CHAPTER 465: ’THE MOST CAPTIVATING GREEN EYES.’

"What am I going to tell Mother...?"

Hendrix’s footsteps echoed softly through the gilded corridors of the Diamond Palace as he left the ballroom, each step feeling heavier than the last.

The weight in his chest refused to lift.

He’d expected resistance from Heinz—he always did—but some part of him, stubborn and foolish, had held on to the hope that after all these years, his brother’s hatred might have dulled. That maybe, just maybe, time had softened him.

But no.

He had been wrong.

Painfully wrong.

It was disappointing... crushing, even. But could he truly blame his brother?

He thought not.

Still, Hendrix didn’t want to give up—not when his mother’s kingdom still teetered on the edge of ruin. Yet choice had been ripped from him.

Heinz’s words were final, cold and sharp as a blade: If you come back, I will have you and your mother killed.

That left Hendrix with only one path—to find another way to save her people.

He stopped walking.

Something glistened on the marble floor beneath him, faint in the light spilling from the tall crystal windows.

Water.

He frowned at it in confusion—until the truth hit him.

"Oh..."

He was crying.

The realization almost startled him. Hendrix rarely cried; he’d always been the one to keep a straight face, even in pain. For most of his life, he had been happy. There had been no room for tears.

He hadn’t even cried at his father’s funeral. Perhaps he’d never had the chance to process it—not then, not in the whirlwind that followed, not even during the years of solitude in the manor with his mother.

But now... now it was different.

"Fuck." His voice cracked as he swiped at his cheeks, only to find the tears refusing to stop.

He remembered being a boy, tripping over his own feet while running in the palace gardens, scraping his knees and crying openly. His father had been there in an instant, lifting him into his arms with warm, steady hands.

"Hendrix, princes don’t cry. Crying is a sign of weakness, and it’s important people don’t see you as weak, so they don’t see you as an easy target."

Yet the lecture had always been softened—followed by afternoons where his father and mother would sit with him among the roses, pouring tea, laughing, giving him every one of his favorite treats.

That garden had been a place his father built just for them.

And now, it felt like a distant dream.

"Ah... really..." Hendrix’s shoulders shook as another sob broke free. His voice trembled. "How am I going to tell Mother this news...?"

The thought alone made his chest ache.

It would shatter her.

Hendrix felt his chest tighten at the thought—it was as if the very air around him pressed in. The idea alone was enough to make his heart ache, but there was nothing left for him to do.

This was their punishment.

Their repentance.

He drew in a long, steadying breath and wiped the last trace of tears from his cheeks. "I have to leave before he sees me again," he murmured, voice low, unwilling to risk giving Heinz even a second chance to make good on his threat.

But when he lifted his head, his steps faltered.

The gardens were close—just a turn away.

Hendrix blinked, teeth catching his lower lip in quiet hesitation.

’Perhaps stopping by the gardens for a bit... wouldn’t be bad...’

At least he could see them one last time before leaving for good.

He inhaled deeply, trying to calm the tightness in his chest, and began to walk again—this time toward the familiar path.

The cold night breeze brushed against his face as he moved, carrying with it the faint scent of roses and lilies.

’At least he didn’t have it destroyed.’

Stepping through the archway, Hendrix emerged into the palace gardens. Moonlight spilled over the cobblestone paths, casting silver shadows over the glowing blooms that lit up the night like scattered lanterns.

Above, the sky stretched wide and endless, jeweled with countless stars that gleamed like they were trying to comfort him.

It was quiet.

It was peaceful.

And for a moment, he let himself breathe.

Hendrix’s steps were slow, deliberate, as he wandered deeper into the gardens. His fingers trailed along the cool marble railing bordering the path, the texture grounding him as memories stirred in his mind.

He could almost hear laughter—his mother’s soft chuckles blending with his father’s deep, warm voice.

He remembered chasing butterflies between the hedges while his father pretended not to notice the way Hendrix snuck extra pastries from the picnic basket.

His mother would always catch him, pretending to scold him, but her smile gave her away every time.

’Those days... felt like they would last forever.’

But forever had been much shorter than he thought.

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the cool wind push through his hair. The air here still carried traces of those afternoons—sweet, floral, and safe.

Then—

A faint sound broke through the stillness.

Crying.

Hendrix froze, head tilting slightly. ’Someone else is here?’

It was soft at first, almost blending with the rustling leaves, but as he listened, the sound was unmistakable—muffled sobs, unsteady breathing.

He followed it.

His boots crunched over the gravel path as he moved past a wall of climbing roses, each step guided by the sound. Turning a corner, his gaze fell upon a figure slumped on the ground, half-hidden beneath the shadow of a magnolia tree.

Light purple hair spilled across their shoulders, shimmering faintly in the moonlight. Beside them lay a huge glass bottle, still uncapped, the sharp scent of alcohol lingering in the air.

Hendrix hesitated. His instinct told him to leave—this was none of his business—but his feet wouldn’t move away. Instead, they carried him forward.

He stopped just a few feet away, his voice cautious.

"Are you... crying?"

The figure stirred, slowly lifting their head.

Hendrix’s breath caught in his throat.

Emerald green eyes met his—clear yet clouded with sorrow, framed by lashes still damp with tears. In that moment, it felt as if the garden itself dimmed around them, leaving only those eyes to pull him in.

His heart pounded hard against his ribs, each beat loud enough that he was certain they could hear it.

Hendrix’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, the pieces fitting together in his mind.

The rumors had been faint whispers at first, drifting in from traveling messengers and gossiping maids—about a prince in the king’s harem. Not just any prince, but one from Floramatria.

Prince Florian Thornfield.

Now, standing before him, with flushed cheeks and tear-streaked eyes, Hendrix knew without a doubt—this was him.

Florian’s breath caught. "H-Heinz...?" His voice trembled, fragile as if even speaking the name cost him strength.

Hendrix felt his brows draw together, though he tried to mask it with a faint smile.

’He thinks I’m my brother.’

"No," Hendrix replied, his tone calm but softened with a trace of amusement. "Well... you probably don’t know me. I’m Hendrix."

Florian blinked at him, the name seeming to register before he attempted to stand. His movements were clumsy, unsteady—his knees nearly buckling beneath him.

Hendrix’s hand shot forward, fingers curling around Florian’s wrist before he could fall.

’He’s drunk.’

"Woah there," Hendrix murmured, keeping his tone light, careful not to alarm him. "Please... be careful."

Up close, he noticed it wasn’t just the wine. Florian’s hands trembled faintly in his grasp.

’And he’s shaking. What happened to him?’

"Thank you," Florian whispered shakily, pulling his wrist back almost as quickly as Hendrix had taken it.

Hendrix studied him for a heartbeat longer before lowering his voice. "Forgive me if I’m wrong... but you’re Prince Florian, aren’t you?"

"Y-Yes..." Florian’s surprise was evident. "You... know me?"

"Rumors reached my manor," Hendrix said with a small smile, "about a beautiful prince with the most captivating eyes. Now that I’ve seen you, I can’t imagine they were speaking of anyone else."

The compliment deepened the flush on Florian’s already-pink cheeks. He ducked his head quickly. "I-I’m flattered, Your Highness..."

Before he could hide away completely, Hendrix reached out, fingertips brushing gently under Florian’s chin, coaxing his face back up.

"Please... call me Hendrix."

Florian hesitated, then gave a shy nod. "T-Then please... just call me Florian."

Something unexplainable stirred in Hendrix’s chest, drawing him closer.

"Alright, Florian," he said softly. "May I ask why such a beautiful prince is alone out here in the gardens instead of enjoying the ball?" He deliberately didn’t mention the bottle lying abandoned in the grass.

But the look Florian gave him then was... unsettling.

It was pain—raw and unguarded—so strikingly similar to the late Queen Anastasia’s expression the first time Hendrix had seen her that it made his chest ache.

"I-I..." Florian’s voice cracked as tears spilled over again. "I... he..."

Then, as if something inside him gave way, Florian crumpled. His knees hit the ground, arms wrapping around himself as he bowed over, trembling. "I don’t know. I... I don’t know."

Hendrix dropped to one knee in front of him, concern sharpening his features.

"A-Are you alright? No—of course you’re not alright, you’re crying but... do you want me to call someone? Do you need help?" His hands hovered uncertainly, afraid to startle him.

Instead of answering, Florian suddenly grabbed the bottle beside him and shoved it toward Hendrix.

"Please... drink with me."

Hendrix blinked. "Pardon?"

"I-I don’t want to be alone... but I don’t want to go inside." Florian’s gaze lifted, shimmering with unshed tears, his green eyes wide and almost pleading. "I just... want to keep drinking. Please... drink with me."

For a moment, Hendrix hesitated. Every instinct told him to refuse, to find an aide, to get this fragile prince somewhere safe.

He didn’t drink—ever. The Obsidian family was infamous for their low tolerance; even their father had been a complete lightweight, forbidding Hendrix from so much as touching a cup.

But looking into those tearful eyes, Hendrix felt something twist inside him.

Because he didn’t want to be alone either.

He took the bottle from Florian’s hands, the glass still warm from his touch, and tipped it back. The sharp burn slid down his throat, settling like fire in his chest.

"Alright, Florian," he said, lowering the bottle with a small smile. "Then I shall accompany you."