Through the palace window filtered the soft glimmer of the rising sun, casting warm shafts of gold on Rudura's stone floor. Light glided past the dust motes in the air, but Rudura was not gazing at the beauty for his eyes were busy scanning the scroll outspread before him.
Not just any scroll, mind you.
This he had taken from an unguarded moment in Malavatas' study. It was very old, with words written in some faded dialect, yet full of intricate diagrams - canals, irrigation lines, field rotations, and so much more. If he could not understand every word, the outline certainly gave away half the story: It was real. It was practical.
His slender fingers slowly traced one of the diagrams.
This is how I do it, he thought. They will not listen to a baby, but they will either question symbols... or question the patterns.
He stood with that ever-so-wobbly balance, dragging the scroll and along the marble floor. The paper was far larger for him to handle, curling back whenever he tried to set it down carefully. Yet, he pulled it across to the open courtyard outside his nursery-the very same courtyard in which Malavatas sometimes took his tea or wrote.
Setting the scroll right down in the middle of the courtyard, Rudura weighed it down with a few scattered pebbles. His hands were trembling-a little to show not fear but concentration. And then, from memory, He had gone over to the scroll with a piece of charcoal. He just made one little modification, marking a missing link in the irrigation design — something that had stuck with him from a military logistics sketch he had seen a few days before.
It was a minor revision, hardly there. But the entire structure became more efficient.
He finished and withdrew, sitting by the scroll and pretending to tinker with a nearby toy.
Minutes passed.
Then came footsteps.
Rudura did not turn around. Instead, he listened attentively.
The steps were lighter than those of Malavatas. They were a lot more muffled. Neither were the steps of a soldier. And then —
A sudden halt, followed by a small gasp.
"...What's this?"
Rudura glanced aside, cautiously.
It was only a young palace servant, barely sixteen. A boy. Barefoot. Holding a fruit tray for Malavatas' table.
The servant stared at the scroll with his eyebrows knitted together. Then his gaze swung over to Rudura.
"You did this?"
Rudura blinked. Then almost imperceptibly tilted his head — he neither gave a yes or no.
The boy chuckled softly. "Yeah, right. A prince baby making changes to royal plans." But he, too, finally looked away with a little shame. "Still... that line... it's the same thing I heard the guards talkin' about last week."
Rudura stayed silent
The boy crouched beside the scroll. "My name's サバラ (Sabara) ," he whispered, more to himself than to Rudura. "Don't know why I'm even talkin' to you like you understand. But you do, don't you?"
Their eyes met for a second.
And in that silence, something passed between them — a recognition. Rudura didn't need to speak. Sabara didn't need proof. He saw the strange intelligence in the boy's eyes — too still, too observant. It wasn't imagination. It was something else.
Sabara looked around. "If the ministers saw this… they'd say the gods are sendin' signs through you."
He let out a short, nervous breath. "Alright, little prince. I'll play your game."
Then, quickly, he rolled up the scroll and placed it gently back on the tray, fruit and all. "I'll leave this on Malavatas' table. He'll see it. And maybe he'll ask questions. Maybe he won't. But either way, no one saw you touch it."
As he stood, Sabara gave one last glance at Rudura — still small, still silent, but somehow not helpless.
"I don't know who or what you are," the servant muttered, "but you're not just a child."
Then he was gone, vanishing down the hall.
Rudura remained seated in the courtyard, watching the door close behind him.
He didn't smile. He didn't move.
But inside, a small warmth bloomed.
He had finally made a friend, or at least this is what Rudura thought.
One person. That's all it takes.