The next morning, Octavio, full of new energy, shook Fabale awake.
"Hey, blonde," he smirked. "Less sleep. Go find work fast—no food otherwise."
Fabale opened one eye slowly, hair tousled, still half-asleep. A grin curved on his face.
"Roger, Boss," he replied, laughing as he rolled out of bed.
Soon, they were out looking for jobs.
It was crop-cutting season. Farmers needed extra hands. Octavio was hired to help in the fields, while Fabale landed a job chopping wood for fuel in a busy local restaurant.
---
Octavio's Day:
Under the sun's relentless gaze, Octavio worked. Sweat rolled down his neck, soaking his shirt. Still, he smiled.
A farmer nearby glanced over. "Why so happy, lad?"
"Happy…?" Octavio repeated, confused.
"With all this back-breaking work, you keep smiling like it's a festival. Is it really that fun?"
Octavio paused. He hadn't realized he'd been smiling.
So… this is how it's done.
From cutting crops, drying, preserving, to finally reaching the table…
All my life, I only saw books or watched Father adjust grain prices. But now… I see it with my own eyes. And it's… amazing.
---
Fabale's Adventure:
Meanwhile, Fabale was carrying wood like a hero returning from war.
He flexed—on purpose—his sleeves unbuttoned just enough to show off the muscles he'd been hiding under royal armor.
Several passersby glanced. One girl dropped her onion.
Then came the real battle: potatoes.
In the back kitchen, Fabale tried to show off his knife skills—spinning it, slicing it, charming everyone.
"Oi! This ain't a palace!" the chef barked. "Cut potatoes, not your fingers!"
Poor Fabale. Prince of Rala. Wood hauler. Kitchen knight. Potato victim.
While Octavio worked in the golden fields and Fabale battled potatoes, King Augustus took a quiet stroll through the royal garden.
The garden was still tended by palace maids. The flowers were in full bloom. The air carried their scent.
But the king smelled nothing.
The colours were vibrant.
But he saw no beauty.
"The garden has lost its charm," he thought simply.
But deep down, he knew.
It wasn't the garden that had faded.
It was his heart.
As he walked, his eyes fell on a bed of soft blue petals swaying gently in the breeze.
"Oh... what was its name again?"
A whisper answered in his memory — warm, musical, gentle.
"Forget-me-not," said the voice of Queen Elaria.
He paused.
She used to run through these gardens, chasing little Octavio. This had been her favourite place — full of laughter and sun, a queen who danced like a daughter of nature. Even the flowers had seemed to bloom for her.
Now?
Dull. Silent. Still alive, but... lifeless.
He knelt, brushing his fingers along the petals.
"She introduced me to these flowers," he remembered.
"Every time I left or she did, she would place them in my hand. A quiet message."
Forget me not.
Not a request.
A vow.
His lips curved into a faint, broken smile.
---
A soft voice interrupted.
"Your Majesty, it's time for the round table meeting."
The king rose slowly.
"Ah... that's life," he murmured in his mind, and turned toward duty once again.
As he walked, his thoughts drifted far — to a boy now missing from these halls, and a weight too heavy to carry as only a father.
"If it were just me, I'd let him go. Let him fly."
"But I am not only a father. I am a king."
"Neither nobles nor commoners will forgive a crown that runs away."
He looked to the open sky — blue, vast, unreachable.
"Hurry, Octavio. Find your answers. Your wings. Your reason."
"Because this father... this king... cannot protect your freedom for much longer."