I died in my wife’s courtyard, forced to give my lifeblood for her childhood love. Before my last breath, my five-year-old son Ethan begged Queen Eleanor three times to save me. First, Ethan rushed in, saying I was coughing blood. She sneered, "He’s teaching the boy to lie," and had him removed. Second, Ethan pounded on her door, crying I was convulsing. She scoffed, "It’s just a little blood, not his heart," and sent him away. Third, Ethan knelt, forehead to the ground, pleading I was unconscious. Enraged, Eleanor yanked him up, tore his clothes, and threw him out. "Your father won’t die! Disturb me again, and I’ll dump him in a pauper’s grave!" Desperate, Ethan traded his princely amulet to a beggar for a healer. But Marcus Thorne, Eleanor’s lover, intercepted the healer, smirking, "Your father sent all healers to my kennels for my dogs. He’ll have to wait." 1 To stop the last healer, my son had cried and pleaded before Marcus Thorne. The boy who had once refused to acknowledge Marcus's existence now called him "Uncle Marcus" with every breath. He cast aside all his pride, willingly kneeling before the man. "Uncle Marcus, I beg you, please let a healer tend to my father." He spoke between agonizing thumps of his head against the ground. Blood stained the flagstones, only sweetening Marcus's mood. He chuckled, stroking the small dog in his arms, a triumphant grin on his face. "Look at this. Our little Lord. Even more obedient than my own dog." He paused, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Come on, bark for me." My son stiffened, tears mixing with fresh blood as they hit the dirt. "Woof." The servants present burst into laughter, their scornful gazes raking over my son's small, trembling body. "Calling himself a Lord? He's worse than a street urchin!" "Shh! Don't be foolish! If the Queen hears you, do you want to lose your head?" "What does it matter? Everyone in the capital knows the Queen only cares for Lord Marcus. Haven't you noticed the Lord Heir is five years old and still doesn't even have a proper name?" Hearing the servants' whispers, Marcus's smugness grew. He sneered, then turned and walked away, leaving my son kneeling in despair, his body trembling uncontrollably. I lay in my sickbed, as if sensing something, and convulsed, spitting out a mouthful of blood. The door creaked open. "I'm sorry, Father. Your son is useless. I couldn't find a healer." Ethan came to my bedside, clumsily trying to wipe the blood from my lips, his eyes frighteningly swollen. But I could no longer see clearly. Through my blurring vision, I knew: I was dying. I wouldn't live to see my child grow up. To spare him my dying sight, I summoned my last ounce of strength, forcing a smile, and sent him away. "Father wants some almond pastries from the bakery down the street. Will you go buy some for him, please?" My son froze for a few seconds, as if realizing something, and shook his head violently. "No, I won't go. I'll stay with you, Father. Please don't make me leave." He gripped my hand tightly, as if he intended to shed every tear he possessed in that moment. Swallowing the bloody foam in my mouth, I feigned anger. "Are you disobeying your father? Buy the almond pastries, and Father will eat them with you." Seeing my feigned anger, my son no longer insisted. He quickly wiped away his tears and agreed. "Okay, I'll go buy them right now. Father, wait for me. You must wait for me." As he stepped out of the room, I used my last breath to shout. "Ethan!" Meeting his confused gaze, I explained. "Father has given you a name." "From now on, you shall be called Ethan. It means bright and upright." "Father hopes you will be righteous, healthy, and... forever joyful." My son turned, his expression panicked. "Father..." My consciousness began to blur. I bit hard on my lip, a bloody smile touching my lips. "Go now. Father will wait for your return." My son seemed relieved and ran off with hurried steps. As his figure vanished, I closed my eyes. "Ethan, I'm sorry, Father lied to you." 2 When I opened my eyes again, I found myself a spirit, following my son out of the Royal Palace. "Waiter! Waiter! I want some almond pastries!" My son clutched the server's sleeve, calling out anxiously. Seeing my son's disheveled face, the server irritably waved him off, shooing him away. "Go on, scram, you little street urchin! Is this any place for the likes of you?" Other customers in the shop covered their noses, looking at him as if he were a pile of refuse. "Exactly. Look where you are. What kind of person dares to waltz in here?" "Filthy!" The server, hearing the customers, quickly offered a few appeasing smiles, then brutally twisted my son's ear. "You little rascal! Get out!" My son cried out in pain. "I'm the Royal Heir! My father is sick, and I need to buy him almond pastries!" Everyone froze, then burst into laughter. The server put his hands on his hips and spat directly at my son's face. "You? Ha! I spit on you!" "Go on, take a look in a puddle. See if anything on your body resembles a noble child! If you're the Royal Heir, then I'm your great-grandfather! Now get out, out, out!" He then forcibly ejected my son from the shop. My son wiped the grime from his face, trying to go back inside, but the server kicked him hard in the stomach. The pain made him unable to rise. Just as despair washed over him, a hand suddenly reached out. "Child, are you alright?" A young woman carefully brushed the dust from my son's clothes, her voice full of concern. "Mother..." My son instinctively called out, seeing the woman's tall figure. Then, realizing his mistake, he mumbled a thank you. The woman waved her hand, then pulled out a packet of almond pastries and offered them to my son. Perhaps having endured too many indignities that day, faced with a stranger's kindness, my son's eyes suddenly welled up. Clutching the oiled paper bag, he bowed repeatedly. "Thank you, madam." The woman, a little embarrassed, replied, "No need to thank me. This packet of almond pastries isn't even mine." "It's from Queen Eleanor. To celebrate the Prince Consort's recovery, she's been distributing food and pastries outside the city. I just happened to get one." "If you truly wish to thank someone, then wish Queen Eleanor and the Prince Consort a long and loving life together." My son stiffened, the memory of Eleanor dragging him from the main hall flashing in his mind. Then, the images he'd witnessed: Eleanor forcing Father to offer his vital essence. His eyes gradually dimmed. "I understand. Thank you... Queen Eleanor." My heart felt a hundred times more painful than the moment it had been pierced. I watched my son's desolate expression and remembered the past. In truth, Eleanor once loved me and our son dearly. On the day of his birth, she risked both our lives to bear a child of my bloodline. When I was cornered by the Crown Prince, she fearlessly stormed into the East Palace, her eyes blazing, and brought me back to our home. She even whispered to me on her birthday that her wish was for our family to never be separated. But all of that ended the day Marcus Thorne returned to the capital. He leveraged his childhood bond with Eleanor, repeatedly feigning helplessness and innocence to gain her sympathy. Then, he deliberately poisoned himself, framing me and our son, causing Eleanor to completely turn her back on us. From that moment on, everything changed. On the street, the young woman nodded approvingly and asked, "By the way, where is your mother? How could she let you run off alone?" My son froze, about to speak, when a gentle male voice sounded from behind them. "My dear." A tall, young man, holding a boy about my son's age, smiled and called out. "It's getting late. We should head home." "Mom, let's go home," the boy said, clutching a candied hawthorn stick, his smile innocent and lively. The woman hummed in acknowledgment and hurried to walk between the two, one hand holding the man's, the other the child's, gradually receding into the distance. It wasn't until their figures completely vanished that my son slowly withdrew his envious gaze. He looked at the almond pastries in his hand and finished the sentence he couldn't before. "My mother... she died." 3 After bidding farewell to the kind stranger, my son hurried back to the Royal Palace, clutching the almond pastries. But just as he entered the gate, he collided with a casually strolling Marcus Thorne. Marcus recoiled, a look of instant disgust flashing across his defined features, and raised his hand, delivering a harsh slap to my son's face. "You filthy mongrel! Who gave you the right to touch me?" My son, caught off guard, stumbled and fell. Blood quickly welled up at the corner of his mouth, and the oiled paper bag in his arms flew from his grasp. Ignoring the pain, my son scrambled to retrieve it. But Marcus wasn't satisfied. He grabbed my son's hair, forcing his eyes open. "Just as I thought, a bastard like your useless father, always playing the victim." "I'm warning you, stop putting on that pathetic act. If the Queen sees it, I won't spare you, understand?" His eyes were cruel, as if he wished my son would simply vanish. I was driven to a frenzy of my own, frantically trying to pull his hand away, but it was all useless. Self-reproach and powerlessness choked me, yet Marcus only smiled wider, a look of triumph on his face. He motioned for a servant to open the spilled paper bag on the ground. Seeing this, my son immediately began to struggle. "Those are for Father! You can't touch them! Give them back!" At the word "Father," Marcus's face darkened. He raised his foot and kicked my son directly in the stomach, making him cough up a mouthful of blood. "What 'father'? From now on, I'm your father!" With that, he poured all the almond pastries onto the ground and ground them underfoot, repeatedly. Witnessing this, my son's eyes instantly reddened. He bit Marcus hard, thinking he could make him stop. Marcus cried out in pain and ordered the servants to lift my son. He unfastened the jade pendant from his waist, shoved it into my son's mouth, and repeatedly stabbed at it. "You filthy mongrel, I'll teach you to bite!" Blood quickly stained my son's clothes. He thrashed in agony, like a fish dying on land. "Mmmph... Father... save me..." My heart shattered. I furiously clawed at Marcus, like a madman, wanting him to let go. Let go of my Ethan! It was no use. I then knelt on the ground, kowtowing repeatedly to Marcus. You want my lifeblood? Take it! You want the Prince Consort's title? It's yours! I'll give you anything, just please, don't hurt my child! Marcus couldn't hear me. He only admired the growing wounds around my son's mouth, laughing heartily. As he basked in his triumph, a gentle female voice suddenly sounded from behind him. "Marcus?" Eleanor's disbelieving voice startled everyone present. My son's unfocused eyes suddenly brightened, his lips moving. "Mother..." Eleanor's expression tightened. She started to walk over, but Marcus, turning, drew her into his embrace, stopping her. "Eleanor, why did you take so long?" He subtly motioned for the servants to block my son from view, then expertly held Eleanor close. Eleanor sensed something was wrong and frowned. "What are you doing?" Marcus's eyes flickered, and he put on a vulnerable expression. "You weren't here just now. The Heir, I don't know who provoked him, but he kept insulting me, and... he even deliberately tripped me. You know, my body is just recovering from the poison. The healers said..." Eleanor's face darkened, and the confusion in her eyes instantly morphed into furious disappointment. "Arthur Blackwood truly knows less and less how to raise a child!" "With a father like him, it's no wonder the Heir is so unruly." With that, she turned and swept out. I stood in front of Eleanor, explaining frantically. No, it's not like that. Ethan is very well-behaved. Marcus is lying to you! Don't abandon my Ethan, don't abandon him! My son heard her words too, and, despite the pain, called out, "Mother!" But as soon as the word left his lips, a servant clapped a hand over his mouth. Eleanor paused, her back to us, wanting to turn around. "Did the Heir call for me?" A flash of malice crossed Marcus's eyes, then he feigned letting go of Eleanor's hand. "Then go be with the Heir. I'm fine. Even if he did poison me and almost kept me from seeing you again, he's still a child. I forgive him." "Eleanor, go to him. Don't worry about me." Hearing that, Eleanor's momentary hesitation instantly solidified into resolve. "An unpolished gem is useless. Since Arthur Blackwood can't teach him manners, Marcus, you help me teach him well." "Save him from being lawless and bringing shame upon me." "I'll wait for you in the annex." Watching her retreating back, the light in my son's eyes gradually faded, until only a dead silence remained. Marcus smugly curled his lips, walked over to my son, and looked at him with feigned pity. "See? Your mother doesn't even want you." "How pathetic."
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