The corridor echoed with soft footsteps, the torches casting golden halos on the cold stone walls. Rudura walked alongside Sabara, his eyes lowered, lips curved slightly in the perfect imitation of a curious, obedient boy. But within him, a storm raged. Not one of anger, but of quiet decisions. Today would mark a shift — the moment he took a deliberate step away from innocence and deeper into the shadow of manipulation.
Last night's conversation had been brief, but enough. Sabara's tone had shifted. The warmth was still there, but layered with a trace of alertness — a slight pause before answering, a careful rephrasing of his questions. Sabara suspected. Rudura had felt it in his bones.
So, this morning, he had practiced in the mirror — the posture of childish wonder, the soft stammer, the playful grin that let adults feel superior and safe.
And now, as Sabara guided him through the lower chambers of the fortress — showing him archives, tapestries, and more forgotten corners of the empire — Rudura played the part to perfection.
"Sabara," he said, tugging lightly at the older boy's sleeve. "Why is that crest shaped like a hawk, not a lion? Weren't the first kings warriors?"
Sabara turned, and for a second, Rudura saw the flicker in his eyes. Caution. Assessment.
But then Sabara smiled. "A hawk represents vision. The empire prides itself on foresight more than brute strength."
Rudura tilted his head, pretending to think. "I like that," he said softly. "Seeing before others see. That's smart."
And with those words, he planted the first seed.
That evening, Rudura sat alone in his room, staring at the candle's flame. Its flickering reminded him of the wavering parts of himself — the boy who once would've flinched at the thought of using someone, and the soul now whispering that this was necessary.
"Necessary," he whispered aloud, voice empty. "It's not evil… if it's for the greater goal."
His fingers trembled as he reached for the quill and parchment. Not to write anything down, but to give his hands something to do — something that felt more human.
Sabara was not his enemy. That made this harder. Sabara was kind, even gentle in his own quiet way. But kindness was not enough. Not in this world. Rudura had learned that in blood and betrayal.
And Sabara knew things. Things no child should know. He had knowledge of the empire's weaknesses, its patterns, its secrets — even if he didn't fully realize their value. That made him dangerous… and valuable.
The plan was forming now, solidifying like stone under pressure.
Sabara had a soft spot — Rudura saw it in the way he offered bread when he thought no one was watching, or how his gaze softened when Rudura yawned during lectures. He wanted to protect. That was his vulnerability.
Rudura would become what Sabara needed to protect.
Over the next week, the transformation began.
Rudura let himself become more "vulnerable" around Sabara. He started answering questions more like a boy would — half-formed thoughts, sometimes contradicting himself, feigning clumsiness in speech. He made sure his gaze was wide-eyed and sincere.
And in between those layers of childishness, he inserted glimpses of fear.
"Sometimes… I dream of fire," he whispered one night when Sabara had stayed behind to check on his ankle. "Of shadows chasing me. I… I don't know why. I feel like I'm missing something."
Sabara paused, a look of concern washing over his face. "Dreams often reflect our anxieties. This place, the palace, it's large and unfamiliar to you."
Rudura nodded slowly, clutching his hands together. "Do you think… someone might be hiding something from me? About who I really am?"
It was a calculated risk — enough truth to sting, enough innocence to mask it.
Sabara's silence was long. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "There are many things hidden in these walls, Rudura. Maybe too many."
That night, Rudura didn't sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, a war waging inside him.
What am I becoming?
Each step he took away from transparency carved a wound inside him. But he reminded himself — this was not a game. He had died once. Been betrayed. This world gave no mercy to those who walked with open hearts.
He wasn't using Sabara to hurt him. No. He was using him to survive.
And if survival required wearing masks, then so be it.
One afternoon, Sabara handed Rudura a folded cloth. Inside it was a hand-carved pendant — small, rough, shaped like a hawk.
"I made it for you," Sabara said, not meeting his eyes. "I thought… maybe it'll help you feel safer here."
Rudura took it slowly, fingers brushing over the grain. His throat tightened. Not from the act itself, but from the kindness behind it.
It would've been easier if Sabara was cruel. If he were like the guards who laughed when prisoners screamed, or the nobles who looked at servants as insects.
But Sabara was good.
And Rudura would still have to deceive him.
He looked up, forcing tears into his eyes — not fully faked, but amplified. "Thank you," he whispered. "I don't know why, but this means a lot."
That night, Rudura wrote a single sentence in his hidden notebook behind the loose stone in the wall:
"I will make him trust me completely — not because I want to, but because I must."
The next day, Sabara brought him to the northern wing — an area usually closed to younger residents. "There's something I want to show you," he said quietly.
Behind the wooden door was a map room — vast and filled with old scrolls and star charts. Sabara pulled down a dusty piece of parchment, spreading it on the table. It was a map of the underground tunnels beneath the capital.
Rudura kept his face blank.
"This is one of the empire's most protected secrets. Only three people have full access to this knowledge," Sabara said. "I'm showing you because… I trust you. Even if I don't understand why."
Rudura's breath caught.
This was it. The trust he needed. The access.
But instead of feeling triumphant, he felt cold.
He smiled softly. "I'll keep your secret, Sabara. I promise."
And inside, a quiet voice whispered:
You've started the path of no return.
That night, alone once again, Rudura stared at his reflection in the mirror.
He no longer saw just a child. He saw the mask. The layers. The growing distance between who he was… and what he was becoming.
"I'm doing this for the greater good," he whispered. "For justice. For truth. For the empire that betrayed me."
He said it again.
And again.
Until he almost believed it.
(Continued in chapter 13)