Dwayne returned home, visibly grim and charged with profound tension, bringing back his father's lifeless body. His arrival plunged the house into an even more frenzied panic, with urgent orders to swiftly pack the most valuable belongings for departure. There was no time for the family to conduct the customary seven days of mourning and bury his father properly. Alan, being considered an outsider, found himself confined to his room—the last sanctuary of their previous life, spared from the chaos of hurried packing.

He paced back and forth between his room and the tomb, alone in front of his father's stone coffin. There, he lit a candle tirelessly replacing it with a fresh one each time the previous one had burned down to the last drop of wax. Silently, he wept alongside the flame, not even realizing that he was shedding tears in solitude.

Melissa howled terribly, cursing Dwayne incomprehensibly for something that Alan had no idea about, lunging at Dwayne with her fists frantically, being thrown back by him carelessly. The stepmother, as Alan slipped back into her room unnoticed by the shadow, sat mournfully in the chair beside her husband's empty chair, staring at her trembling hands. Alan squinted indifferently at all of them, still desperately full of life despite the loss, oblivious to the passing of a beloved family member. Alan crinkled his nose in disgust, hoping his father's spirit didn't see it. Something was in the air, stirring the atmosphere, threatening to bring great change, and Alan waited indifferently, forgetting in his grief his dream to leave.

He missed the opportunity to fulfill his dream - the massive doors of their fortress were breached with a battering ram, and the courtyard was flooded with reckless horsemen led by King Hardy, whose green eyes squinting hard. Hardy looked grimly at the soldiers, who dropped their weapons obediently before him in surrender, and ordered:

“Throne traitor Dwayne Lear to me! And bring the rest of the Lears.”

The bloody Dwayne was dragged out by four men, he did not give up easily, resisting until the end, and looked with angry eyes at his sire and former friend, not even denying his guilt. Alan, who had come out perplexed at the noise, clenched his fist with a bunch of red memorial candles to his mouth, seeing, and staggered toward his chambers to draw his father's lighter-than-usual sword, forged especially for his hand, but not before king’s guards were rattling up the stairs to the sleeping quarters, intent on pulling him out with his stepmother and sister. He was seized at the door and dragged downstairs to the king's judgment.

Melissa rushed out on her own, folding her hands in a pleading gesture as she cast imploring looks at Hardy. He had been her frequent dance partner at balls, and she had relied on his mercy and reciprocity until her elder brother betrayed the king.

"Your Majesty, have mercy!" Melissa exclaimed, throwing herself to her knees and carelessly scattering her lush silk skirts. "We knew nothing, Dwayne acted alone!"

"Be quiet, silly!" the stepmother intervened, grasping Melissa's hand, silencing her with a firm hold, and then humbly bowing to the king. "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. Could you please inform us of the accusations against my son?"

"He is accused of organizing a rebellion against my father, our king, and of murdering my father," Hardy declared coldly, staring at him sternly and reproachfully. "Your son, Amanda, was planning to sit on the throne in my place, and for that, he will be punished along with the rest of your family."

"No, I beg you, no," the stepmother pleaded, releasing her daughter and sinking to her knees. "Let him live, please, he is my only son! Take away all our lands and possessions, and we will go into exile immediately, never to return."

"I'll take your lands and possessions anyway," Hardy said with a frustrated expression as his stepmother and Melissa shrieked in unison, "Quiet!" He continued, "Your daughter and stepson will be prosecuted by court in memory of your husband, and you, Amanda, will live out your days in the castle for failing to raise your son in obedience to the throne. Dwayne will be executed."

Alan blinked in surprise – why him? He wasn't a true Lear, just a Hannian bastard. Yet, he accepted his fate instantly, refusing to plead for mercy. He wouldn't dishonor his father's memory with pleas; he would endure the agony with dignity. Just as he hadn't cried in front of Hardy for years ago, he wouldn't shed tears now. He straightened up with icy dignity, recognizing that he was about to endure the ultimate humiliation- the king might be lenient to the beautiful Melissa, but not to him, the bastard.

Hardy removed his bassinet, tousled his sweaty red hair, cast a mocking glance over his inscrutable face, seemingly reading Alan's thoughts, and then nodded to Rick. Alan hadn't seen Rick since their last encounter four years ago. Rick dismounted from this horse, briefly acknowledging Alan with a glance, took him by the elbow, and guided him to a carriage. Meanwhile, Melissa was directed towards another carriage, prompting a sigh of relief from Alan as he realized he wouldn't have to endure her venomous remarks during the journey.

Alan arched his eyebrows in astonishment at the opulent adornments of the carriage. He hesitated, considering if Rick had made a mistake, but a gentle nudge from Rick prompted him to enter, and Rick closed the door from the back with a latch. Alan grinned wryly—luxury might deceive, but a cage remained a cage. He sat down on the cushions with a sense of inevitability.

The two weeks to the palace proved torturous for Alan. He suffered from motion seasickness to the point of vomiting into the night pot left behind, gasping for breath in the nauseating odor. At stops, he stumbled out, exhausted, desperately inhaling fresh air. Lifted from the ground, he was forced into inns, seated beside the king and Rick, who had assumed the role of the king's right-hand man, filling the void left by Alan's late father. Before Alan was placed a coarse meal that turned Alan's stomach. He nibbled on bits of bread and drank only the soup and ale, which offered slight relief to his upset stomach. Hardy looked at him irritably, pursing his lips, scrutinizing his every move. It was evident that Hardy couldn't comprehend why he was providing sustenance for the bastard at his own expense. Alan set his spoon aside under the intense scrutiny of the king's eyes, his expression becoming guarded.

"Why aren't you eating?" Hardy exhaled on the third day of their journey during the lunch, pulling Alan towards him by the chest and exhaling the scent of ale into the face. "Still as arrogant as ever, eh?"

"No, your majesty," Alan replied dryly, making no attempt to free himself, and staring coldly at Hardy. Hardy grunted, released him, and Rick slid a clay bowl of chowder towards him, whispering,

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Are you not accustomed to this kind of food? Still feeling nauseous?"

"Tender as a princess," Hardy laughed, his eyes sparkling with merriment. His entourage immediately burst into laughter, cheering the king's joke, much to Alan's chagrin as he turned away. Rick was the only one who didn't join in the laughter, casting a reproachful glance at the king, for which Alan felt immense gratitude.

To spare himself the embarrassment of vomiting for everyone's amusement, Alan refrained from consuming the coarse inn food. Instead, he opted for bread and ale mixed with water. Upon exiting, he discreetly approached the innkeeper, requesting some fruit. Chewing on sour apples or dried apricots helped alleviate his nausea. Someone took notice, and now his carriage was consistently stocked with fruit and a jug of watered-down ale. Alan smiled warmly, comforted by the thought that he wouldn't be alone at court - Rick could be his friend. He regarded good-natured Rick with warmth and trust, occasionally sharing a furtive smile when the irritable Hardy wasn't looking.

Hardy frequently was in an irritable mood, as evidently, the crown was not an easy burden. Executing subjects on the way home seemed to pose some difficulty even for him. His frustration peaked when exhausted Alan couldn't muster the strength to leave the carriage for the next meal one day. Hardy climbed into the carriage leaned over Alan's pale face, and hissed:

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? Seeking revenge for Dwayne? I am not going to let you do that!" He yanked Alan out of the wagon, gripping him by his belt and pushing away the soldiers who rushed to help. Dragging him to the inn, he ordered, "Prepare something light. Perhaps some broth, like for a woman in labor," and unexpectedly softened. Supporting Alan as he settled onto the table, shivering violently, Hardy exclaimed, "Get a healer! He's not well."

Alan endured the remainder of the journey confined to the carriage with the healer tending to him, changing compresses on his fevered forehead. The incessant shaking blurred the distinction between day and night, and he harbored a glimmer of hope that he might succumb to the ailment, providing delight to Hardy and Melissa. Yet, against his wish, he did not succumb, and he had no recollection of being transported into the palace. Tossed about in the sweltering heat for a few more days, he opened his eyes with a wistful expression when he felt a bit better.

Surveying the room languidly, he noted with absent-minded awareness that the palace even provided sumptuous quarters for prisoners. And fell deeply asleep, free from the grip of fever. Upon awakening, he realized that he was being gently bathed. Ashamed Alan tried to cover himself. And a stoutly built servant kindly removed Alan's hands, saying reassuringly:

"Why, sir, you need not be ashamed of me. I will serve you. My name is Zack."

Alan bashfully shielded his flushed face with his palms, allowing Zack to complete his ablutions and dress in his nightgown. It was only when Zack placed a tray of chicken soup on his lap that he inquired politely:

"Where's my sister? Was… Was Dwayne executed?"

"Yes, Dwayne Lear was executed, sir," Zack tilted his head slightly, folding his large, veined arms. "Your sister resides at the palace, much like yourself. She seems to have forgotten her sorrows and even attended the first ball thrown by the king. Your stepmother was ordered to stay in the family castle, and, in recognition of your father's memory, King Hardy has refrained from confiscating the property; he is truly fair. However, he has forbidden her from visiting the palace, having found evidence that she was aware of everything and supported her son."

"I see," Alan stood stunned over the steaming plate. "What's going to happen to me?"

"You'll be fine, you weren’t involved," Zack reassured him, placing a spoon in his hand. "Please eat. His Majesty wants you to recover fast."

"Why?" Alan obediently scooped up the soup, looking at it thoughtfully. He pondered whether it was worth eating, or perhaps it was better to let hunger finish what the illness had started. He had always been too frail and sickly for this land, and nobody would think he deliberately clung to life. Why endure being a laughingstock in the palace when there was already enough mockery in his own home? He spoke quietly, "Can't I eat alone please?"

"Yes, of course, sir," Zack bowed and headed toward the exit. "The healer will be here soon; he always comes at this time of the day.”

Alan nodded, patiently waiting for Zack to leave. He moved with difficulty to the window, there he discarded the soup and merely made his way back to the bed. With trembling hands, he placed the empty plate on the table and lay down, smiling absent-mindedly. "So, King Hardy, you won't be able to mock me."

The healer examined him, left a decoction on the table, and much like the soup, the decoction met a similar fate. Alan fell asleep with a proud smile, content with his decision.

In the morning, Hardy entered the bedroom in horse riding clothes, carrying the scent of horse sweat and fresh wind. He grinned as Alan pulled the blanket up to his nose and greeted him with a faint hello, resenting being caught in his nightgown. Hardy flopped down on the bed, peering into Alan's bleary eyes. He tugged at a strand of hair that had curled into a tight lock after washing and said with a smile:

"Well, hello. You're looking better, Alan. I hope you get better soon. I was afraid you were going to die on the road, given how delicate you are."

Alan pressed his lips together in anger, staring down at his hands and feeling ashamed of his frail health. Hardy, waiting for a response, tugged at a strand of hair, forcing Alan to look up. Alan's eyes flicked up fiercely, causing Hardy to suddenly darken. He released the strand from his fingers, stood up, and cut the conversation short:

"Get well soon."

Rick followed him in an hour with a juicy peach, placing it on Alan's pillow and sitting down on the bed, looking friendly.

"Don't worry about your fate, Alan. You'll be better off here than at home. Trust me. Your sister is already enjoying life; it's time for you to enjoy it too. Let your father go to the world of the dead. Think of yourself."

Alan smiled trustingly, feeling warmth in his heart from Rick's concern. He couldn't refuse the sincere offering and ate the peach in front of Rick.

Three days later, alarm bells rang when Alan, despite the healer's prognosis, showed no signs of improvement in his health. He slept throughout the day, growing increasingly weak. Zack nervously scurried around him, uncertain about what was happening, muttering a monotonous prayer. On the fourth day, Hardy rushed in with another healer, pushing him towards Alan.

"What's the matter with him? Get him on his feet at last!"

The healer hurried fearfully to Alan, feeling his neck, examining his face, and throwing away the blanket to pull up his nightgown. However, Alan clutched at the blanket with all his might, resisting to be naked in front of Hardy. Hardy scowled and turned away, muttering:

"I'm not looking at you, Princess!"

The healer effortlessly lifted Alan’s nightgown, examined his abdomen and chest, asked him to open his mouth and stick out his tongue. After the examination, the healer exclaimed joyfully:

"His tongue has a white plaque on it! And his belly has sunken to the ridge. It's a hunger strike, Your Majesty."

Hardy turned abruptly, roared in frenzy, rushed to Alan, who was adjusting nervously his nightgown, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shook him:

"If you won't eat on your own, you'll be force-fed! Your stubbornness is infuriating! I won't let you die; do you understand?"

Alan responded with a defiant gaze, refraining from uttering a word. Hardy lowered him back onto the pillows and signaled to Zack:

"Feed him by force if necessary. If he doesn't get up in a week, you're dead!"

Reluctantly, Alan had to eat to avoid causing trouble for poor Zack, who looked down with resentment, quietly grumbling that some people didn't appreciate the benevolence of the fair king and made him worry, as if he didn't have enough concerns. Rick, who visited after Hardy, shook his head disapprovingly and, without even taking a seat, said solemnly:

"You shouldn't resist, Alan. Everyone only wants what's best for you. Don't harm yourself."

The following morning, Alan discovered an elegant gold bookmark adorned with a large ruby on his pillow, staring at it in surprise. When asked, who brought it, Zack merely shrugged.

"It's common for nobles to exchange gifts."