Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 150

POV: Sebastian

I wake before the bells.

Not because of duty, not because of dread—but because my body no longer expects punishment for lingering in sleep. That realization startles me enough that I sit up in bed and stay there for a while, hands resting on my knees, listening to the palace exist without me directing it.

That, more than anything, tells me this reign has changed.

I dress slowly. No servant rushes in to hurry me. No voice reminds me what hour it is, or what a king must be. When I leave the chamber, the corridor greets me with its usual quiet—not reverence, not fear. Just stone and air and light.

The crown waits where I left it last night, set on the writing table beside a stack of unfinished documents. I don’t touch it yet. Instead, I open the window.

The city below does not look up.

That would have bothered me once.

Now it comforts me.

The first decision of the day is small.

A petition lies open on my desk—an appeal from a coastal district disputing land reassignment. In the past, I would have signed it quickly, trusting the precedent, trusting the structure, trusting the idea that consistency mattered more than consequence.

Instead, I read it again.

Then I summon a clerk—not a minister, not a lord.

“Tell them I’ll hear their case in person,” I say.

The clerk blinks. “Your Majesty?”

“I want to understand the damage before I approve the repair,” I explain.

He nods slowly, visibly uncertain, but not afraid. When he leaves, I realize something subtle and important:

I didn’t need to announce my authority for him to obey.

I find Evangeline in the west wing, reviewing correspondence. She looks up when I enter, assessing—not my mood, not my posture, but my presence.

“You’re grounded today,” she says.

“I feel… anchored,” I reply.

She sets the papers aside. “That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” I agree. “Anchors don’t stop movement. They stop drift.”

She smiles at that. “You’ve been thinking again.”

“I’ve been noticing,” I correct. “Thinking implies distance.”

She stands and joins me by the window. “What did you notice?”

“That nothing collapsed when I stopped holding everything upright by force,” I say.

She exhales softly. “It rarely does.”

At midday, I walk the grounds alone.

No guards trail me. No one announces my passing. I cross paths with gardeners, messengers, stable hands. Some nod. Some don’t. One young boy stares openly before remembering himself and bowing far too late.

I stop.

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.

He straightens, cheeks flushing. “My father says—”

“I’m not your father,” I say gently. “Stand how you like.”

He hesitates, then stands normally. A smile flickers across his face before he remembers himself again and scurries away.

I continue walking, strangely lighter.

The old training yard sits quiet now. The stones still bear marks from years of drills—boots striking in unison, commands barked sharp enough to cut. I remember standing here as a boy, correcting my stance under my father’s gaze, learning early that approval came only after pain.

I step into the center of the yard and stop.

I don’t imagine him there anymore.

That, too, is new. Later, Adrian joins me in the study.

He doesn’t ask permission to speak. He never has since I stopped demanding it.

“I reviewed the academy proposals,” he says. “There’s resistance.”

“Of course there is,” I reply.

“But it’s… thoughtful,” he continues. “They’re not refusing. They’re questioning.”

I lean back in my chair. “And how does that make you feel?”

He considers. “Engaged.”

I nod. “Good. If they stop questioning, that’s when you worry.”

He hesitates. “Mark would’ve liked this part.”

I smile. “Yes. He would’ve argued loudly and then left halfway through.”

Adrian chuckles despite himself.

“You miss him,” I say.

“I do,” he admits. “But I don’t feel abandoned.”

“Neither do I,” I reply. “Distance chosen is not loss.”

He absorbs that quietly.

Before he leaves, he pauses at the door. “Father?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t feel like I’m carrying something that doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

The words land heavier than any decree I’ve signed.

“That,” I say carefully, “is exactly what I hoped for.”

Evening comes without announcement.

I eat alone—not as punishment, not as isolation, but because tonight I want the quiet. Evangeline understands without explanation. She always has.

Afterward, I return to the chamber and finally lift the crown.

It is heavier than memory suggests.

Or perhaps I am more aware of what weight means now.

I turn it in my hands, studying the marks along the rim—the scratches left by kings before me, the small imperfections no one ever speaks of. Symbols are never as flawless up close as they appear from afar.

“I won’t pretend you make me whole,” I say aloud.

The words sound strange—and honest.

I place the crown back on the table, not centered, not ceremonially aligned. Just set down, functional.

Night settles gradually, like a decision reached through consensus instead of force.

I return to the window one last time.

Somewhere beyond the walls, Mark is walking roads that do not know his name. Somewhere within them, Adrian is reading by candlelight, choosing patience over urgency. Evangeline moves through the palace like a current—unseen, indispensable.

And I—I am here.

Not chasing absolution.

Not fleeing memory.

Standing in the space between what was broken and what was rebuilt.

The crown does not demand me tonight. That is the final proof. Peace is not silence. Peace is not stillness. Peace is the knowledge that nothing is waiting to collapse the moment you step away.

I extinguish the lamp and leave the room dark, unguarded, alive. The crown remains at rest. And for the first time in my life—so does the kingdom.