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At this point, the Duke and Duchess of Thorne, Damian’s parents, finally emerged from the cathedral. Seeing the King, they immediately fell to their knees.
Damian, as if finding his courage, turned to them. “Father, Mother! Seraphina was insolent to you! I will not have her as my wife!”
He expected them to support him, but they only looked at him with grim, worried expressions. As confusion clouded his face, the King spoke again.
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“Lord Damian, today is not your wedding day.”
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Damian’s face went blank. He couldn’t seem to comprehend the King’s words. “Your Majesty… you must be jesting. You yourself decreed my marriage to Seraphina.”
“As I recall, my decree was for a daughter of House Ashton to wed a son of House Thorne. I did not specify
which son.”
Damian relaxed slightly. “Exactly, Your Majesty. My parents have only one son.”
He looked confidently at his parents, only to see them exchange a look of profound sorrow. A knot of dread
formed in his stomach. Before he could speak, his father, the Duke, let out a long sigh.
“Damian, today is your brother’s wedding to Lady Seraphina. You will cease this madness at once.”
‘Impossible! You’re lying! House Thorne has only one son! He cannot be this Rhys, and he certainly cannot
be my brother!”
As Damian roared his denial, his mother burst into tears and the truth came spilling out.
Twenty years ago, the Duchess had gone to their country estate to rest, attended by only a few maids, when she went into an early labor. Exhausted, she had delivered twins, glimpsing two infants before she fainted from the strain. When she awoke, there was only one child in her arms. A frantic search revealed nothing, only that a disgraced servant had stolen one of the babes and vanished without a trace. The lost child bec- ame a secret, searing pain, a topic never to be mentioned in the Duke’s court.
Damian had never known.
Rhys was that child, lost for twenty years. When his parents learned of Damian’s foolish flight to chase after Clara, they were beside themselves. They decided that on the day of the wedding, they would announce Rhys’s identity and his rightful place, and the marriage to me would be his.
“No.. you’re all lying to me!” Damian’s pupils were dilated with shock. “He is an imposter! He is…” He seemed to make a decision. “He is an automaton I commissioned from a sorcerer!”
“Has the young lord gone mad with grief? How could an automaton look so real?”
“First he’s an imposter, now he’s an automaton. The man is raving.”
The crowd’s whispers were like needles on Damian’s raw nerves. He stared at Rhys. “You fraud! You think you can take my place? Never!”
But Rhys only spoke calmly. “The sorcerer you speak of… is it this man?”
As he spoke, two royal guards brought forward a shabby, desperate–looking man.
“You… you are…” Damian’s eyes lit up. “Master Alchemist! Why didn’t you destroy the automaton as I instruct- ed? No matter. Tell them! Tell everyone that this man is a fake!”
The alchemist fell to his knees, his voice trembling. “My lord… I have no knowledge of such arts…”
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“What do you mean? Damian’s throat went dry. A terrible unease washed over him. Looking into Rhys’s smil- ing eyes, Damian finally understood everything.
