As Astana had said—it only grew worse.

Florian became cherished... and as far as Asher could see, utterly spoiled.

Every moment Asher tried to carve out for his son was quietly taken away.

Leticia and the girls always seemed to sweep Florian into their arms first—playfully arguing over who would sit with him, who would walk with him, who would keep him company through the day.

Asher often found himself watching from thresholds.

From hallways.

From doorways he never crossed.

’Every day, someone else is raising my son.’

And then—

Then fate twisted the knife even deeper.

Asher became pregnant once more.

Rain.

Their true final child.

The pregnancy was delicate—painful, draining, dangerous enough that the accoucheurs demanded rest at all times.

He was confined to chambers just when Florian needed him most.

So even when Florian called for him...

Even when he reached out...

Asher couldn’t answer.

’I can’t even be there when he needs me.’

And something inside Asher snapped.

A son was supposed to grow beside his father.

A son wasn’t meant to be coddled endlessly.

Men were homemakers—pillars—not fragile ornaments sheltered by those around them.

They were meant to endure.

Mentally.

Emotionally.

They weren’t meant to crumble when the world became quiet. They weren’t meant to cry just because mother or sisters were busy.

’If he grows like this... he will break the moment the world isn’t kind.’

So Asher changed.

He raised Florian the same way he himself had been raised.

Strict.

Isolated.

Unyielding.

With an iron fist.

It hurt—Gods, it hurt—to hear Florian cry because of him.

To see his small body tense whenever Asher approached.

To feel his son recoil under discipline.

It’s for his own good.

That’s what Asher told himself every night.

’I suffered. I endured. I survived.’

So he must learn to survive too.

Because pain created strength.

And strength was the only thing that mattered in the end.

At least—

That was supposed to be how it worked.

But it didn’t.

No matter how hard Asher tried to mold Florian, nothing changed.

And worse—

Asher’s authority was constantly undermined.

Leticia softened whatever sternness he laid down. Kazaria—fierce, protective, already carrying the weight of a crown—shielded Florian openly.

Asher was powerless against them.

Against his wife.

Against his eldest daughter.

As much as he tried, Florian was always pulled back into warmth.

Back into comfort.

Back into protection.

’They won’t let him struggle...’

They won’t let him grow.

Florian was meant to have his own life—to leave the nest, to find a spouse, to build something beyond palace walls.

But to Asher, it no longer seemed possible.

Leticia and the girls—Kazaria most of all—wanted Florian to remain precisely where he was.

Inside the palace.

Unengaged.

Unmarried.

Untouched by hardship.

Unchallenged by the world.

Even when Florian reached the age when marital prospects should have been arranged—

They never once tried.

And to Asher, the truth became unbearable:

’He isn’t strong enough to live alone.’

They’ve made sure of that.

And if Florian never gained strength—

Then he would never leave.

He would never grow.

He would never live.

He would be trapped, cherished—but stagnant.

So when the opportunity came...

When stories spread of the so-called tyrant king who destroyed kingdoms that refused to offer princesses—

Asher recoiled.

He didn’t want to surrender anyone.

Not one of his daughters.

Not even—

Not even Florian.

’No. Not my son.’

But the rumors were wrong.

Heinz did ride a dragon—but he didn’t descend with threats.

He came to negotiate.

He spoke.

He made demands.

He bargained.

Heinz made promises.

Promises spoken with calm certainty—that whoever was given would receive a proper education, would be granted power and autonomy, would be allowed to study anything they desired, pursue any path they chose.

Freedom.

Far more freedom than any princess could ever hope to have.

And that was all it took.

An idea—quiet, dangerous—took root in Asher’s mind.

’Freedom... strength... independence.’

Everything Florian doesn’t have here.

Truthfully, with those words alone, Asher wouldn’t have hesitated to send one of his daughters. He trusted their strength. He trusted their ability to endure new lands, new expectations, new lives.

They would survive.

They always did.

And more than that—

In terms of succession, duty, and political necessity, two daughters stood above the rest.

Kazaria and Liliana.

Kazaria—the crown princess, the future queen whose presence in Floramatria was irreplaceable. The kingdom itself would fracture without her.

Liliana—the next head of the Thornfield Knights, a born commander already tempered by discipline and command. Losing her would mean weakening the kingdom’s shield.

They were pillars.

The other daughters—Rose, Kana, and the youngest, Rain—were all warriors too.

Fierce in their own right.

But to the kingdom, they would only ever be warriors.

They would serve.

They would protect.

They would fight.

They were replaceable in duty if not in blood—and Asher hated that truth, but it was a truth all the same.

So, when Heinz repeated his question—

When the demand finally came—

Asher found himself ready to speak a name.

Any name.

’Just choose one. End this.’

But then—

He remembered.

Not his daughters standing proud in armor.

Not Kazaria on her throne-to-be.

Not Liliana sharpening her blades.

He remembered his son.

His Florian.

The boy who laughed too easily.

The boy who cried too readily.

The boy who clung to palace skirts and sheltered halls because he had never been taught otherwise.

’My Florian...’

Weak—yes.

Coddled—undeniably.

And trapped.

Florian would grow up inside Rose Palace like a beautiful flower sealed behind glass, never knowing the storms of the outside world, never gaining the strength born only of hardship.

’He’ll never leave here.’

He’ll never live.

And Asher couldn’t bear that.

By then, Florian had already come of age.

Time had robbed Asher of the excuse to delay the inevitable any longer.

If Florian stayed—

He would wither into something helpless.

Something stagnant.

Something safe—and safety, to Asher, felt far too close to a slow death.

So, with everything in his chest twisting into unbearable knots—

With a heart that screamed even as his lips moved—

Asher finally said the name that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

"Florian."

His voice shook before steadying.

"My son."

A pause.

Breath drawn like he was bracing for impact.

"He can bear children... he is more feminine—by your standards—than any of my daughters would ever be."

Each word felt like a blade carving him open—but he pressed forward anyway.

"I will personally bring him to you."

’I’m sorry, my son.’

And as the name left Asher’s mouth—

’This is the only way I know how to save you.’

Every remaining justification crumbled behind it.

Because no matter how he dressed it—

No matter how much he sold it as sacrifice or opportunity—

He knew the truth hiding beneath his choice:

He had given away the child he loved most.

That was how it all happened.

That single decision became the axis upon which everything afterward turned.

And after that—

Asher began to endure.

He endured Florian’s screams when the truth was revealed—the broken pleading, the shaking voice calling him Father even as his eyes filled with betrayal.

He endured placing his trembling son onto Concordia’s soil with his own hands.

He endured the fury carved into Leticia’s face, the way Kazaria’s eyes burned with accusation that said what her lips never dared to speak.

He endured the nights when Florian’s absence rang louder than any sound the palace could make.

He endured the dreams where his son still reached for him.

He endured the regret.

Because—

’To love is to endure.’

That was what he told himself.

That was what he clung to when it felt unbearable.

And slowly, painfully...

He got used to it.

Now, standing on the other side of waiting, Asher believed all of that endurance had borne fruit.

Florian’s life in Concordia was better.

At least—that was how it looked from afar.

He was no longer locked behind palace walls.

He had stepped onto battlefields.

He had navigated politics.

He had survived real danger.

And it even seemed that Heinz—of all people—had fallen for him.

That love had bloomed both ways.

Florian had changed.

He had grown braver.

Stronger.

He fought instead of freezing.

He stood instead of sinking.

He didn’t cry as easily anymore.

He carried resilience now—sharp, bright, and visible.

Each report Asher heard cut his chest—but also stitched it shut.

’He’s stronger. He’s survived.’

And even when Asher heard that Heinz’s words could be cruel—

That Florian was scolded, pressured, strained—

He told himself it wasn’t so different from the pain he himself had caused.

Hurt builds endurance.

Endurance builds strength.

’That’s what I taught him.’

And so—

Despite the ache still pulsing in his ribs—

Asher allowed himself to feel relief.

Pride.

A fragile, trembling happiness.

Because the son he loved most—

The son he had sacrificed everything for—

Was standing tall now.

Stronger.

Alive.

And to Asher...

That was all that mattered.