Morning came without relief.
Hunger pushed him from his mat. If he was to survive, he had to work.
The places that offered labor lay from the palace-beyond the reach of the royal notice. Out there, people were free. Or so they believed.
He sung his small sack over his back and set out.
Faces greeted him warmly, as if they knew him already. Too warmly. Sham found it strange, but said nothing. He walked from town to town. Offering his hands, his strength, his time.
Each answer was the same. No.
By the time the sun dipped, his legs ached and his thoughts blurred.
Before realizing how he turned, Sham found himself standing before the palace gates.
He stared at them, breath shallow.
"How am I even here?" he whispered.
The gates stood open.
The palace gates untouched by time. Immaculate. Spotless.
As though nothing wrong had ever passed through its walls.
A single guard stood watch.
He looked at Sham, not with suspicion. But with recognition. Sham felt it then. The quiet certainty that he was expected.
"Welcome sir," the guard said. " Are you seeking work? What kind of labor would you prefer."
Sham hesitated. Something in him wanted to turn away. Something else-older, quieter-urged him forward.
He nodded.
"Any." he said.
The guard smiled and stepped aside. Sham crossed the threshold.
The doors closed behind him with a sound too soft to be final-
and yet,somehow it was.
He walked through the spotless halls. They shone too brightly - floors polished to the point of reflection. Every surface smiled at him.
Sham smiled back.The guard noticed. His own lips curved, slowly and measured. As if the expression was practiced.
"You may come here anytime," the guard said. "You are welcome here. The family you seek is here."
The words settled strangely.
Sham slowed. "What does that mean."
The guard laughed - soft, brief - and continued walking. The sound did not echo.
They turned corner after corner, each one quieter than the last, until the armory revealed itself.
People filled the space. Hands busy. Eyes down. Metal rang softly. No one spoke.
"Is this the place?" Sham asked, pointing.
Then suggested, "Should I begin right now, master?"
The guard's gaze locked onto him. Not his face - his eyes. Held there for a moment too long. Then looked away.
"No Sham, your place is not assigned here. You will work separately."
A pause
"You do not match them."
The words were calm, final. Confusion crept across Sham's face. His thoughts scrambling for shape.
"Come," the guard said gently. "I will guide you."
With no hesitation, Sham followed.
They arrived somewhere quieter, too quiet.
"This is stunning." Sham breathed.
It was more magnificent than the halls - curtains standing tall and unwavering. Blue threaded and sharp white. Everything was arranged with painful precision.
No wrinkle. No mistake.
Too perfect.
"Whose chambers are these?" Sham asked.
"It belongs to Manon," the guard replied. He hesitated. "He rarely allows anyone inside. This room is...out of bounds."
Sham stared. The air felt heavier here. The air pressing against his chest.
Something was wrong. One window stood open. Before he could stop himself, Sham leaned closer.
And there, he saw prince Manon, laying on his king-size bed. Back resting against the sheets. His posture was loose, almost careless - but his face betrayed him. Eyes unfocused. Jaw tight. As if his body had learned stillness too well.
He looked...emptied.
The curtains swayed again, brushing the window frame like a quiet breath.
Manon did not move.
Sham stepped back. For the first time since he entered the palace, the shine no longer blinded him.
It reflected.
And it reflected something broken.