Chapter 139: The young prince

Chapter 139: Chapter 139: The young prince

Her mother froze.

"The palace?"

She looked around in disbelief, her eyes widening as she took in the details she had missed before—the ornate furniture polished to a soft gleam, the silk curtains that hung in heavy, elegant folds, the carved wood of the bedposts and the window frames, the marble floors that reflected the morning light in cool, pale sheets. Every surface spoke of wealth she had never touched, of a life so far removed from the cracked walls and dirt floors of their old house that it felt like standing inside someone else’s dream. The air itself smelled different—clean, faintly scented with something floral and expensive, free of the damp rot and woodsmoke that had followed them for so long.

"How did we get here?"

Her fear immediately returned, flooding through her body like ice water. It started in her chest and spread outward, turning her limbs cold and her thoughts sharp with panic. The softness of the bed, the brightness of the room, the quiet—all of it became evidence of a trap rather than a refuge.

"Did they capture us?"

She quickly moved, throwing off the blankets that covered her. The fine fabric slid away with a whisper, far too light and smooth compared to the rough cloth they had slept under for nights. Her bare feet found the marble floor; the chill of it shot up through her soles.

"We need to leave."

She looked toward Pronoia, her voice sharp with urgency. The child sat in the oversized chair exactly as she had left her, small and still, the white blindfold once more in place.

"Come on."

She began trying to get off the bed, her body protesting every movement. The injuries from the gang leader’s blows flared in bright, insistent waves. The poison that still threaded through her veins made her muscles slow and heavy. She ignored them. Pain was familiar. Capture was not something she would accept again.

"Pack your things."

Her voice became hurried, almost panicked. But there were no things to pack—only the torn clothes they wore and the memory of everything they had already lost—but the words came out anyway, the old instinct of flight speaking through her.

"We need to leave quickly."

Pronoia held her, her small hands pressing gently against her mother’s shoulders. The touch was light but firm, the same steady contact that had guided them through forests and across roads.

"Mother, don’t worry."

Her mother stopped, her body still tense. The child’s voice was calm in a way that felt almost unnatural after the chaos of the previous day. The tension in her mother’s shoulders did not fully leave, but it paused, waiting.

"The boy we saved..."

Pronoia continued, her voice soft but firm, each word measured.

"He’s actually the prince of the kingdom."

Her mother stared at her, the words slowly sinking in. The sentence rearranged itself inside her mind, refusing at first to make sense. The small boy they had carried through the swamp, the child whose weight had nearly broken her— the prince.

"The prince?"

Pronoia nodded.

Her mother nearly fainted.

The room seemed to spin around her, the walls tilting at impossible angles. The ornate furniture, the silk, the marble—all of it blurred and shifted. She clutched the edge of the bed, her knuckles white against the carved wood, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that did nothing to steady the world. The knowledge settled like a stone in her stomach.

The prince. We saved the prince. The prince of the kingdom.

The implications crashed over her in successive waves. They had touched royalty. They had carried the heir that had been brought into a ruined building and then into an alley and now somehow into this room. Every rule she had ever understood about the distance between common people and the throne had been broken by their desperate flight.

Then a knock came from the door.

A maid’s voice came from outside, polite and deferential, the tone of someone who expected to be answered but never ordered.

"May I enter?"

Pronoia moved toward the door, her footsteps silent on the marble floor. She opened it with the quiet confidence of someone who had already decided the room was safe enough for this. The maid entered, followed by the young prince.

When he saw Pronoia, he smiled.

The smile was small and genuine, the expression of a child who recognized the person who had pulled him out of darkness. Then he looked toward her mother, his expression softening with concern that looked too old for his face.

"Are you okay?"

Pronoia’s mother immediately jumped from the bed.

The movement was too fast for her injured body. She fell to the ground, her body folding into a bow so deep that her forehead touched the cool marble. The impact sent a fresh spike of pain through her, but she did not rise.

"I’m sorry!"

She repeatedly lowered her head, her voice trembling with fear and desperation. Each downward motion was a separate act of submission, an attempt to make herself as small and harmless as possible in the presence of the boy they had saved.

"I’m sorry."

She begged, her words tumbling over each other in their rush to escape. The marble pressed cold against her skin. Her breath fogged slightly against the polished surface.

"I’m sorry for touching His Majesty."

She continued bowing, each movement a desperate plea for forgiveness. The knowledge of what touching royalty without permission could mean in the old stories lived in every frantic dip of her head.

"I’m sorry."

Pronoia’s mother urged her daughter to do the same, her hand reaching out to pull Pronoia down beside her. The child’s resistance was quiet but real; Pronoia’s body did not immediately fold the way her mother’s did.

But Pronoia resisted.

Her mother quickly lowered her daughter’s head, her hand pressing firmly against the back of Pronoia’s skull. The pressure was careful but insistent, the same protective force she had used to guide the girl through danger now turned toward the only form of safety she still understood—complete deference.

Both of them continued bowing.

"Please forgive us."

Pronoia’s mother pleaded, her voice cracking with emotion. The crack was not performance. It was the sound of a woman who had already given everything and was now offering the last thing she had left: her own life in exchange for her child’s.

"If His Majesty chooses to kill us, please take my head instead."

She bowed again, her body trembling from the strain of the position and from the deeper tremor of fear.

"But please spare my daughter."

The prince looked at them, his young face filled with something that might have been confusion, or perhaps compassion. The expression sat oddly on features that had so recently been twisted by fear in a ruined building.

"It’s fine."

He smiled, his voice gentle, the same gentleness he had shown when he first looked at Pronoia.

"Don’t worry."

He paused, his eyes meeting Pronoia’s mother’s. The contact was direct and steady for a child so young.

"You saved my life."

Pronoia’s mother slowly raised her head, her eyes wide with disbelief. The words did not immediately fit with the terror that still ruled her body. Salvation was not something she had expected to be thanked for. Survival had been the only goal.

Then the door opened again.

The king entered.

The moment Pronoia’s mother saw him, fear returned—a fear so deep, so primal, that it seemed to consume every other thought in her mind. This was not the fear of a gang leader or a desperate crowd. This was the fear of absolute power, of a man whose single word could end lives without effort. She stepped backward, her body moving on instinct, her back striking the wall behind her with a soft thud.

She crouched down, her body folding into itself until she was as small as she could make herself against the carved wood and marble.

"Your Majesty..."