Fabale reached the edge of the black alley, breath ragged from running, sword clenched tightly in his hand. His voice echoed down the narrow, dark path as he shouted,
"Octavio! Where are you?!"
No answer. Only silence. Until—
His eyes caught something glinting faintly on the ground beneath the moonlight. He stepped closer.
It was a torn bag.
And beside it—letters. Several of them, scattered and dirt-streaked, the delicate seal of Queen Elaria's handwriting still visible on the creased paper.
Fabale froze.
He knelt quickly and picked them up with trembling hands. His heart clenched. He knew how precious these were—Octavio had guarded them like pieces of his soul.
"This is my fault," he muttered under his breath, a sharp sting of guilt sinking into his chest.
Then—
A noise.
Behind a bin, something shuffled.
Fabale snapped to his feet, sword drawn and pointed toward the sound. "Show yourself!" he shouted.
A strained, familiar voice replied, weak and hoarse—
"Fa... Fabale… is that… you?"
Fabale's heart dropped. "Octavio?!"
He lowered his sword instantly and rushed forward, but Octavio's panicked voice stopped him in his tracks:
"No—don't come! Stop!"
Fabale froze, confused.
"What… what happened? Are you hurt?" he asked, fear creeping into his voice.
A pause.
Then Octavio replied, softly, "It's… a question of royal dignity."
Fabale stood still, struggling to understand. "Octavio… dignity means nothing to me if you're suffering. Let me help you."
Silence again.
And that silence was what frightened Fabale the most.
He stepped closer—slowly, gently—until he reached the shadows behind the bin.
And what he saw made his chest tighten.
There, slumped against the wall, was Octavio.
Fabale's breath caught.
There Octavio sat—his hands still bound, bruises blooming along his jaw and arms, and the fine clothes of Obelion's crown prince… gone.
Stripped of his dignity.
Left in nothing but his undergarments.
Octavio turned his face away, ashamed beyond words.
He had never been seen like this.
Not as a prince.
Not as a warrior.
But as a helpless boy in the dirt, defeated and discarded by the world outside the palace walls.
Fabale didn't move right away. He knelt quietly, gently placing the collected letters at Octavio's side.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said—
"You're still the prince of Obelion, even now."
Octavio flinched. "Don't lie."
Fabale's hand hovered in the air, hesitant. "I'm not. I've never seen someone look more human than you do right now."
Octavio gave a bitter laugh. "Human? Or humiliated?"
"Both," Fabale said honestly. "But that doesn't make you weak. It makes you real."
Octavio finally looked at him. His eyes were glassy—but no tears fell. "I froze, Fabale. I let them take everything. I couldn't even fight back. I'm not… what they think I am."
Fabale reached into his own cloak and pulled out a spare travel tunic and cloak. "Get dressed," he said softly. "Not because you need to hide… but because we need to move forward."
He handed the clothes over and turned away, giving Octavio his privacy.
"I'll undo the rope," he added gently, crouching once Octavio had changed.
As the bindings came loose, Octavio whispered, "Why didn't you scold me?"
Fabale smiled slightly without turning. "Because you've already done it yourself. And because you stood back up."
Octavio said nothing as he dressed in silence, the weight of shame still draped heavier than any cloak.
Fabale didn't press him.
He simply walked beside Octavio, one hand ready at his sword, the other steady at his side—as if guarding more than just a friend, but something fragile that must not break again.
When they reached the inn, Fabale guided him to the room they had shared the night before.
There, with quiet hands, he cleaned the blood from Octavio's bruised jaw and wrapped fresh bandages around his scraped arms. He didn't speak. Not once.
He didn't need to.
Afterward, he brought over a small plate of food—warm bread, a boiled egg, and soft cheese—and placed it on the table without a word.
Octavio sat still for a long while.
Fabale waited. When he saw him finally lift a piece of bread, he stood up.
Before leaving the room, he paused at the door, casting one last glance at his quiet companion.
Then, in a calm voice, he said—
"Think again. The world isn't made only of beauty, nor are people all good. And you—" he met Octavio's gaze, "you're not a hero from legend. You're a man. A human. One who's learning to bear the weight of responsibility."
He let that truth settle in the silence.
"Don't see today as disgrace. See it as your first real lesson in the world outside your crown. Rest. We'll talk tomorrow."
He left, quietly.
The door closed with a soft click, and Octavio was left alone with the quiet flicker of the candle and the steady echo of Fabale's words.
For the first time, they didn't sting.
They taught.
And in that still moment, Octavio—though still bruised—began to heal.