Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 127

POV: Sebastian

I hear my father’s voice before I hear my own.

It arrives uninvited, sharp and absolute, echoing through the corridor of memory I try not to walk anymore. I am twelve again—too small for the armor they strap onto me, too proud to cry when the leather bites into my skin.

“Stand straight,” my father says.

“I am,” I answer.

“No,” he replies. “You’re pretending.”

The memory fractures when a shout pulls me back into the present.

“Again,” I bark.

The word snaps through the training hall, louder than intended. The boys freeze. Steel clatters faintly as Mark adjusts his grip too late. Adrian stiffens immediately, shoulders locking, eyes forward like he’s bracing for impact.

I see it then.

The flinch.

It’s small. Almost invisible. But it’s there.

“Adrian,” I say sharply. “You’re distracted.”

“I’m focused,” he answers, too fast.

“That wasn’t a question.”

Mark exhales through his nose. “He’s doing fine.”

I turn on him. “You don’t speak for him.”

Mark’s jaw tightens. “Someone should.”

The hall goes silent.

I feel heat rise up my spine, familiar and dangerous. This is the moment my father would have ended the discussion—with force, with humiliation, with certainty.

“Enough,” I shout.

Both boys flinch this time.

“Pick up your swords,” I continue. “Again. From the beginning.”

Adrian moves immediately. Mark hesitates—just long enough to matter.

“Now,” I snap.

He does.

The clash of metal rings louder than before. Adrian overcorrects, movements tight and exact. Mark moves sloppier, emotion bleeding into his form. It’s wrong. All of it is wrong.

“Stop,” I shout again.

They freeze.

I step forward, anger coiled and ready. “Do you think the world will wait while you argue?”

“No, Father,” Adrian answers.

“Yes, Father,” Mark mutters.

I look at Mark. “What was that?”

He lifts his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Speak clearly.”

“I said yes,” he repeats.

I step closer. “With respect.”

Mark’s hands tremble slightly around the hilt. “Yes, Father.”

The sight of it—the tension, the fear—hits me like a blow I don’t see coming.

“Get out,” I say abruptly.

They blink.

“Both of you,” I repeat. “Leave.”

They don’t ask questions. Adrian bows his head slightly. Mark doesn’t. They leave the hall without looking back.

The doors close.

The echo lingers.

And suddenly, I am alone with the silence my father used to leave behind.

I don’t remember throwing the goblet.

I only hear it shatter against the far wall, wine splattering across stone like something wounded.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

I run a hand through my hair, breathing hard. The room smells like sweat and metal and old habits. I lean against the table, head bowed, and the memory comes unbidden again.

I am fourteen. My father stands over me.

“You hesitate,” he says.

“I didn’t,” I argue.

“You did,” he replies. “And hesitation kills kings.”

The strike comes after. Always after.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Not them,” I whisper. “Not my sons.”

Footsteps approach softly.

“Sebastian.”

Evangeline’s voice.

I straighten, already bracing.

She enters the training hall slowly, eyes flicking to the broken goblet, the scuffed floor, the empty space where our sons stood minutes ago.

“You yelled,” she says gently.

“I corrected them,” I reply.

She meets my gaze. “You frightened them.”

“They need to learn,” I say. “The world—”

“Will teach them cruelty whether you help or not,” she interrupts quietly. “They don’t need it from you.”

I turn away. “You weren’t raised like this.”

She steps closer. “No. But I was raised by someone who believed love was conditional.”

That stops me.

“They already believe that,” she continues. “Adrian thinks perfection earns your attention. Mark thinks defiance is the only way you’ll see him at all.”

“That’s not true,” I say automatically.

“Then why do they act like it is?” she asks.

I don’t answer. She waits.

“I didn’t mean to shout,” I say finally.

“I know,” she replies. “That’s what scares me.”

I turn back to her. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“I think,” she says carefully, “you’re repeating something you swore you wouldn’t.”

The words cut cleanly.

“My father—” I begin.

“Yes,” she says. “Your father.”

I swallow. “He made me strong.”

“He made you survive,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”

I pace. “You want me to be soft.”

“No,” she says. “I want you to be present.”

I stop. “They will rule someday.”

“And they will remember how it felt to be ruled by you first,” she replies.

Silence stretches between us.

“I don’t know another way,” I admit.

She steps closer, placing a hand on my arm. “Then learn one.”

***

That night, I sit alone in my study, lights low, papers untouched. I stare at the desk where my father once stood when he visited this palace years ago—hands braced, voice unyielding.

“Fear is respect,” he said.

“No,” I argued.

“Yes,” he replied. “You just don’t understand it yet.”

I understand it now. Too well. A knock comes.

“Enter,” I say.

Adrian stands in the doorway, hands folded neatly in front of him.

“Yes?” I ask.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says.

“For what?” I ask.

“For disappointing you,” he answers.

The words land like a blade.

“You didn’t,” I say.

He blinks. “I didn’t?”

“No,” I repeat. “You didn’t.”

He hesitates. “Then… why were you angry?”

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

“You may go,” I say quietly.

“Yes, Father,” he replies, confusion etched into his face as he leaves.

The door closes.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.

I remember being his age—standing in the same place, saying the same words, never receiving the answer I needed. Patterns don’t announce themselves. They repeat.

And for the first time, I allow myself to see the truth clearly and without defense:

If I do not change, I will become the man I spent my life escaping.

And worse—

My sons will become the boys I once was. Afraid. Perfect. Silent.

The thought settles into my chest, heavy and undeniable. Tomorrow, I will try again. Not as a king. But as a father who refuses to let history raise his children for him.