After Wolof finished speaking, the study remained quiet for a long time.
No one spoke. After Wolof's voice disappeared, the air seemed to have lost all its warmth, leaving only the moonlight moving slowly.
Lia stood in the corner next to the bookshelf, her back pressed against the spines of old books that reached the ceiling.
Her right hand was still covering her mouth, her fingers curled up, the tips pressing against her cheekbone, her knuckles white from the force. Tears streamed down from between her fingers, pooling on the tip of her chin, and silently falling onto the sleeve of the hand that was holding Cobra.
Prince is still alive, but his father wants to kill Prince, so Prince returns to seek revenge.
These three facts were like three nails driven into her heart, sinking deeper with each breath.
How old was Prince when she left the palace?
She quickly counted back in her mind. At that time, she had just started learning ancient Alabasta history with her tutor. Prince would occasionally sneak into her class, stand at the back of the classroom and listen for a while. When the teacher turned her back to write on the blackboard, he would make a face at her and then quietly slip out.
He stopped coming to class later, and his father said he was dead.
She remembers locking herself in her room and sitting by the window for the entire afternoon on the day the obituary was published.
She didn't cry; her mother had taught her since she was younger that women of the Nefertari Family never cried in public.
That night, she pushed open Prince's empty study door, where half of a book he hadn't finished reading before leaving lay open on the table.
The book's pages were folded at the corners, and next to them lay a dip pen that hadn't had its cap put back on; the ink had already dried.
Now she knew that her father had orchestrated Prince's death.
Three years ago, the father and son betrayed each other, and then each tried to save Alabasta in their own way, resulting in Alabasta being torn to pieces.
She remained completely unaware of the entire incident.
She removed her hand from her mouth, leaving four faint crescent-shaped marks on her cheek with her fingernails.
She looked down at Cobra, who was fast asleep in her arms. Cobra's little fists were clenched around the fabric of her clothes, her breathing was even, and her nostrils flared slightly.
Cobra rolled over in her arms, his little hand unconsciously clutching a strand of her hair, gripping it tightly, as if he were grasping at something that wouldn't disappear even in his dream.
He heard nothing and understood nothing.
Lia pulled Cobra closer to her.
She lowered her head, pressed her lips to the top of Cobra's soft hair, and silently uttered three words.
That was a promise from an older sister to her younger brother: from this moment on, she would never let anyone take away her family without her knowledge.
Barlow remained leaning against the bookshelf.
His fingers tapped lightly on his upper arm once, twice, three times, the rhythm even, perfectly synchronized with the pendulum of the grandfather clock in the corner of the study.
His posture was unchanged from when he first entered the study; his face showed no anger, no sadness, nothing that could be called an "expression."
He had already guessed the outcome when Wolof said Prince had changed, but he still listened to the old man grind every word down and dig it out of his throat without interrupting, asking questions, or saying a word.
Prince was not a madman, an ambitious man, or an opportunist who took advantage of the chaos to start a rebellion.
Prince is an enemy created by Wolof himself, an enemy created through a father's murder of his son, a king's sacrifice of order, and a meticulously planned but unsuccessful execution.
Now he's even more determined to see Prince.
In Katya's command post, when the commander who committed suicide by poison said with his last breath, "If he were standing here right now and said to me, 'Let's do it,' I would go to hell with him," he felt that such loyalty was somewhat incomprehensible.
Now he understands.
At eighteen, a man traversed the entire desert, learned how merchants were exploited in the market of Yuba, dug irrigation canals in the driest farmlands, and witnessed the wounds of the world's most vulnerable populations.
Another person, who had been recording the hypocritical speeches of every Affiliated Nation representative in the World Government's parliamentary gallery, was poisoned and hunted down by his own father. He then went into hiding, biding his time and enduring hardship before returning to seek revenge.
He understood the commander who refused to surrender in Katya, and he also understood why Charles abandoned the king who had been loyal for more than a decade, and led half of his guard to join a prince who had been declared dead.
The very quality that made Prince so compelling that his followers were willing to die for him was now pervasive in the study, like the air itself.
The old man who killed his own son stood by the window, his back still straight, his hands still gripping the window frame, yet he seemed so fragile that a gust of night wind could blow him away.
Barlow didn't know how much longer Wolof could hold out.
From the moment he heard Charles and Prince's story, he had already formed a rough judgment in his mind. Now he was more willing to believe an enemy who could make the captain of the palace guard willingly die, rather than a father who had even poisoned his own son.
But this father cannot afford to collapse now.
Alubarna needs a king; this nation torn apart by Prince needs a temporary needle to mend the rift, even if that needle is rusty.
Roy stood in the study doorway, his arms hanging at his sides, his fingers unconsciously stroking the polished white rope at the end of the knife hilt.
His lips were pressed into a straight line, and the corners of his mouth turned down.
He was thinking of another scene: that morning, before they set sail, his Pops took them to see the first boat he had built himself and personally saw them off at sea.
The Pops's back view that day, with its broad shoulders and straight back, bore a striking resemblance to the king standing by the window now.
My Pops was always so silent, whether he was working or spending time with them.
Back then, he thought his Pops's silence was because he had nothing to say. Now he realizes that there is a kind of silence because there is too much to say, so much that he doesn't know where to begin.
Roy subconsciously tightened his grip on the hilt of his knife. He suddenly longed to return to White Wax Island, to stand before his Pops's bronze statue, saying nothing, just for a while.
Mila stood in the shadows on the other side of the study.
She didn't cross her arms like Barlow, nor did she grip the knife like Roy. She simply leaned against the side of the bookshelf, her arms hanging at her sides, her fingers lightly resting on the edge of her belt.
Her gaze remained unchanged, scrutinizing the old man.
Examine this father who sat on the throne and poisoned his own son, examine the resigned look on his face when he uttered in a hoarse voice, "Politics is simply choosing the least bad option from a bunch of bad ones."
She pulled her fingers back from the edge of her belt, her nails digging shallow marks into her palms.
She thought of the time her Pops died.
That man protected his child until his death, while this old man, for the sake of the so-called "greater good," personally poisoned his proudest son.
This is royalty, this is politics, this is what Wolof called "the least bad option"—using his son's life to secure the so-called greater good.
This kind of thing won't happen to the Uchiha.
Her gaze shifted from Wolof to Lia.
The Royal Princess hadn't said a word since the beginning, gritting her teeth and enduring the pain.
Mila had seen too many women holding back their tears; she had seen a woman driven to desperation in the Orange Town casino just like that.
She clenched her teeth, her lips turned down, and tears clung to her eyelashes but wouldn't fall—just like Lia now.
Her gaze lingered on Lia's face for two seconds before shifting away.
She didn't dislike the Royal Princess, but was unsure where to categorize her: innocent but not stupid, weak but not a liability in crucial moments, and able to quickly organize her thoughts to report to her father after being kicked away by the assassin yesterday. Perhaps she wasn't so bad.
She loosened her grip on her nails, brushed the stray hairs that had fallen over her shoulder behind her ear, and looked up at Wolof again. Her gaze was no longer scrutinizing, but only cold and calm.
Wolof slowly turned around and sat down in the chair behind the desk. The chair back was high, making him look smaller.
Lia spoke, her voice still trembling, but she tried to suppress it to the point that only she could hear it.
She lowered her eyes, bent down, and bowed to her father.
"I'll take Cobra back to rest first."
Wolof didn't answer, but simply raised his hand slightly and waved gently in her direction.
The gesture lacked strength; the fingertips only lifted halfway before falling back onto the table.
Lia carried Cobra toward the door. As she passed Barlow, she paused briefly, turned her head, and her lips moved for a moment, but ultimately no sound came out.
She lowered her head and quickly walked out, the door closing gently behind her.
"You should all go back and rest. We can discuss other matters tomorrow."
Barlow turned and walked towards the door. The three of them left the study, and the door closed silently behind them.
The candlelight still shone in the corridor, and Barlow walked at the front, his footsteps silent.
Mila walked on his left, Roy on his right.
None of the three spoke.
After walking for a long time, Roy spoke softly, "If Pops knew we were involved in this mess, would he jump down from the statue and yell at us?"
Mila didn't respond, nor did Barlow.
After a while, Roy said again, "If I ever turn into Prince, you can just beat me up."
Mila glanced at him sideways. "You can't become Prince."
"Why?"
You're not as smart as him.
Roy opened his mouth, then realized he couldn't refute it, and finally said, "Thanks."
Mila didn't ask him what he was thanking her for; she simply took a half-step closer to him, her shoulder almost touching his arm.
Barlow walked ahead of the two without saying a word.