Kael wrapped himself in a humble cloak, the royal sigil hidden beneath coarse fabric. By his side walked his wives—Seriyah and Vireya—dressed in simple robes, laughing like carefree girls. His friends followed: Tavo wearing a market vendor's apron, Rashad disguised as a grumpy spice merchant, and Ilya blending in far too well among the noblewomen.
Even the old man came, trailing behind with his weathered instrument and a knowing smile.
The capital was alive. Lanterns floated between tall streets, children danced barefoot on the stones, and bakers shouted prices too high for pastries too small. Kael bought them all and handed them out with a wink.
He watched craftsmen work steel beside poets painting on wood. He played chess with beggars and lost on purpose. He shared rice wine with farmers and listened to a fisherman sing about a sea that didn't exist.
In that moment, Kael wasn't a king. He was simply Kael—the dreamer who had walked away from his family and built something real.
As the sun dipped low, they all gathered on a rooftop and watched the sky burn orange.
"Was it worth it?" Seriyah asked.
Kael didn't answer right away. He looked at his people laughing below and said, "It still is."
Then he turned to the old man.
"Why do I feel like I've seen your eyes before?"
The old man smiled, and his voice lowered. "Because you have. Once, long ago, when you were still running. I gave you a map."
Kael's heart skipped. His memory stirred—mud, mountains, a man by a fire drawing on the ground.
"You…" Kael whispered. "You pointed me toward the valley."
The old man raised his cup. "And now you stand in it."
And then, just as quickly, the old man stood and walked into the crowd, vanishing without another word.
Kael stared after him.
The laughter faded for a moment.
Then Tavo burped.
"Right, who's paying for all the pastries?"
To be continued...