After their meal, the two princes rested in a quiet corner of the inn, tucked away from the murmuring crowd. The fire crackled softly nearby, casting shifting patterns on the wooden floor.
Fabale sat slouched against the wall, arms crossed behind his head, gaze lost in the ceiling.
He looked relaxed—too relaxed. But Octavio had begun to notice something beneath the smirk…
A stillness. A heaviness.
Fabale was reckless, yes—but not careless. His silence sometimes held more weight than his jokes.
Octavio, unable to rest, reached for his travel satchel. Inside were the few things he had taken when he fled the palace:
A pouch of gold coins.
His sword.
A folded map.
And a bundle of letters—delicate, old, tied with a faded blue ribbon.
They were the final pieces of Queen Elaria.
In Obelion, death during childbirth was so common that every pregnant woman wrote a will—just in case. If they survived, the letters were destroyed. But if not… they became final words.
Queen Elaria had written many such letters during her second pregnancy.
She never got to destroy them.
She had spent nearly all her final days with young Octavio—tender, smiling, always watching him with eyes full of quiet fear.
Now, those letters were the only way her voice still reached him.
They were his salvation.
Octavio untied the ribbon carefully. Tonight, he opened one titled:
"When My Sun Is Surrounded by Dark Clouds."
The ink had faded slightly, but her hand remained steady and elegant.
> My dear Octavio,
The ray of my life.
Life is not always bright. It holds bitterness, disappointments, and shadows you may never see coming.
But do not worry, my son.
When the sky is covered with clouds, it doesn't mean the sun has disappeared. It only hides. The light always returns.
I know my brave son will face his storms—not with anger, but with a smile and wisdom.
I know you can do it.
Go ahead.
My blessings are always with you.
Take care.
From your deceased mother,
— Elaria
Octavio closed the letter, pressed it gently to his chest.
Outside, the wind stirred against the window.
Queen Elaria was gone.
But her faith in him was alive.
Fabale opened one eye lazily and asked, "Was it from her?"
Octavio nodded, barely.
"Was it... a good one?"
"…She called me her sun," Octavio whispered.
Fabale smiled, eyes closing again. "She wasn't wrong."
Silence stretched between them like a calm before the wind.
The letter lay folded in Octavio's hand. Its warmth lingered longer than the parchment should have allowed. Something inside him had shifted—subtle, but final.
He looked up. His eyes, once hesitant, were now steady.
"Fabale," he said softly.
Fabale glanced over, half-expecting another sigh of uncertainty.
Octavio stood. His voice, this time, clear.
"Let's go. Through the forest route."
Fabale blinked—genuinely surprised.
He straightened, pausing. "Are you sure?"
"I am."
There was a moment—brief, almost unseen—where Fabale's lips twitched, as if suppressing a proud smile.
"Alright then," he said, stretching his arms. "Let's get ready."
Octavio frowned. "That's it?"
Fabale tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"You're not going to question me? Ask if I'm ready? Why I changed my mind?"
Fabale shrugged with a casualness only he could wear like a royal cloak.
"Why would I question you? I gave you the choice—and you chose. Whether it's easy or hard, it's your decision. That's all I needed to see."
Octavio opened his mouth to reply, but—
"Let's not waste time with buts."
Fabale was already moving. "We've got a forest to cross. Supplies to gather. Rope. Water. Maybe a dagger or two."
He tossed a grin over his shoulder and disappeared out the inn's front door.
Octavio watched him go.
A chuckle escaped his lips, quiet but genuine.
"…What a strange person."