Christopher moved quietly through the slums under the cover of dusk, stepping over uneven cobblestone and weaving between worn-down homes. Rats scurried at the edges of his vision, and the air smelled of oil smoke and old bread. He didn't need to ask around—he knew exactly which house he was looking for.
In the far corner of the slum, where even beggars didn't bother knocking, stood a small house made of worn brick and weathered wood. Through the open window, he caught sight of a woman moving around a small stove, humming softly.
Christopher slowed, something catching in his throat.
She was beautiful.
Golden hair tied back loosely, green eyes lit by the flame of the cooking pot. She was tall enough to look graceful, short enough to seem gentle. Not too thin, not too thick—just… balanced. A quiet kind of beauty that didn't shout, only whispered.
She didn't look like she belonged here. She didn't look like she could be anyone's mother, either.
Christopher blinked and forgot, for a moment, why he had even come.
Then came the voice.
> "Oh gods, you're hopeless. Is this the first time you've seen a woman? You like her? Go take her. You're in my body, remember? A prince. No one can stop you. Hell, just tell her who you are, and she'll throw herself at your feet."
Christopher didn't respond at first, just frowned.
Then he muttered, "Is that seriously how you think?"
> "That's how the world works. You see something, you take it. Especially when you're at the top."
Christopher scoffed. "Right. Steal what you want. Trample whoever you want. You ever learn anything beyond your own damn ego?"
> "Careful. You're still using my voice to say that."
"No thanks. And by the way," Christopher muttered under his breath, eyes still fixed on the woman, "don't give me lessons on women. I'm a hundred times better than you'll ever be. Now shut up, let me work."
The Prince didn't reply, but his irritated silence was somehow loud.
Christopher's thoughts drifted.
She's the protagonist's mother. I could use her, sure. A connection like that could be valuable. But… she's already had her share of pain. She loved once, and that man threw her away. She's been raising her son alone for years in this dump.
She deserves peace. Not manipulation. Not more men playing god with her life.
I'm not her savior. I'm not her enemy. But if I can help keep her safe, even without her knowing... I won't cross the line.
The woman finished cooking and stepped out, calling her son with a voice filled with warmth.
Christopher took the chance and slipped inside the house. The walls were clean despite the poor setting, and there was a kind of quiet dignity to everything. He moved quickly through the rooms, searching.
In one small room, half-lit by a crack in the roof, he found it.
A pot sat nestled on the ground, almost hidden in the corner. From it grew a plant with red flowers and green, sawtoothed leaves.
The Mawali plant.
Rare. Healing. And in the novel, the key to winning over the Bihu tribe.
Christopher didn't hesitate. He plucked it, tucked it into his storage ring, and placed an identical-looking plant in its place. A minor illusion—one that would keep suspicion at bay.
Because he knew something the protagonist didn't:
This plant didn't just happen to be here. Someone placed it. And Christopher intended to find out who… and why.
With his mission complete, he left the house the way he came—in silence.
---
That night, Christopher stayed at a modest inn, the kind where no one asked names and no one offered smiles. He laid on the cot, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
He didn't sleep much.
By dawn, he was gone—heading toward Avany County.
---
His next task was to meet the Countess of Avany. There were two ways to go about it:
1. Break into her manor like a thief,
2. Or find a way to call her out.
Option one had been tempting. But after the previous night's stealth mission, the Prince was already fuming with embarrassment.
> "I am not some street rat crawling through windows for weeds," he had grumbled.
Christopher, not wanting to deal with another royal tantrum, chose the second option.
He found one of the Countess's servants wandering the city market—an older man, tired-eyed and carrying a basket of vegetables.
Christopher tailed him for a while, waiting. Then, as the servant turned into a narrow alley, Christopher made his move.
With one smooth step, he closed the distance, unsheathed his sword, and pressed the cold blade to the man's neck.
The servant froze.
"L-Leave me! Please, I beg you!" the man stammered, dropping his basket. "I have children! They need me—please, sir, take the money, just don't kill me!"
Christopher's voice dropped low, icy and sharp.
"I don't want your money."
He leaned closer.
"But I do want a favor."