The church bells tolled across London that morning, heavy with mourning.
The war had ended three years ago, but the city still wore its grief like a second skin—broken streets, empty windows, and faces that no longer smiled the same.
Inside Westminster Hall, hundreds gathered for the royal memorial. Flags hung solemnly from the high rafters, their colors muted by the gray light filtering through stained glass. A string quartet played "Abide With Me"—a melody both beautiful and unbearable.
Evelyn Hartley stood among the crowd, her gloved hands clenched tightly around a folded paper. Her father's name—General Arthur Hartley—should have been etched among the honored dead.
But it wasn't.
She had searched the marble wall three times already, tracing her fingers over every line of carved letters. Nothing.
The country that had used her father, betrayed him, and let him die in disgrace now dared to celebrate victory without him.
Her voice trembled as she spoke under her breath, "You will not be forgotten, Father… even if your country tries to erase you."
A voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Miss Hartley?"
She turned sharply—and found herself staring at a tall man in a dark navy uniform. The golden insignia on his chest gleamed faintly under the light. His face was calm, almost too composed, but his eyes—gray as a storm at sea—held something unreadable.
"Your Highness," she said coldly, bowing slightly. "I did not realize the royal family still took interest in the soldiers they abandoned."
Prince Edward Lancaster's jaw tightened, but he didn't turn away. "You speak boldly, Miss Hartley. Few would dare address me so."
"Few have lost what I have."
A quiet moment passed between them—sharp and fragile. Around them, the crowd continued its quiet weeping, but neither moved.
Edward studied her, seeing more than he should have—her fire, her defiance, and the pain behind her composure.
"I read your father's records," he said finally. "He was a hero."
Evelyn's heart twisted. "Then why is his name not here?"
Edward didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked up at the marble wall, at the hundreds of names gleaming under candlelight. "Because sometimes," he said softly, "truth is buried with the dead."
Their eyes met—hers burning with anger, his shadowed with guilt.
And in that single heartbeat, Evelyn realized something she didn't want to feel:
Pity.
Not for the prince, but for the man trapped behind the crown.
When the final bell tolled, Edward turned to leave, then paused. "Miss Hartley," he said quietly, "there are things you deserve to know. Come to the palace tomorrow at noon."
She wanted to refuse. To walk away.
But something in his voice—something fragile and human—made her nod instead.
As the prince walked down the aisle, soldiers and nobles bowed deeply. Evelyn stood straight, unmoving, her heart torn between hate and curiosity.
Outside, the rain began to fall.
The city wept again, and so did she.