Chapter 407: A Commoner in the Palace

"He came from an orphanage, you know. Not a single drop of noble blood in his veins."

"Is that so? Then why on earth is His Highness keeping him so close? I heard he even brought him straight into the private wing of the palace quarters, despite already being formally engaged."

"It’s ridiculous. A commoner strolling through the royal gardens as if he owns the place. His Highness is simply too soft-hearted for his own good."

The same whispers seemed to follow Philia wherever he went through the imperial palace. He’d heard every version of the gossip imaginable since arriving at the palace.

He never reacted. He never faltered. He simply walked past the gossips with his head held high, a gentle, entirely harmless smile playing upon his lips as if he were completely deaf to their words.

In truth, when Philia had first arrived at the palace, he couldn’t have been happier.

To finally stand on the same place as Yerel, to breathe the very same air, to feel the quiet, attentive warmth of the prince’s presence, it had felt like coming in out of a freezing, lifelong storm. Yerel was naturally kind, naturally attentive, always noticing the smallest details about Philia’s comfort when no one else in his entire life had ever bothered to look twice. Every soft word from the prince, every concerned glance when Philia looked tired, had felt like a priceless gift. It was a gentle fire in a cold, unforgiving world that made all the snide whispers and hidden sneers of the court vanish into utter irrelevance.

He had believed, even if only for a brief moment, that he had finally found his place.

But life in the palace had never been easy. Not with Cherion around.

From the very first day, that man had treated him with an open, sharp hostility that never truly faded. While others masked their disdain behind polite smiles and artificial bows, Cherion made no attempt to hide his disgust. The man had looked at Philia with suspicion, constantly questioning his background, his motives, and his sudden proximity to the royal family. Cherion watched his every move like a hawk, hovering near Yerel as if Philia were a poison waiting to spill into the prince’s cup.

At first, Philia had felt the sharp bite of it. The constant scrutiny had made his skin prickle, the rejection stinging far deeper coming from the man who held Yerel’s heart so effortlessly. But as the weeks turned into months, Philia forced himself to remain calm, methodically swallowing the bitter resentment rising in his throat. He forced himself not to lash out, not to show even a flicker of hurt or anger. He understood, in a quiet, painful way, why Cherion acted like that.

Later, when Philia began quietly learning more about his new life, the missing pieces had finally fallen into place.

Cherion Antel. The youngest son of Lord Antel.

The name instantly brought back a vivid memory, a memory from a time when he was still a child himself, dragged along by Livya to pay their formal respects following a devastating tragedy.

The boy with silver hair and piercing blue eyes. It was Cherion.

It was funny, really.

To think that the grieving child who had once cried for his father and brother was the very same man now standing beside Yerel. It was funny how fate worked, how two people from completely different walks of life, two people who had both known absolute loss and isolation, could cross paths in the dark, only to wind up falling desperately, hopelessly in love with the exact same man.

Whenever Philia thought about it, the warmth disappeared.

Cherion could glare all he wanted. He could throw his suspicion and his open hostility around like heavy armor. He could stand beside Yerel at banquets, showing off their engagement like it was some great prize.

But Philia was patient. Philia had survived worse than cold looks, sharp words, and noble arrogance. He had clawed his way out of the dirt, piece by piece, and he was not about to lose the only light he had ever known.

Yerel belonged to him. Yerel had always been the light that kept Philia tethered to this miserable world, and Philia would make sure, by any means necessary, that the prince would ultimately be his, and never, ever Cherion’s.

Not to mention, Philia hadn’t forgotten what happened to his family, or the possibility that Cherion’s family had something to do with it.

He had been sitting in his room, staring aimlessly at the rough scratches on a table when, a soft, polite knock had sounded at the door.

Philia had looked up, his expression blank, as the door swung open with a slow creak. The head steward had stepped inside, his posture stiff with disgust at having to visit such low quarters. He was followed closely by a tall, young man dressed in dark, well-tailored attire. The young man carried himself with a quiet, disciplined grace, his eyes sharp, intense, and deeply observant as he scanned the room.

"Lord Philia," the head steward had said briskly, offering a brief, entirely perfunctory bow that didn’t even bend his waist. "This man has been assigned as your personal attendant moving forward. He will be handling your security and your personal affairs."

The head steward hadn’t waited for a response, nor had he bothered to ask if Philia agreed. He simply turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him and leaving the two of them alone in the quiet room.

Philia had sat there for a long moment, staring at the stranger with mild confusion. He was a nobody with zero standing, zero wealth, and zero future; he had no right to a dedicated attendant, let alone one who moved with the lethal, silent grace of a seasoned mercenary or a trained guard.

The tall young man had stood in the center of the room, entirely still, until the head steward’s footsteps had completely faded down the stone corridor outside.

Then, slowly, the man’s rigid posture relaxed just a fraction. He looked directly at Philia, his dark, sharp eyes softening with a strange, overwhelming reverence that made Philia’s breath catch in his throat.

"Finally," the man had whispered, his voice low and rough, filled with an emotion Philia couldn’t understand. "I have finally found you... Lord Philia."

Philia had blinked, his hands resting motionless on the cool wood of the table, a cold flicker of uncertainty settling deep in his chest as he looked at his new attendant’s face.

"Found me?" Philia had asked softly, his voice gentle, his eyebrows furrowing in genuine, quiet confusion. "Who are you?"