Joseph watched it from a distance.
He stood in his chamber, dressed simply—a white shirt, dark brown trousers, and his familiar beige overcoat resting loosely over his shoulders. No armor. No regalia. Just himself.
He turned toward the servants waiting nearby.
"I want to walk through the kingdom today," he said calmly. "Alone."
The servants froze.
"My Prince—" one began, panicked. "That would be highly inappropriate."
Joseph raised a hand gently. "I won't be gone long."
Before they could argue further, a familiar presence entered the corridor.
Lazarus.
He had appeared without sound, hands folded behind his back, expression unreadable. His eyes flicked from Joseph's clothes to the servants—and lingered.
The servants stiffened.
"My Prince," one said carefully, "you should at least wear your royal coat and cape. They carry meaning. Authority."
Another added quickly, "And the Queen may not appreciate seeing you… dressed so plainly."
Joseph exhaled through his nose.
So that was it.
Not concern. Control.
After a moment, he nodded. "Fine."
The servants moved fast—draping the royal coat over his shoulders, fastening the clasp of his cape. The weight of it settled like a reminder.
As Joseph turned toward the exit, he didn't notice Lazarus fall into step behind him—silent as a shadow, distant enough to be unseen.
Joseph found David in the garden just before the gates.
David was leaning against a stone railing, hands tucked into his pockets, staring at the sky like it owed him answers.
"You look like someone about to do something reckless," David said without turning.
Joseph smiled faintly. "Funny. I was thinking the same about you."
David glanced at the cape. "So much for 'alone.'"
Joseph shrugged. "Compromise."
They walked out together.
The moment Joseph stepped into the city proper; the reaction was immediate.
People noticed.
Whispers rippled outward as he passed. Some bowed deeply. Others hesitated, unsure. Children ran forward, bold and unafraid, reaching out to touch his hand or tug at his sleeve. Joseph knelt for them, smiling softly, returning each greeting without ceremony.
But not all faces were warm.
Some watched him in silence—expressions guarded. Suspicious. Serious.
“So, this is what Alistair meant.” Joseph thought.
Rumours moved faster than footsteps.
He didn't dwell on it.
As they moved farther from the inner streets, the kingdom began to change.
Buildings grew smaller. Lanterns fewer. Roads cracked beneath years of neglect. Here, the laughter faded. People kept their heads down.
Half-bloods.
The forgotten.
Joseph slipped a hand into his coat pocket—more to steady himself than anything—and froze.
Glass.
Smooth.
He pulled it out.
A phone.
David stared at the mobile in Joseph's hand. "…You brought that?"
Joseph blinked, as if he'd only just realized what he was holding. "Habit."
The screen lit up.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
bars flickered into place.
David leaned closer, his brow creasing. "That…"
He paused, then said more quietly, "That shouldn't be possible. This place is sealed. The barrier cuts us off completely from the human world."
Joseph didn't answer.
The phone remained lit for a second longer than it should have.
David scoffed lightly, forcing a laugh that didn't quite land.
"Probably just a malfunction," he said. "Old tech does weird things sometimes."
But even as he said it, his eyes lingered on the screen.
"…Yeah," Joseph replied after a moment. "Maybe."
He hesitated—just long enough for the silence to stretch—then locked the screen and slid the phone back into his coat pocket.
For later.
They resumed walking, but the air between them had shifted.
And then Joseph saw it.
A man. A woman. Two children behind them.
A guard stood before a half-blood family—blocking their doorway, held out his hand impatiently.
"Come on," the guard said. "Don't waste my time."
The man trembled as he counted coins with shaking fingers. "We already paid last week—"
The guard backhanded the coins out of his hand.
"Then pay again."
Joseph stopped walking.
David felt it instantly. "Joseph," he warned quietly.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"Stay here," Joseph said.
Before David could argue, Joseph stepped forward.
He unclasped his cape and shrugged off the royal coat. Beneath it, he looked like nothing more than a mid-ranking noble.
He stepped forward.
"Morning," Joseph said evenly. "Why are you demanding money from them?"
"Morning, sir," he said, polite but irritated. "Just collecting taxes."
Joseph tilted his head slightly. "There is no tax levied on civilians within the kingdom."
The guard's eye twitched.
Joseph continued evenly, "Especially not from outer districts."
The guard exhaled sharply, irritation bleeding through his courtesy.
"Listen," he said, voice dropping. "You must be new here, noble."
Joseph said nothing.
"These people," the guard continued, glancing back at the family, "their ancestors committed a grave sin."
Joseph's eyes hardened. "What sin?"
The guard scoffed. "Their blood."
Joseph waited.
"They were human," the guard said. "These ones are half-bloods. Mixed. Even the Queen doesn't care about them."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Now step aside. Let me do my job."
Joseph took one step closer.
"Your job," he said quietly, "is to protect the law and the people of this kingdom. Not torment them."
The guard's patience snapped.
"Fuck you," he spat. "Who are you to lecture me?"
He leaned in, eyes cold. "Who are you to side with these vermin?"
The family flinched.
Joseph didn't raise his voice.
"Is that how you see half-bloods?" he asked. "As vermin?"
The guard smirked. "That's how the kingdom sees them."
Joseph inhaled once.
Then spoke. "So, what about the youngest prince?"
The guard laughed.
A short, mocking sound—sharp enough to sting.
"Maybe he is," the guard said, lips curling as if the thought amused him.
Joseph smiled.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
A thin, dangerous curve of the mouth—like a blade being tested for balance.
"Do you know who I am?" Joseph asked.
The guard's patience snapped.
"I don't care who you are," he snarled, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. "Some noble brat playing hero—"
Steel hissed as the blade slid free.
In one swift motion, the guard raised it, hovering the edge just inches from Joseph's neck. Close enough that the cold kissed skin.
"Take one more step," the guard growled, breath hot with arrogance, "and you'll leave this street in pieces."
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Joseph didn't move.
His eyes darkened—red bleeding slowly into the pupils, not flaring, not raging.
A thin smile curved his lips.
Not anger. Permission.
He had already decided how this lesson would end.
His nails began to elongate—darkening, sharpening—
But—
SLICE.
The sound ripped through the air like fabric tearing under force.
Wind screamed.
Dust exploded outward.
Stone cracked beneath invisible pressure.
A sword—from an unseen direction—had already moved the instant the guard's blade cleared its sheath.
The guard didn't even have time to scream before it happened.
His sword clattered to the ground.
Then—
His arm followed.
"AAARRRGGGHH—!"
The guard collapsed to his knees, clutching the bleeding stump, howling as dust swirled violently through the street.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
As the dust settled, a figure emerged from the left—cloak shifting, blade dripping crimson.
Lazarus.
He placed the blood-soaked sword gently against the guard's throat.
"Bow," Lazarus said calmly, voice flat as death itself, "or the next cut ends your life."
The guard shook violently, terror washing every trace of arrogance from his face.
He slammed his head to the ground.
"I—I apologize, Duke!" he sobbed. "Forgive me—please—"
Lazarus's eyes burned.
"Not me." His voice sharpened. "Apologize to the Prince."
The guard froze.
Then turned—slowly—toward Joseph.
His face had gone pale, eyes wide, lips trembling.
He dropped fully to his knees and slammed his forehead against the stone with a sickening THUD.
"I—I beg forgiveness," he stammered. "I apologize to the Prince of this Kingdom—for my disgraceful behavior—for my—my filth—"
Joseph stepped forward.
Lazarus did not stop him.
Joseph placed a hand on the guard's shoulder.
Firm. Steady.
He helped him stand.
The guard flinched at the touch, shaking like prey beneath a predator's gaze.
Joseph smiled again.
Not reassuring. Not merciful.
A smile that carried warning.
"Why be so afraid?" Joseph said softly.
His fingers tightened just enough for the guard to feel it.
"It's not like you called a half-blood prince… vermin."
The words landed heavier than any blade.
Joseph's gaze shifted—not to the guard—but beyond him.
To the families watching.
To the half-blood children clutching their parents' clothes.
To the elders who had learned to survive by lowering their eyes.
His voice did not rise.
It didn't need to.
"This," Joseph said quietly, his words carrying across the street, steady and undeniable, "…is not law."
"This is not justice. Not order. Not duty."
Joseph released the guard and took one step forward—placing himself between the soldiers and the people.
"This," he continued, "is fear wearing a uniform."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Joseph turned fully toward the people now.
"You were told your blood makes you lesser," he said. "That your ancestry is a crime you must keep paying for."
His eyes hardened.
"That is a lie."
Somewhere, a child lifted their head.
"No blood is filthy," Joseph said. "No life is vermin. And no one here is beneath this kingdom."
A sharp intake of breath echoed through the street.
"I am not blind to what has been done to you," Joseph continued. "And I will not pretend it is normal."
He placed a hand over his chest—not in pride, but in truth.
"My mother was called human," he said. "She was called weak. Unworthy. A mistake."
A gasp spread.
Faces changed.
Eyes widened.
"…Lady Aria?" someone whispered.
Joseph didn't deny it.
"And yet," he said, voice firm now, unshakable, "she stood at the heart of this kingdom. And she gave her life for it."
The silence broke—this time not with fear, but with something fragile.
Hope.
Joseph's gaze swept over them all.
"As long as I draw breath," he said, "no one under this sky will be hunted, taxed unfairly, beaten, or silenced for the blood they were born with."
He turned back once—just enough to glance at the guard.
"And any man who forgets that," Joseph finished calmly, "will answer to me."
The crowd didn't cheer.
They didn't bow.
They simply stood taller.
And word began to move—quietly, dangerously—from mouth to mouth:
That's Aria's son.
The youngest prince who returned.
He stood for them.
Not a declaration.
Not a claim.
But a seed.
And seeds, once planted, do not ask permission to grow.
As the crowd moved back to their stalls in the kingdom, a lady stood inside a dark room in that side houses' dark room—saw Joseph.
The shine which can change a kingdom.
A lady with green gown like dress, curly hair.
Face not visible.
A ray of sun illuminating her blue eyes.
Across the street—
beyond the noise, beyond the murmurs—
a window remained dark.
Inside that narrow room, tucked between leaning stone houses, a lone figure stood still. Curtains drawn. Air heavy with dust and quiet hums that did not belong to magic alone.
She watched him.
Joseph.
The way the crowd parted.
The way the light seemed to follow him.
A faint glow pulsed across the surface of something metallic in her hands—small, unfamiliar, humming softly with restrained energy.
A device?
Her fingers stilled.
Sunlight slipped through a crack in the curtain, cutting across the darkness like a blade—and for just a moment, it illuminated her eyes.
Blue.
Sharp.
Awake.
Not fearful.
Not reverent.
Interested.
The corners of her lips curved—barely.
"So," she murmured to the empty room, voice low and thoughtful, "you really did come back."
Outside, Joseph vanished into the flow of the kingdom.
Inside the dark room, the light dimmed again.
To be Continued...
It changes with moments like this — quiet streets, hidden truths, and words that refuse to stay silent.
— Ak31
Also, starting tomorrow I will occasionally release two chapters instead of one whenever the story needs faster progress for readers.