It had rained the night before.
A soft drizzle — quiet, hesitant — just enough to leave the stones slick and the garden smelling of wet earth. The palace rooftops shimmered under the morning sun, water still dripping from the curved eaves like forgotten thoughts.
Sabara didn't sleep well.
He'd tossed and turned on his mat, eyes open long past midnight, the ceiling fan above humming a tune too slow to quiet his mind. His chest felt tight — not from fear, exactly, but from the weight of something unspoken. He kept hearing Rudura's voice from yesterday… soft, measured, and far too knowing.
He's just a child.But then why…?
Why did those words carry history in them?
Why did his gaze feel like it belonged to someone who'd lived through battles, betrayals, and long-forgotten oaths?
By the time the palace stirred with footsteps and the metallic clatter of trays, Sabara was already on his way back.
He didn't have orders to visit the nursery that day. But he carried a tray anyway — just a few mango slices and some warm rice cakes. A cover story, in case anyone asked.
But in truth, he needed to see the boy again.
He needed to be sure.
The courtyard was quiet as always, the same lattice shadows trembling on the stone. Rudura sat near the far wall, back to the morning sun, stacking pebbles into a careful tower — one, then two, then three. Balanced. Precise. Intentional.
He didn't look up when Sabara entered.
Sabara approached slowly, setting the tray down beside him.
"Didn't think I'd see you today," he muttered, crouching low.
Rudura didn't speak.
Sabara studied him for a moment — the curve of his small shoulders, the way his fingers moved without fidgeting. Too calm. Too quiet. And yet…
"You remember what you said yesterday?" Sabara asked gently.
Rudura paused. A pebble slipped from his hand.
"No," he said, blinking up at Sabara. His voice was softer today. Rounder. Childlike.
Sabara tilted his head. "You sure?"
Rudura nodded. "Did I say something bad?"
"No… just strange."
Rudura frowned. "Like what?"
Sabara hesitated. He couldn't explain it, not without sounding like a fool. Maybe that's what this was — his own imagination running wild after too many nights eavesdropping on soldier gossip and temple stories.
Still, he tried again.
"Do you know what an emblem is?" he asked, reaching into his sash and pulling out something small — a faded copper token, worn around the edges, the design barely visible.
Rudura leaned closer, his expression curious. "It's a circle," he said, reaching out but stopping short of touching it. "With a flower?"
"Almost," Sabara replied, watching him carefully. "It's a broken lion crest. From the old army. People say only a few were made… and only the generals carried them."
"Oh…" Rudura tilted his head. "It looks pretty."
Sabara squinted. "Pretty?"
Rudura nodded. "Can I have it?"
Sabara laughed — a sharp exhale of relief and disbelief. "Sure, your highness. You can have the entire palace if you ask the right way."
Rudura didn't laugh, but he smiled — wide, open, innocent. Or at least, it looked that way.
Inside, he was thinking.
He hadn't forgotten the emblem. He hadn't misread Sabara's test. In fact, he recognized it the moment it appeared — not from a history book, but from somewhere deeper, where memory lived without language.
He had worn that emblem.
Once.
But now wasn't the time to reveal it.
Now was the time to become small again.
To be trusted.
To learn.
For the next ten minutes, Rudura asked all the right questions. Not strange ones. Normal ones. Ones that might have come from any boy his age.
"What do you eat in the servant hall?"
"Are there animals in the stables?"
"Do you get to see the sky from your room?"
He laughed once — genuinely, or close enough — when Sabara described a monkey stealing sweets during last year's festival. He widened his eyes in mock wonder at tales of sword practice in the outer yards. He asked what rice cakes tasted like, and Sabara handed him one with a grin.
"There you go. Royal treatment."
Rudura bit into it, then made a face. "It's too sticky."
Sabara burst out laughing. "You're honest, I'll give you that."
Their conversation meandered like a stream, winding through ordinary moments, washing away the heaviness from before. At least on the surface.
And yet, Sabara couldn't shake the sense that something had changed.
Or rather… that Rudura had changed.
Not just in the way he acted — but in how quickly he'd adapted.
Yesterday, sharp and distant. Today, soft and sweet.
Was this really a child figuring out the world?
Or was it something else entirely?
An hour passed like that, until distant bells rang across the courtyard — the signal for midday prayer and meal prep.
Sabara stood reluctantly. "I should get back before someone notices the prince is hogging my time."
Rudura looked up. "Will you come again?"
Sabara hesitated. "Do you want me to?"
Rudura nodded. "You're my only friend."
The words landed with an unexpected weight.
Sabara felt it — in his chest, in the stillness around them. He smiled, then reached down and tousled the boy's hair gently.
"Alright. I'll come again."
He turned to go, walking slowly this time, his steps unsure. Something about this didn't feel like a lie… and yet it didn't feel like the whole truth either.
Rudura watched him until he vanished into the hall.
The courtyard returned to its silence.
The pebble tower stood half-built beside him, casting a thin shadow on the stone.
He looked down at his hands — small, soft, uncalloused — then clenched them into fists.
He knew now.
Sabara had been testing him.
That emblem. That tone. The timing. Sabara was suspicious, even afraid.
But Rudura had passed the test.
He had become what they needed to see — a boy again, with wide eyes and sticky rice cakes and stories about monkeys.
It worked.
And yet… it made something twist inside him.
He didn't like lying. Not to Sabara.
But he couldn't afford to be discovered — not yet. There were still too many blanks in his memory, too many pieces to this life that didn't match the echoes in his blood.
So he made a choice.
If he couldn't tell Sabara the truth… he would use him.
At least for now.
Sabara had access — to whispers, halls, rumors, passing thoughts.
If Rudura played the part of the innocent, if he remained soft and unthreatening, the boy might open up.
Might slip secrets without meaning to.
Might become something more than a friend.
An ally.
And allies, Rudura knew, were harder to come by in this world than enemies.
He stood slowly, the hem of his robe brushing against the damp marble.
A crow called from the roof above, loud and sharp.
The sun had risen higher now, heat warming the stone under his bare feet.
He walked toward the edge of the courtyard, toward the columns where shadow met sunlight. His hand brushed one of the old carvings — smooth from time, but still marked with the memory of forgotten wars.
He stood there, staring into the dark hall beyond.
No longer smiling.
No longer soft.
Just quiet.
Thoughtful.
Awake.
(Continued in chapter 12)