The morning had a hush to it — as if the palace itself were holding its breath.
In the small courtyard behind the nursery, Rudura sat cross-legged on the sun-warmed marble. His little frame was still, save for the slow tilt of his head now and then, like a bird listening for something just beneath the wind. Light danced across the stone floor, filtered through the patterned lattice above, dust motes spinning like gold in the air.
He was waiting.
A familiar shuffle of feet echoed softly through the archway, and Rudura's lips parted — not in a smile, but in quiet recognition.
Sabara returned.
The boy-servant, no older than sixteen, carried a simple tray: figs, a half-cut melon, and a folded cloth to wipe the prince's hands. He walked barefoot, as always — quiet, respectful, and maybe a little too curious for his own good.
"You again," Sabara murmured, his voice playful but low. "Don't tell me you waited for me."
Rudura said nothing. But this time, he didn't look away either.
Their eyes met.
Sabara froze in place, tray still balanced in his hands. Something in that gaze unsettled him — not fear, but depth. Like staring into a well and realizing it went far deeper than expected.
He cleared his throat and placed the tray beside the boy. "Well… you're in luck. Today's figs aren't half rotten."
A beat of silence. Then Rudura spoke.
"Why are canals only dug in the south?"
Sabara blinked. He thought, for a moment, that he'd misheard. "Huh?"
Rudura looked down at the tray, fingers idly grazing the edge of the cloth. "You said the guards were talking about canals. Last week. Why only in the south?"
Sabara sat slowly, cross-legged beside him, like someone easing into a story they hadn't prepared to tell.
"Alright, little prince… I guess we're talking now."
Rudura tilted his head — just slightly. Listening.
Sabara ran a hand through his uncombed hair, then laughed under his breath. "Well, the south's dry. That's why. Real dry. No river runs through there, so the folks have to bring the water down. They started digging canals two winters ago."
"Was it Malavatas' idea?" Rudura asked softly.
Sabara raised a brow. "Malavatas? I mean… the ministers say so. But the workers say it came from a military proposal. Logistics or something. Not that it matters — Malavatas gets the credit either way."
Rudura's gaze dropped to the stone floor. His fingers drew small invisible lines across it, as if sketching something only he could see.
"Do people in the south know who ordered it?" he asked.
Sabara leaned back against a pillar, stretching his legs. "Does it matter? If the water flows, the people praise whoever brings it. The face on the coin, not the hand that carved the path."
Silence settled again. Birds chirped somewhere above the courtyard wall.
Then came the next question — quieter this time, but sharper:
"What happens if someone smarter than Malavatas lives here… and no one listens?"
Sabara's expression changed. Just for a second. A twitch in the jaw. A flicker of confusion.
"…What are you really asking, Rudura?"
The boy blinked.
Sabara rarely used his name.
"Nothing," Rudura said, but it came out too fast.
Sabara studied him. The silence between them stretched.
"You ever hear the story of the bird who sang the same tune twice?" he asked suddenly, trying to lighten the air. "First time, no one listened. Second time, the wind carried the song far enough that even kings paused to hear."
Rudura didn't respond. But his eyes — those strange, quiet eyes — locked onto Sabara's with unsettling clarity.
It wasn't just intelligence in them.
It was memory.
Old memory.
Sabara felt something crawl up the back of his neck.
He looked away quickly, trying to shake it off. "You… you ask strange questions for a child."
"I've heard strange answers," Rudura replied.
That stopped him cold.
Sabara stared at him — not with amusement this time, but a strange, growing unease.
Rudura was just a boy. Barely walking. Barely talking.
And yet, he spoke with the calmness of someone who'd been here before. Someone who understood things no child should. It was subtle — the way he listened too carefully, how he never needed things explained twice, how his gaze didn't flicker like other children's. He saw too much. Said too little.
Sabara rose slowly to his feet, brushing dust from his knees. His heartbeat had quickened, though he didn't know why.
"I should go."
Rudura didn't argue.
Sabara turned to leave but paused near the archway. His fingers clenched slightly at his sides.
He looked back one last time.
"You're not… just a child, are you?" he whispered.
Rudura didn't reply. Didn't nod. Didn't smile.
He simply watched.
And in that moment, Sabara felt like he was being measured — not by age or size or title, but by something older than both of them. Something watching him through the boy's skin.
He turned and walked away, a little faster than before.
Back in the courtyard, Rudura sat alone once again, his small hands folded neatly in his lap.
He didn't smile.
He didn't move.
But inside — beneath the silence — something stirred.
Something remembered.
And somewhere deeper still, a single thought whispered itself into being.
(continued in chapter 11)