Chapter 33

From the moment William first allowed himself to admit aloud that something was wrong – truly wrong – the world tilted on its axis. He no longer sat helpless in his chambers, no longer let James’s words drip poison in his ears, no longer tolerated Kenta’s smirks and too-smooth assurances.

The break began quietly, almost invisibly, with suspicion. A glance at James when he spoke too quickly. A tightening in William’s gut when Kenta tried to touch him, claiming concern, warmth, intimacy. Every moment replayed itself in William’s mind – Est’s words, firm and certain: “I’m not going anywhere. Not while he’s here.”

Then suddenly, Est had gone.

No. Taken.

The thought struck him late one night, when the palace had gone still and only the whisper of torches down the corridor kept him company. He sat at his desk, staring at an untouched goblet of wine James had insisted he drink earlier. The bitter aftertaste clung to his tongue. His head throbbed dully, the same way it always did when James lingered too long in his company. His brother’s voice echoed in memory – “He was never meant for you. He came, he played his role, he left. It is better you learn it now.”

But Est would never leave like that. Not without a word. Not without looking William in the eye. He’d sworn.

The gnawing unease sharpened into fury.

From that night, William began to move differently. He asked quiet questions. He retraced steps. He summoned guards in the dead of night under the guise of trivial duties, watching their expressions when he mentioned Est’s name. Some flinched. Some glanced away. James’s men.

Kenta, meanwhile, grew bolder, weaving himself into William’s daily life. He arrived with sweetmeats, with gentle smiles, with words of concern for William’s “fragile state.” He lingered too close, fingers brushing William’s wrist, the scent of his cologne invading the prince’s senses until William wanted to recoil.

And once, late one evening when the corridor burned low with candlelight, Kenta caught William’s wrist outright, leaning close enough for his breath to ghost along William’s cheek.
“You don’t have to be alone,” Kenta murmured, his lips almost brushing skin. “I remember how good we were together. Let me take care of you again. Est is gone. I’m here.”

William froze – then shoved him back, rage flooding his chest so suddenly he could scarcely breathe.
“Don’t ever,” he spat, voice raw, “ever put your hands on me again.”

Kenta’s eyes narrowed, but he smiled that same polished smile and bowed low. “As you wish, my prince.”

But William saw it now. The gloating edge. The satisfaction.

It was James. It was Kenta. It had to be.

Each day afterward sharpened his suspicion into resolve. James spoke more often now of Est’s “betrayal,” his tone soothing, careful, always framed as concern. But William no longer heard it as comfort – he heard the crack in his brother’s performance, the hunger underneath.

He began watching the patterns of the guards, where James placed his men, which doors were barred, which corridors remained curiously off-limits at night. And one evening, when he pretended to drink James’s wine but poured it out instead, his head stayed clear for the first time in weeks. Clear enough to hear the weight behind his brother’s words. Clear enough to feel the truth pulsing in his veins like fire.

Est wasn’t gone. Est hadn’t left him. Est was here, somewhere, within these walls.

And William would tear down the palace stone by stone until he found him.

_____

The nights stretched on like poisoned silk.

 Each one left William hollow, pacing chambers that smelled faintly of Est’s presence – leather polish, steel, that low warmth of his skin – but offered no comfort. Est was gone. Gone, they all told him.

Kenta said it first, with a gentle, pitying smile, lingering in the corner of William’s chambers like some shadow that wouldn’t leave. “He wasn’t fit for you, William. You know it. He left because he couldn’t handle you, couldn’t handle what it means to be here. I wouldn’t. I never would.”

James followed, whispering in his quiet, brotherly voice, never raising it above soothing concern. “People like Est burn bright, then disappear. That’s their way. He never belonged here. I hate to see you tormented by this… but you must face it.”

And yet – William remembered.
He remembered Est’s eyes, that soft, stubborn promise: I’m not going anywhere. Not while he’s here.
So how could he leave?

It gnawed at him. It kept him awake. And in the emptiness of night, the doubt James seeded began to twist and bloom. If Est hadn’t left willingly, then what?

But William could not accuse outright. He had no proof, no trail, no whispers from the guards – only his instincts, his heart’s sick certainty that Est was still here, somewhere, waiting.

So he chose another way.

When Kenta came again, his smile soft and indulgent, laying a hand too familiarly on William’s wrist, William did not recoil. He forced his body still. He even leaned into it, just a fraction, letting his lips curve in a ghost of a smile.

“You’ve been here,” William murmured, quiet, weary. “When I needed someone.”

Kenta’s eyes brightened, greedy. “Always. I told you, William. I’d never abandon you.”

And for the first time, William let him stay. He let Kenta linger, pour his honeyed words, even touch him lightly as though reclaiming some lost territory. Each brush of skin made William’s stomach turn, bile rising sharp in his throat – but he masked it. He smiled. He played the part.

Because if Est was being kept from him, Kenta knew where. Kenta would slip. Pride always betrayed itself. And William would be there to catch it.

In the mirror, William almost didn’t recognize himself anymore. His eyes looked fevered, sunken from restless nights. His mouth smiled when he wanted to scream. His hands shook when Kenta touched him – but not from desire. From restraint. From the battle to keep from clawing the truth from him too soon.

James noticed the change, of course. He praised William for his “resilience,” for “finally letting go.” His words were smooth, but his gaze sharpened, as if gauging whether William truly bought the performance or not.

William let him believe it.

Inside, he repeated Est’s name like prayer beads. Every night, when Kenta left, William whispered it into the silence. Not in longing, not anymore – but in vow.

I’ll find you. Hold on. I’ll tear this castle stone by stone if I must. Just hold on.

______

Kenta wasn’t easy prey.

William realized it after the first few days of letting him back into his orbit. The man had always been clever, smooth-tongued, and William had once been charmed by it – before Est. Now, he used it like armor, weaving words that evaded suspicion, laughing off William’s veiled questions, leaning in close with that familiar heat that was both disgusting and oddly tempting in William’s loneliness.

But William had grown clever too.

Desperation taught him.

So he let Kenta touch his hand across the chessboard, didn’t pull away when those fingers lingered. He let his lips part just a little when Kenta leaned too close to whisper a joke, feigned a laugh that came out softer, breathier than he intended. He hated himself for it, hated the way he could feel Est’s ghost at his back watching, but he needed Kenta to believe.

If Kenta slipped – just once – he’d have him.

Still, Kenta didn’t slip. He was too disciplined, too smug in his control. He smiled knowingly whenever William faltered, kissed his hand as if reclaiming old territory, but never gave away anything about Est.

And William’s chest ached with the not-knowing. Every night when the palace went quiet, he lay awake, the emptiness beside him screaming with absence. He wanted to believe Est had been taken, that there was foul play. But what if James was right? What if Est had grown tired of the danger, tired of William himself, and walked away without looking back?

That doubt gnawed at him. Some nights he almost believed it. Some nights it made him burn with anger – at Est, at himself – for letting his heart be torn open.

So he doubled down.

One evening, in the dim light of his chambers, he let Kenta come closer than ever before. Kenta’s lips brushed his jawline, tentative at first, then more deliberate, as if testing how far William would allow it. William forced himself not to recoil. His mind screamed this isn’t him, this isn’t Est, but he tilted his head, let Kenta kiss him, even allowed his hand to drift up into Kenta’s hair as if welcoming it.

Kenta groaned softly, emboldened, pressing against him. And William – heart hammering with loathing and prayer both – let him.

He prayed for a slip, for arrogance to loosen Kenta’s careful tongue. And then, it came.

In the quiet between kisses, Kenta murmured, low and smug, “I told you he wouldn’t last. He always thought he was stronger than he was. But in the end… he broke faster than you’ll ever know.”

William froze, the words slicing through him like a blade. His blood turned cold. He forced himself not to stiffen, not to betray the wildfire suddenly roaring inside him. He curled his fingers tighter in Kenta’s hair, drew him closer, even let out a broken sigh that Kenta mistook for arousal.

Inside, though, William’s resolve solidified like steel.

Est hadn’t left. He hadn’t abandoned him. Kenta had just admitted it – unwittingly, arrogantly. They had him. Somewhere. And William would burn the whole palace down brick by brick until he found him.

But for now, he only whispered against Kenta’s lips, sweet, aching, deceptive:

“Show me.”

_____

William had always been a quick study when it came to people. He’d spent years navigating court games, masks of politeness hiding blades of intent. But he’d never hated the skill more than now, seated beside Kenta, letting the man’s hand linger a little too long on his wrist, letting the soft brush of fingers be tolerated.

Every instinct screamed at him to recoil, to shove Kenta against the wall and demand where Est was, but William forced himself to lean closer instead. His smile was careful, charming, the kind that always used to disarm suitors at banquets.

“I can’t say I don’t appreciate your timing,” William murmured, just low enough to sound confessional. “With Est gone… well. I didn’t really expect you to still care.”

Kenta’s grin was feline, satisfied. “I told you before, didn’t I? He was never right for you. You’re finally starting to see it.”

William felt bile rise in his throat but he pushed it down, tilting his head as though considering. “Perhaps. Though…” He let the pause drag, eyes darting away before returning. “Strange, isn’t it? He left without a word. You’d think he’d have at least tried to say goodbye.”

Kenta’s smirk faltered for half a second. It was brief – so brief that anyone else might have missed it. William didn’t. His pulse kicked.

He softened his tone, leaning in so close his breath brushed Kenta’s ear. “Unless… perhaps you know more than you’re letting on?”

Kenta laughed, too sharp, covering the flicker of tension with a hand sliding up William’s arm. “You’re imagining things. He wasn’t as devoted as you thought. Soldiers like him don’t stay. They’re wanderers, mercenaries. You were a passing thrill.”

William let Kenta’s hand move higher, jaw tightening, every muscle taut with disgust. Don’t show it. Not yet. He even went so far as to let his lips brush Kenta’s cheek, a deliberate tease that made the man’s eyes gleam with hunger.

“Maybe you’re right,” William whispered. “But I keep thinking – if he didn’t leave on his own, if someone encouraged him…” He let the words dangle, as though voicing an insecurity, when in truth his heart hammered with certainty.

Kenta chuckled again, this time with a low, smug edge. “If someone did, then they only did you a favor. You’ll thank me in time.”

It was there – the tiniest slip, a carelessness born of arrogance. William’s stomach dropped even as he forced a low laugh in return. Thank you? So it was you.

But he didn’t move, didn’t reveal what he’d caught. Instead, he let Kenta pull him into a kiss, every fiber of his being revolting as their mouths touched. He prayed silently, begged Est’s name in his mind for strength, even as he pressed closer, feigning need.

Because now, more than ever, he knew: Est hadn’t left him. Est had been taken. And Kenta – perhaps James too – had blood on their hands.

The kisses tasted like betrayal.

William let it happen anyway.

Kenta’s lips pressed too eagerly, too hungrily against his, and William forced himself not to recoil. He’d been laying the groundwork for days – subtle glances, softer tones, letting Kenta hover near him during meals, tolerating the hand on his arm, the brush of fingers on his shoulder. He told himself it was necessary. He told himself Est was worth this.

But gods, it made him sick.

Every time Kenta smiled at him, William’s stomach twisted. Every time Kenta leaned in, all William could see was Est’s face – Est’s loyalty, his quiet strength, the way he’d sworn he wasn’t leaving. William clung to that memory like a lifeline, even as James’ poisonous words gnawed at him: Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he grew tired of you. Maybe you were never enough to keep him.

So William played his part. He smiled faintly, let his eyes linger just a little too long, leaned into Kenta’s touch as though it steadied him. And when the moment came, when Kenta tilted his head and murmured something low about how he’d always been there, William closed his eyes and let their mouths meet.

Inside, something cracked.

Kenta deepened the kiss immediately, hands sliding to William’s hips, pulling him closer. William let him. Worse, William kissed back. He kissed him like it mattered, like he was starved, like he wanted him. His heart pounded with loathing at the act, but his mind sharpened with focus. Kenta was clever, smug, and guarded – but smug men talked too much when they thought they were winning.

William broke the kiss, lips wet, voice low, roughened by feigned emotion.
“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” he whispered, as though confessing something raw.

Kenta’s eyes gleamed, triumphant. He leaned in again, brushing their mouths together, hands wandering with boldness now. William let him slide closer, let him press against him, let him think he was wanted. His skin crawled, but he didn’t flinch. He couldn’t.

He kissed back harder, desperate in appearance, biting at Kenta’s lip, dragging him close until their breaths tangled. He forced a shiver into his body when Kenta’s fingers dipped lower, and whispered his name like a prayer.

It worked. Kenta laughed against his mouth, drunk on the illusion of power.
“You see?” he murmured, voice thick with victory. “I told you… I told you he’d leave. Est was never going to last. But me? I’ve always been the one who stays.”

William’s blood iced.

Kenta kissed him again, harder now, almost frantic. Words tumbled between kisses, broken, careless.
“You should thank me, Will. I took care of him for you. Took him out of the way so you could finally stop pretending. He’s nothing compared to us. Never was.”

There it was. The crack.

William’s heart thundered so hard he thought Kenta would hear it. He pulled back, just slightly, just enough to look into Kenta’s face. His lips curved in what might have passed as a smile – but his eyes burned with something darker, sharper.

Inside, relief and horror tangled violently. Est wasn’t gone by choice. He hadn’t left him. He’d been taken.

And now William knew by whom.

_____

William had thought he could stomach it. He’d told himself – lied to himself – that every touch from Kenta, every stolen kiss, every brush of fingers against his wrist was just strategy. Just a game he was playing to draw out the truth. But no matter how tightly he clamped down on his revulsion, it ate at him like acid.

Kenta’s lips on his had felt like betrayal – not of Est, but of himself. The taste of it lingered long after, bile burning at the back of his throat. He could still see Est’s eyes in his mind, the way they softened when William kissed him, the way Est had leaned into him like there was no one else in the world. To let Kenta put his mouth on him now, as though Est had never existed, felt like spitting on that memory.

He couldn’t do it. Not for another night. Not for another breath.

So William pulled away. Abruptly. Too abruptly.

He covered the movement with a weak smile, some excuse about needing time, about wanting to savor things, but his skin crawled even as Kenta smirked and whispered something smug in his ear. He knew he couldn’t keep up this charade much longer without slipping.

If he couldn’t play Kenta into revealing Est’s whereabouts, then he’d find another way.

A sharper way.

That night, alone in his chambers, William paced the length of the room until the carpets were rumpled under his boots. His thoughts churned like storm winds. James’s poison, Kenta’s lies – they all converged into one singular truth he could no longer ignore: Est hadn’t left. He had been taken. And he was still here. Somewhere.

The palace was a maze of secrets, of tunnels and cellars William had only half remembered from childhood games with James. If Est was being hidden, it was within these walls. And Kenta – arrogant, overconfident Kenta – would be his map, if only William could track him unseen.

So he decided.

He dug out old clothes from the servants’ quarters – plain, rough-spun fabric that smelled faintly of dust. He bound his hair beneath a hood, smeared a streak of ash across his jaw to dull the sharpness of his features. In the mirror, the reflection staring back was not a prince but another shadow of the palace. Unremarkable. Forgettable. Exactly what he needed.

The first night he followed Kenta, his heart beat so loud he was sure it would give him away. He kept to the edges of hallways, memorizing the rhythm of Kenta’s steps, the careless swing of his arms as he strolled through the palace like it already belonged to him.

Kenta was cautious, though – frustratingly so. He never lingered in one place too long, never led William anywhere more incriminating than the kitchens, the gardens, or James’s wing. He always seemed to sense eyes on him, glancing over his shoulder with that foxlike sharpness that made William freeze in the shadows.

But William had patience. He’d been raised to play the long game, to wear masks until they became second skin. And beneath the disguise, his determination hardened into something cold and dangerous. He would follow Kenta until his mask slipped. He would shadow him until he led William to Est.

And when that happened – when William finally laid eyes on Est again – there would be no force in the world that could keep him from tearing the walls of this palace apart brick by brick to bring him back.

William waited until the halls were quiet before moving. He’d long since abandoned sleep – too restless, too haunted by the hollow absence where Est should have been. The moonlight spilling across his chamber did little to soothe him; instead, it sharpened the gnawing edge of his desperation.

He shed his fine silks for plain clothes, rough-spun garments borrowed from the laundry stores. A long cloak draped over his shoulders, hood pulled low to obscure the cut of his jaw, the shine of his hair. Even his boots were swapped for scuffed, worn leather that wouldn’t betray his step against the cobblestones.

In the glass, his reflection startled him. The prince was gone. What stared back was just another shadow-dweller, someone meant to slip unnoticed through the cracks of the palace. That was good. That was necessary.

For days, William had played Kenta’s game – the feigned softening, the subtle smile when Kenta touched his wrist, the kiss he had forced upon himself, bile rising in his throat even as he tilted his chin to make it convincing. All of it was to bait him, to pull loose even a sliver of truth. And while Kenta was careful, too careful, he had slipped.

A phrase muttered in drunkenness. A glance over his shoulder when William asked where he disappeared to in the afternoons. A tension in his body when James’s name came up.

And William, who had studied men his entire life – courtiers, rivals, sycophants – saw it.

Kenta knew where Est was.

He could no longer endure Kenta’s hands on him, the weight of false intimacy while his heart screamed for the one who wasn’t there. So now he would find his answers another way.

The first night, he followed at a distance. Cloaked and silent, hugging the shadows as Kenta slipped through the back corridors. William’s heart pounded so hard he was sure it would give him away, but Kenta never turned. Never noticed the phantom dogging his steps.

Through narrow stairwells and servant tunnels, William kept his eyes fixed on the set of Kenta’s shoulders, the way he moved like someone certain of his destination. It was only when Kenta stopped short – glancing around, listening – that William pressed himself flat against the stone, willing himself invisible.

Kenta produced a key. A heavy iron one. He fit it into a door William had walked past countless times, never wondering what lay behind it. The hinges groaned, the door swallowed Kenta whole, and then it shut again.

William’s breath caught. The air smelled faintly of damp and mildew here. A storage door, perhaps, but Kenta had vanished behind it like smoke into a jar.

When Kenta emerged minutes later, adjusting his tunic, wiping something from his hands, William felt a sick twist of certainty coil in his gut.

He’d been right. Est was down there.

But he couldn’t act yet – not with Kenta so close, not without a weapon, not when his own pulse roared too loud to think.

So William let him pass, waited in silence until Kenta’s footsteps faded, and only then touched the stone where the door had been.

The key. He needed the key.

And he would get it.

Even if it meant playing Kenta one last time.

______

The following nights became a ritual.

William moved like a ghost through the underbelly of the palace, always cloaked, always three steps behind. Kenta had a pattern, though he masked it well. He never left at the same hour twice, never took the same route twice. But William noticed the subtler consistencies – the way his shoulders drew tight just before he slipped into the servant passages, the way he carried his weight when he thought no one was watching.

The door was always the same. The heavy iron key always gleamed faintly in the lamplight before Kenta disappeared below. William pressed himself into the shadows each time, his fists aching to strike, to wrench the key away, to throw the man against the stone and demand Est’s name from his mouth.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. The timing wasn’t right. If he lost Kenta now, Est might be moved. Or worse.

So he endured.

And still Kenta circled him in daylight like a vulture. Reaching for his hand at supper, whispering sly compliments as though William might still melt under them, angling for another kiss. William forced a mask onto his face, a smile that felt carved into him, and let Kenta think the game still belonged to him.

All the while, he studied.

Kenta kept the key close – not in the servant’s belt pouch William once expected, but on a thin chain tucked beneath his shirt. William had glimpsed it once, when Kenta leaned too far across the table, when the fabric pulled just enough to reveal the outline of iron against skin.

The knowledge haunted him.

At night, alone in his chamber, William replayed the sight until sleep fled him. His hands trembled as though they already brushed the chain, already slid the key free. He imagined slipping it into the lock, imagined the stale air rushing out of the chamber below – imagined Est.

But every time, the picture faltered. He didn’t know what condition Est was in. Didn’t know who else guarded him. Didn’t know if Kenta was baiting him in return, waiting for William to break.

Patience. He needed patience.

And yet, patience cut him open. Each time Kenta leaned close, breath sour against his cheek, William nearly snapped. Nearly grabbed his collar and snarled, Tell me where he is. Each time Kenta’s hand brushed his shoulder, he fought the urge to drive a blade through it.

Instead, he shadowed him again. And again.

Once, Kenta almost caught him.

A torch flared suddenly in the corridor, Kenta’s head whipping over his shoulder. William’s stomach dropped; he pressed himself behind a crumbling pillar, so close he could hear Kenta’s breath rasping. For a long moment, the silence was unbearable – the flicker of firelight stretching shadows across stone.

Then Kenta spat on the floor and muttered to himself, turning away. William didn’t breathe until he was gone.

The close call left him shaken, but it also lit something savage in him. He couldn’t afford another slip. He had to move soon.

But soon wasn’t now. Not yet.

So William returned to his chambers before dawn, stripped off his disguise, and stared at himself in the mirror again. Not the prince. Not the boy who smiled easily. What looked back at him now was sharper, hungrier, cut down to nothing but need.

And still, Est wasn’t there.

_____

William had never thought he’d let Kenta touch him again, not after all that had happened. Not after Est. But night after night of coming up empty, of wearing a mask so long his own face felt foreign, he knew he had no choice.

He needed that key.

The game began with a smile. One that Kenta had once known so well.

William found him in the east wing, lounging over maps with a glass of plum wine in hand, his hair tied loose, his smirk inviting trouble. “Still pouring over strategies?” William drawled, stepping into the room, his tone languid, calculated. “I remember when you used to pour your energy into… other things.”

Kenta’s gaze flicked up, sharp, then softened with that familiar glint of want. He leaned back, stretching, deliberately letting William look at him. “And here I thought you’d forgotten,” he teased.

William’s stomach turned, but he forced a low laugh, letting it rumble just right. “Not entirely.”

He crossed the room slowly, pouring himself wine with a steady hand, though every nerve screamed at him. They drank together, Kenta suspicious at first, then easing into it, relaxing as William’s touches grew bolder – a brush of fingers over his wrist as he refilled his cup, the deliberate lean of his body just a little too close.

“You’ve changed,” Kenta murmured, voice low, breath wine-sweet. His hand lingered against William’s thigh as though testing old boundaries. “But I can’t decide if I like this William better.”

William swallowed the bile rising in his throat, leaned in, and kissed him.

It was soft at first – calculated, clinical. But Kenta deepened it, greedy, hungry, and William let him. He let his hands wander, tracing Kenta’s chest, untying his robe halfway, feeding the illusion with every practiced sigh. His mind, meanwhile, was a hurricane: I’m sorry, Est. Forgive me. Just a little longer. Just enough.

Kenta drank more, pressed harder, eager. William matched him cup for cup, except he only ever let the wine touch his lips before slipping it away, unseen. He watched Kenta’s eyes grow heavy, his words slower, slurred, sloppy with desire.

That was when William’s fingers found what he had been searching for all along.

The small, iron key tied to a cord beneath Kenta’s robe, resting against his skin.

He kissed him harder then, distracting him, his hand sliding across his chest as though for pleasure, when really he was easing the cord loose, inch by inch. Kenta moaned into his mouth, utterly unaware, lost in wine and want.

William’s hand closed around the key.

For a moment his heart thundered so violently he thought it might give him away, but Kenta only slumped deeper against him, sighing. “Stay tonight,” he murmured drunkenly, pulling William closer. “You don’t have to be alone.”

William pulled away, just slightly, cradling Kenta’s jaw, hiding the key now burning against his palm. “Maybe,” he whispered, lips brushing Kenta’s ear. “Maybe later.”

Kenta passed out not long after, sprawled across the couch in disarray, still smiling faintly in his sleep.

William stood over him for a long moment, trembling with disgust, with triumph, with fear. Then, carefully, he tucked the key into his sleeve.

The mask dropped the second he was out of sight. His chest heaved, his throat tight, his lips burning where Kenta had touched them. He staggered into the empty corridor, clutching the key like it was his last tether to sanity.

Hold on, Est, darling. I’m coming.

_______

William’s getting closer. Let’s hope he gets to Est in time. And let’s hope that James and Kenta don’t figure out his plan…

Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter.

Leave me your thoughts in the comments.

The updates will be slower for the rest of August because I have exams and a bunch of open cases that I need to wrap up soon aaaahhhh – I’ll try my best to update but I hope y’all will understand!