Fabale returned to the inn with a small pack slung over his shoulder — food, cloaks, and supplies tied with leather straps. But when he pushed open the door, a strange silence greeted him.
No Octavio.
"Octavio?" he called, but there was no reply.
A sense of unease crawled up his spine.
---
Meanwhile...
In the shadowed alleyways of the town, a figure stirred.
Octavio — tied at the wrists and ankles, body sore, consciousness flickering like a candle in the wind — slowly began to awaken.
"…What's with this crazy money pouch?" one voice muttered nearby.
"I've never seen this much gold in one place," said another. "He must be a merchant. Look at those clothes—noble for sure."
"That coat alone could fetch a good price," grunted a third.
"That coat's mine!" the second one snapped.
"Forget the coat! What do we do with him?"
"Did we kill him?" one voice asked, suddenly nervous.
"No! No, I didn't hit him that hard."
"We're thieves, not murderers," another insisted.
After a messy debate, the group decided to dump the unconscious stranger behind a dark corner of the alley and flee before guards noticed the commotion.
His royal cloak was gone. His coin pouch stolen. His dignity bruised.
---
Octavio lay still.
Though his eyes had opened, he didn't move.
He had never felt this… vulnerable.
This wasn't some royal sparring lesson in the courtyard, or a game of fencing with gloved hands and laughing trainers. This was reality — raw and cruel.
He knew how to hold a sword.
He knew how to swing one.
But not to survive.
This isn't a hero's tale, he thought bitterly. Not the kind told by minstrels with harps.
He felt like a child. A fool in a world that never needed to show him its teeth before now.
Part of him whispered to fight.
Another part — stronger — screamed to stay still, to breathe, to not provoke danger.
In the end, he remained where the robbers left him.
Tied. Silent. Afraid.
---
Elsewhere, Fabale's boots scraped across the cobblestones.
He'd asked every vendor, merchant, and passerby near the inn.
"Tall man? Black eyes? Merchant's coat?"
No one had seen him.
His hands clenched.
He was just about to shout when a voice stopped him. A boy—barefoot and beaming—rushed through the square, clutching something in his hands.
"Mama! Look at this! With this money, we can buy medicine… and food! Look!"
The mother, thin and pale, gasped softly as the boy poured coins into her lap.
Gold. Silver. But one coin gleamed brighter.
A royal seal etched into its surface.
Fabale's eyes sharpened. That kind of coin didn't circulate among the people — not even wealthy merchants carried those.
Fabale crouched in front of the boy and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Where did you find this coin?" he asked.
The boy and his mother exchanged frightened looks.
"We didn't steal it!" the mother cried, pulling her son close. "My son didn't steal anything — he earned it!"
Fabale immediately softened his voice, raising his hands to show he meant no harm.
"I believe you," he said gently. "I'm not here to punish you. I just need to know more. Please, tell me how your son earned that coin."
The boy, wide-eyed and trembling a little, nodded.
"My mother's sick. We're too poor to buy food or medicine. We have a mango tree, so I picked what I could and tried to sell the fruit in the market."
He looked down. "But the mangoes didn't look very good. Some were bruised. No one wanted to buy them. I... I was so hungry. I started crying, thinking I'd have to go home with nothing."
Fabale's throat tightened slightly, but he said nothing. The boy continued:
"Then... a kind man came by. He looked like a merchant. He listened to my story, smiled, and bought all the mangoes. He even gave me these gold coins… and told me to make sure my mother eats first."
The mother wiped a tear from her cheek.
Fabale felt his heart drop like a stone.
That was Octavio. No one else would give royal-sealed gold coins to a starving child for a basket of bruised fruit.
Fabale asked, "Do you know which way he went?"
The boy pointed nervously.
"He was walking toward Black Alley. That's where the bad people live. I... I wanted to warn him, but the crowd... I lost sight of him."
Fabale stood.
Black Alley.
That part of town wasn't just dangerous — it was ruled by shadows.
"Thank you," Fabale said, placing a small pouch of silver in the mother's hand. "For medicine. And food."
He drew his sword — silver glinting cold under the sun — and without another word, ran toward the Black Alley.
This wasn't just a rescue.
This was rage.
This was wrath.
This was a prince who had just found a reason to wield his sword for someone that mattered.