At the main palace, preparations for the departure of the Crown Princess and his wife were in full swing. Despite their safe return, Noori remained unconscious, her slumber prolonged by the physician's strong sedatives. Bishop, upon learning of Noori's collapse, felt a sense of urgency to visit her at the main palace, but he was met with resistance at the gates.
"You cannot enter the palace without the permission of the king," the guard informed him sternly, blocking his path with unwavering resolve.
"Let me pass! I must see the Princess. I need to ensure she is alright," Bishop pleaded, his breaths coming out in labored gasps as he pressed against the invisible barrier of authority.
His fervent appeals fell on deaf ears, and he was left standing outside, his anxiety mounting with each passing moment.
Amidst the bustling activity of servants preparing for the journey to the Duke's estate, Dastan stood with a heavy heart, his mind consumed by unease. As he observed the frenetic scene unfolding around him, his gaze drifted to a group of servants approaching, their arms weighed down by stacks of paperwork. It struck him as odd; instead of aiding in packing for the journey, they seemed intent on delivering files directly to him.
The servants halted a few paces away, offering respectful bows before addressing him. "Where should we put these, Your Highness? Your office back in Osiris Palace is destroyed, so where do you want to keep these?" they inquired politely, though an expectant air hung between them.
Dastan's brows furrowed, his frustration palpable. "What's the meaning of this? Why are you bringing these to me?" His tone betrayed his confusion and irritation, his discomfort evident at the unexpected responsibility thrust upon him.
"These are the documents sent by the King, Your Highness. You are to handle them," came the prompt reply, the servants maintaining their composure despite Dastan's evident disquiet.
"I understand that, but why am I being tasked with this?" Dastan pressed, his bewilderment growing. It was unusual for him to be involved in matters of state, a duty typically reserved for the Crown Prince, a role he had never formally assumed.
The servants exchanged puzzled glances, their brows furrowing in response to Dastan's probing. "Indeed, Your Highness. That's precisely why we're entrusting them to you. You are the Crown Prince," they affirmed with conviction, their words echoing with finality.
A surge of anger coursed through Dastan as he grappled with the implications of their words. Confusion and frustration intertwined within him as he struggled to comprehend the sudden shift in his status. "What do you mean I am the Crown Prince? Are you out of your minds?" he exclaimed, incredulity and indignation coloring his voice.
The servants seemed to be at a loss for words, their expressions reflecting a mixture of uncertainty and apprehension. They watched Dastan's frustrated face, unsure of how to respond. "Your Highness, you are the Crown Prince of Solyria, and that is a fact. Please forgive us if we have overstepped our boundaries or offended you in any way. We will take our leave for now and bring these back whenever you feel like it," one of them offered hesitantly, seeking to placate Dastan's growing agitation.
Dastan's chest heaved with each heavy breath as he tried to make sense of the situation. "What is going on here? Why am I the Crown Prince? What about Isa? What is all this?!" His voice echoed with frustration, echoing off the palace walls.
Unable to contain his turmoil, Dastan stormed off to confront his father. Once again, he had been kept in the dark about significant developments in his life, and once again, a monumental decision had been imposed upon him without his consent.
Dastan's heavy boots reverberated against the marble floor as he marched forward, his anger palpable. The servants and guards who crossed his path sensed the intensity of his emotions and wisely chose to remain silent, offering no greetings or attempts at conversation.
Arriving at the doors of the audience hall, Dastan found them tightly shut, blocking his path. "Open the door! I need to speak to the King," he demanded, his voice commanding authority. But the guards stationed there remained unmoved. "We cannot do that, Your Highness. The King is busy," they replied resolutely, their stance unwavering.
"I said get out of the way and open the damn door!" Dastan's growl reverberated through the corridor, but the guards remained steadfast, unmoved by his fury. "Your Highness, we have strict orders from the King. We cannot let you in, even if our lives depend on it," they responded resolutely.
Dastan's fuming rage clashed against the unwavering stance of the guards. Before he could unleash another tirade, the soft voice of his mother reached his ears from behind. "Dear? Is everything alright? What is the matter?" Her voice, gentle as silk, cut through the tension.
With a heavy heart, Dastan turned to face his mother, his disappointment evident in his expression. "What is all this, Mother?" he asked, his voice laden with frustration and confusion.
Fleur's brows furrowed in confusion, her features betraying her lack of understanding. "What are you talking about? I have no context for this," she admitted, her concern growing as she observed her son's distressed state.
"I am being told that I have been named the Crown Prince! How come I never knew about this? What is the point of all this?" Dastan's words spilled out in frustration, his emotions raw and unfiltered.
Fleur's lips parted in surprise at Dastan's revelation. It seemed she wanted to speak up, to offer an explanation, but something held her back. "Let's talk in my room," she suggested, her gaze flickering briefly to the servants and guards who had paused to observe their exchange. Dastan, sensing his mother's hesitation, acquiesced with a nod.
"Okay, but I want to know everything, okay?" he insisted, seeking reassurance. Fleur nodded solemnly, her expression reflecting a mixture of concern and determination.
Fleur turned, her steps heavy with the weight of the revelation she carried. Her fingers twisted nervously, a telltale sign of her inner turmoil, as she tried to moisten her dry throat. They entered her room, and Dastan closed the door behind them, providing the privacy his mother sought. He ran his hands through his hair, a gesture of frustration, before settling onto the couch, his posture tense with anticipation. Meanwhile, Fleur descended onto the couch with deliberation, her trembling hands betraying her own anxiety as she poured herself a glass of water.
"Tell me, Mother. What is going on? What else has changed during my years in slumber? I got married, I became the Crown Prince. What else is there that needs to be revealed?" Dastan's voice carried a note of weariness, as if he had already shouldered too much burden.
Fleur took a sip of water, gathering her thoughts before responding. "I know this is overwhelming, but please understand that your father had no choice but to name you the next king in line," she began, her tone gentle yet tinged with sorrow.
Dastan's brows furrowed in disbelief. "What about Isa? Why is no one talking about him? Why is he not the Crown Prince anymore? What happened? Just tell me!" His frustration bubbled to the surface, demanding answers.
"Isa didn't want to be the king. He begged his father to rescind the title and name you the heir to the throne instead. He desired to lead the army and expand our kingdom's territories," Fleur explained, her words rushing out in a blur.
Dastan's expression hardened, disbelief and anger warring within him. "So you're telling me Father named me, a cursed prince, the Crown Prince just because his elder son didn't want the throne? Do you expect me to accept that, Mother? Are you sure there isn't more you're hiding from me?" His gaze held little trust as he confronted his mother, feeling like a pawn in a game where his decisions were made for him, leaving him feeling helpless and adrift in a world he barely recognized.
Fleur observed Dastan's inner turmoil with empathy, her heart aching for her son's confusion and frustration. Approaching him, she gently stroked his cheek, seeking to offer comfort and reassurance. "Son, trust me. Everything we did was for your own good. We are your parents, and we would never want anything but the best for you," she whispered earnestly, her voice filled with maternal warmth and love. "And if you don't believe me, look. Your brother wrote a letter. It arrived this morning. see."
With a sense of hope, Fleur walked over to the bedside drawer and retrieved a rolled parchment. Cradling it delicately in her hands, she regarded it with a mixture of anticipation and relief. Then, with a tender smile, she extended the parchment to Dastan. "Here. Read it," she urged gently, her eyes conveying a silent plea for him to find solace and understanding in his brother's words.