him lightly, deliberately,
then averted his gaze.
He moved calmly toward his seat.
"Good morning."
A customary morning courtesy.
The mother smiled at the child's presence,
speaking in a tone so gentle, unblemished:
"How are you, are you well?"
"I'm fine, the fever's gone."
"That's good."
Noya nodded slightly.
"Thank you. Thanks to you I was able to rest well."
Noya implied that no one had come to him during his days of fever—
it must have been the lady who arranged it.
"No matter, sit down and eat."
Noya sat and began eating his food,
heedless of the thoughts around him.
The mother glanced lightly, sighing.
It was not that she forbade them from approaching.
Rather, the aura Noya released,
combined with his scent,
had been deadly.
An aura heavy with murderous intent.
Just nearing the stairs to his floor
was enough to choke you,
make you lose balance.
So she had been forced to change the servants
and forbid passage beyond that point—
not because they would intrude upon Noya's room,
but so they would not fall ill from his aura.
Even she still felt a coldness at the base of her spine from that cursed aura.
When she remembered it,
a swift shudder wrapped around her bones.
From another angle,
the new guest observed everything.
He missed not a single detail,
studying it all carefully, objectively—
exactly befitting his seat as heir of the family.
--- in other home ---
The long fingers touched the edges of the painting gently,
then embraced it warmly.
Ashen's eyes darkened with suppressed sorrow.
He had felt a strong scent from the painting,
and since he sensed it so intensely,
it could only mean one thing.
"Haah…"
He let out a sorrowful breath.
His brows furrowed slightly,
his lips pressed into a frown,
yet he did not let go of the painting.
He closed his eyes and imagined the figure.
He opened his mouth slowly,
as if unwilling to confess his testimony,
afraid that someone might confirm to him that it was true.
Quietly, with grief:
"Were you painting this while in heat?"
"Why did you do this to yourself, Noya?"
"Why, my love…"
Ashen pleaded in a slow voice,
not knowing how to explain his feelings.
He had recognized from the fragrant scent
that his beloved had been in heat,
and that pained his heart even more.
How could his beloved have painted in such a state?
Surely, he must have been suffering,
unable to express his emotions.
Surely, he had begged alone in the darkness.
When Ashen thought of this,
he closed his eyes,
imagining again the image of his beloved struggling amidst the heat,
his mind clouded by it,
yet still clutching his brush, painting this very piece.
"Ahh, my love…"
"Were you always tormenting yourself this way?"
Just imagining it made Ashen's heart tighten.
It left him bewildered,
unaware of how deeply the flood of emotions drowned him.
He no longer knew what to do.
He was unsettled.
"Haah… haah…"
His breaths came uneven,
unable to find the words to describe his state.
He could not bear to part from him.
And the other seemed the same.
For Ashen knew Noya better than anyone.
No—Ashen had loved Noya, studied him,
understood him inch by inch,
touch by touch.
No one in the world knew Noya more than Ashen did—
not even Noya's own parents.
Thus he realized instinctively,
from a single touch,
from a simple lingering scent,
that his beloved was in a wretched state—
his emotions suppressed,
a fever ravaging him.
Yet still he painted,
trying through it to forget the pain.
Ashen opened his eyes and embraced the painting tighter.
His broad shoulders shook violently.
His chest constricted again and again.
He tried to calm himself,
but his rising emotions refused to obey,
like a dam struggling desperately to hold back a flood.
"Ahhh…"
A hot breath escaped between his lips,
declaring how hard it was to control himself.
The scent had already provoked his instincts,
and it seemed this simple act
would bring his rut earlier than expected.
And since his beloved was suffering,
he would suffer as well.
How could he choose another Omega
while his own beloved painted despite his condition?
How could he accept the comfort his parents offered him
while knowing how much his partner endured?
Thus Ashen's resolve grew stronger—
to search for Noya,
to mend their abandoned bond,
and to remain faithful in his pain until they returned to one another.
For he desired no further misunderstandings.