The next morning…
Fabale had woken up early and gone straight to the innkeeper.
"Something light, please," he said. "Something that helps with digestion."
The innkeeper nodded knowingly and began preparing the meal.
With a covered tray in hand, Fabale climbed the creaky stairs and stopped in front of Octavio's room. He gave a firm knock.
"Come in," came the voice from inside.
Fabale entered and set the tray gently on the side table.
Octavio, still gazing out the window, didn't turn around. Instead, he said dryly, "Your palace servants might faint if they saw their prince serving food."
Fabale smirked. "It's still better than seeing a prince all beaten up."
Octavio cracked a small laugh. Short, but real.
Fabale's eyes lingered on him. There was something different. Gone was the broken, ashamed boy from last night—standing now was a young man, upright, steady, quiet fire in his eyes.
What changed overnight? Fabale wondered.
Then, as if reading his thoughts, Octavio spoke.
"Let's go to the shop."
"Huh? Shop?" Fabale blinked. "Why? I already bought all the supplies. You want to return something?"
Octavio shook his head.
"Not for returning. For creating."
Fabale tilted his head, eyebrows raised. "Creating…? You know, you're really starting to sound suspiciously poetic. But fine. Let's go." He paused. "But first— he pointed to the tray —eat. Even brave speeches need a full stomach."
Octavio turned from the window and smiled. "Oh, yes!"
And so, the two princes sat down, sharing a quiet breakfast—one with newfound resolve, the other with growing curiosity about what was to come next.
After their meal…
Octavio and Fabale walked through the busy streets toward a quiet weapon shop tucked into the corner of a narrow lane. Octavio turned to Fabale just before they reached the door.
"Wait here. I'll go inside alone."
Fabale raised a brow but didn't protest. He leaned against the wooden post outside, watching curiously as Octavio disappeared inside.
Time passed. Not long, but enough to make Fabale suspicious.
When Octavio returned, there was something in his eyes—resolved, but distant.
"You should return to the inn," Octavio said casually.
Fabale narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
Instead of answering, Octavio began to walk. Fabale followed silently. Soon, they found themselves beneath a sprawling oak tree on the edge of the town.
"Octavio," Fabale said gently, "if there's something you want to say to me, say it. Don't hold it in."
Octavio looked away. He hesitated. Then, quietly—almost guiltily—he said,
"You can go back to Rala, Fabale."
The air froze.
Fabale didn't respond. His silence was louder than words. A heavy pause stretched between them like a rope being pulled.
Finally, Fabale broke it.
"Then what?" he asked. "Are you going home? If so, I'll lead you there."
Octavio quickly shook his head.
"No... It's not that. I just… I don't want to burden you anymore. You've already done more than enough. You don't have to suffer through this with me. This is my journey. I need to walk toward freedom on my own."
Fabale's eyes darkened. He looked down for a second, then murmured something under his breath.
"What?" Octavio asked, leaning forward. "I didn't catch that."
Fabale looked up, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiled—but not his usual teasing grin. This smile was warm… dangerously so.
"You're right, Crown Prince. Why the hell am I here? Why have I been suffering through this madness? It's not your fault, of course. It's mine… for thinking you were my friend. I'm sorry."
Octavio's face fell. Panic flickered in his eyes.
"No, Fabale—please—you are my only friend. You know that. I didn't mean it like that—"
But Fabale cut him off.
"I'm not like you, Octavio. I'm not gentle, or noble. I'm reckless. I dragged you into this mess. So now I'll stay. Not just for you—but for me. Because I chose this path. And I'll see it through."
He stepped closer, eyes gleaming, voice low but playful now.
"But if you really don't want me with you, fine. Leave me here. What could possibly happen to me? Get arrested in Obelion? Go home to Rala with no tie to you? Lose the only friend I have?"
Octavio's jaw clenched.
"Stop now." he said.
But Fabale only smiled.
Fabale crossed his arms, squinting at Octavio with growing suspicion.
"But what were you doing inside the shop, Octavio?"
Octavio scratched his cheek nervously, eyes shifting.
"Hmm... nothing important," he mumbled.
But it wasn't just one shop.
A few minutes later, Octavio walked into another. Then another. Each time, leaving Fabale waiting outside without explanation. The fourth time, Fabale let out a long sigh, clearly losing his patience.
"Okay, that's it," he snapped, catching Octavio as he came out again. "Do you not trust me? Do you think I'm just tagging along to play games?"
Octavio blinked, taken aback by the sudden sharpness in Fabale's tone.
"I know you want me to stop following you," Fabale continued, "but if you really see me as a friend, then let me help. You're walking in and out of shops like a lost noble pretending to be common. Just—tell me what you're doing."
Octavio looked down at the dusty cobblestone.
There was a pause.
A deep breath.
Then he finally said it—quietly, like a confession.
"I was... looking for a part-time job."
Fabale froze.
"What?" he said, completely thrown.
Octavio didn't meet his eyes.
"I can't rely on the gold pouch forever. If I'm going to walk this path on my own, I need to learn to earn my place in the world. That starts with standing on my own feet... even if it's just sweeping floors or carrying crates."
Fabale stared at him—this crown prince, once draped in silk and guarded by soldiers, now talking about labor like a street boy. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Well, Your Highness," he said slowly, "you're more serious than I thought."
Octavio glanced up, unsure whether Fabale was mocking him or not.
But Fabale just gave him a playful nudge on the shoulder and said,
"Let's go get you a job then. But if anyone makes you mop the floor, I'm charging them double for royal service."