Even with hesitation, Octavio approached.
The heavy door to his father's chamber was slightly ajar. Inside, muffled voices stirred the stillness.
"Please consider it, Your Majesty," came the calm voice of the Minister. "It is in the best interest of the Kingdom."
"Yes, Your Majesty," added the Commander-in-Chief. "We must protect the royal bloodline. Peace may reign now, but we cannot predict the future. The neighboring kingdoms-especially Rala-move in ways that trouble me."
A deep sigh followed. "I will think about it," the King replied.
"Our King is wise," the Minister said with a bow. "Then tomorrow, I shall bring forth a list of suitable Crown Princess candidates. Please, Your Majesty-rest well tonight."
The two men exited the chamber. As they walked down the corridor, their whispers lingered like echoes against stone.
"My daughter is cultured and noble. She understands the people," the Minister said, pride lining his tone.
"Hmph. Culture and empathy are noble traits," the Commander replied sharply, "but not enough to rule. A Queen must wield a sword when needed, command armies without fear, and judge with both firmness and mercy. My daughter has all that."
Their voices faded into the distance.
From behind the velvet curtain, Octavio stepped forward-eyes shadowed with pain, mind heavy with turmoil.
He did not enter his father's chamber.
He ran.
Through the corridor where guards whispered and bowed.
Past the tall columns that had watched generations pass.
He ran-not as a prince-but as a boy who didn't know what he wanted, only what he couldn't bear.
When he finally stopped, breathless and worn, the world around him had changed. No longer halls of gold and stone.
This was the back garden.
Quiet. Still. Forgotten by the noise of court and crown.
The moonlight shimmered on the pond, and the night breeze tickled the leaves of the old willow. This was the only place that never asked anything of him.
Octavio sat.
The stone bench beneath the willow had always been cold. It was comforting somehow.
He looked at his hands.
"Why... even am I here?"
His voice was hoarse, but no one heard.
"Why do I live for? Just why...?"
He didn't cry. He didn't even feel sadness. Just emptiness-like he had been drained of every colour inside.
Time passed.
Maybe an hour. Maybe more.
The garden didn't care.
It held him.
Then-
"So. Finished sulking?"
The voice shattered the silence like a pebble tossed into still water.
Octavio flinched.
He turned his head slowly.
Fabale.
Of course, it was Fabale.
He was here.
Why?
What now?
What would he say?
What would he do?
---
(...To be continued)