Whillam walked for two days, far away from the shining towers of Eloria. The roads were dusty, and his feet ached in the plain boots he now wore. No one looked at him as a prince anymore. To the world, he was just another traveler.
On the third day, he reached a small village called Briveton. Smoke rose from chimneys, children ran barefoot through the narrow streets, and merchants called out their prices at the market. For the first time in his life, Whillam felt invisible—and free.
Hunger soon led him to a small blacksmith shop. Inside, sparks flew as a tall man hammered iron against an anvil. His arms were strong, his face dark with soot, yet his eyes shone with kindness.
"Good day, stranger," the blacksmith said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "You look tired. What brings you here?"
Whillam smiled, hiding his noble accent as best as he could.
"I… I'm looking for work. I can do simple tasks, carry things, maybe clean."
The blacksmith studied him for a moment, then laughed. "You don't look like a worker, more like a lost noble's son. But never mind, I need an extra hand. My name's Marcus."
And so, Prince Whillam—now just Whillam—began working for Marcus. He fetched water, carried iron rods, and even tried hammering under Marcus's guidance. His soft hands blistered quickly, but he never complained.
At night, he slept in a small room above the shop. The walls were bare, and the bed was hard, but Whillam felt strangely happy. No golden ceilings, no servants—only silence and freedom.
Over time, Marcus grew fond of him. "You're different, Whillam," he said one evening as they shared bread and soup. "Most young men here only think of money and drink. But you… you listen. You care. That's rare."
Whillam only smiled, his secret hidden. He knew he had found his first true friend.
But deep inside, he wondered: Would he also find true love in this village—or would his journey take him further