Two thousand years later. Young Harry Jones, remained in his tiny room. The room was small, barely large enough for a narrow bed and a crooked table, but it was crowded with scrolls stacked in careless piles. Some were half-unrolled, others weighed down by stones so they would not curl back on themselves. Dust floated in the thin shafts of light coming through the single window.

  Harry sat on the floor with his back against the bed, knees drawn to his chest, eyes fixed on the symbols scratched across a piece of parchment. His lips moved soundlessly as he traced the letters with his finger, memorizing them. Outside, laughter echoed faintly in the palace courtyard. He ignored it. He always did.

  The door slammed open. Harry flinched and looked up.

  Monica stood in the doorway, one hand still on the doorframe, chest rising from the force of her entrance. She had been his maid for as long as he could remember. Her hair was tied back loosely, a few strands already escaping, and there was worry written plainly on her face.

  “Harry,” she said, softening her voice as she stepped inside, careful not to crush the scrolls under her feet. “You are twelve now. You must learn to go out and play with your mates.”

  Harry lowered his gaze. His fingers tightened around the parchment until it crinkled. He shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “They won’t play with me anyway. Nobody wants to play with a bastard.”

  The word tasted bitter in his mouth, but it was familiar. It had followed him longer than his name. Monica sighed and crouched in front of him so they were eye level. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “You are not just any bastard,” she said gently. “You are the King’s son.” Harry’s jaw tightened. He shook his head again, harder this time. “No,” he replied. “The king’s bastard.”

  Monica opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. She knew better. She had seen the looks he received in the corridors, heard the whispers that followed him like shadows. Words would not undo that.

  She rose slowly and left the room. The throne room was quiet when Monica entered. Sunlight poured in through tall windows, illuminating the polished floor and the raised seat at the far end. The King sat upright on his throne, one elbow resting on the armrest, his fingers tapping lightly against the carved wood.

  Monica bowed deeply. “What is it, Monica?” the King asked, his voice steady, distant.

  “Your Grace,” she said, keeping her head lowered. “The boy's situation is worsening. The lad has not gotten out of his room for over a year. He barely eats. He barely speaks. You have to do something about it.”

  The King exhaled slowly, the sound heavy, as though dragged from somewhere deep within his chest. His gaze drifted toward the window, to the courtyard beyond, where children trained and laughed and grew strong under the watchful eyes of instructors.

  He straightened. “Summon the lad,” he said, turning to one of the guards at his side. The guard bowed and left immediately. In Harry’s room, the knock came sharp and loud, snapping through the quiet like a whip. Harry’s shoulders tensed.

  The door opened without waiting for his answer. “My lord,” the guard said stiffly. “Your father demands your presence.”

  Harry clenched his teeth. His eyes flicked to the scrolls scattered around him, to the familiar safety of the room. “Why can’t these people leave me alone?” he muttered. “I am happy in here.”

  He stayed seated for a moment longer, as if daring the world to forget him. Then he sighed and pushed himself to his feet. Nobody disobeyed the King. Not even his children.

  He smoothed his worn tunic as best as he could and followed the guard through the palace halls. Ten minutes later, Harry stood before the throne. The room felt too large, too open. He bowed low, his forehead nearly touching the floor. “Father,” he said quietly. “You called for me.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The King cleared his throat. He looked down at the boy, taking in his thin frame, the way his shoulders curved inward as if trying to make himself smaller.

  “You are now growing into a man,” the King said bluntly. “I need you to handle some responsibilities.” Harry’s fingers twitched at his sides. “From now on,” the King continued, “you will be in charge of getting my wine from Lord Badmus daily.”

  Harry’s head snapped up before he could stop himself. “But I do not want to go out,” he blurted out. The room seemed to freeze.

  The King smiled, but there was no warmth in it. His voice dropped, heavy with authority. “It is not a request,” he said. “It is an order.”

  The air pressed down on Harry’s chest, making it hard to breathe. He swallowed. He knew this moment. He had learned it well. “As the King commands,” he said quietly.

  He bowed again and turned to leave.

  Hidden behind a tall pillar at the side of the throne room, Queen Harriet watched everything. Her lips curled slightly as Harry walked away, his head bowed, his steps quick and light like someone trying not to be noticed.

  She raised a hand, signaling her maid to come closer. The maid leaned in, and the Queen whispered into her ear. Her voice was low, sharp, deliberate. The maid’s eyes widened for a brief second, then she smiled and bowed. “It will be done,” the maid said softly. “The bastard will be placed where he belongs.”

  The next morning, the palace stirred early. Harry moved through the corridors with a small wooden crate held tightly against his chest. Inside were empty wine bottles, clinking faintly with each step. The task felt heavy, not because of the weight, but because of what it meant. Leaving the palace. Walking the streets. Being seen by the very eyes that desire him to bleed.

  He kept his head down as he passed through the gates and into the city. The streets of Astania were already alive. Merchants shouted prices, carts rattled over stone roads, and the smell of bread and smoke hung thick in the air. Harry hugged the crate closer, weaving carefully through the crowd.

  Lord Badmus’s house stood near the edge of the city, large and imposing, its gates guarded by stone lions with chipped faces. Harry was almost there.

  Then someone stepped into his path. He stopped short. A group of boys blocked the narrow street ahead, their shadows stretching long across the stones. There were five of them. Older than him. Bigger. Smiling in ways that made his stomach twist.

  “Well, look at this,” one of them said, tilting his head. “The bastard finally crawled out of his rat hole.” Harry exhaled sharply. He knew them. He had always known them. They had been there since his earliest memories. Since the first day he learned to walk. Since the first time someone pointed at him and laughed.

  “Please,” Harry said, his voice barely steady. “Let me through. I am running the King’s errand.” The words sounded weak even to his own ears.

  The boys laughed. “The King’s errand?” another sneered. “Did you hear that?” One of them stepped closer and poked Harry’s chest with a finger. Not hard. Just enough.

  “You think that makes you important?” Harry shook his head. He took a step back, but his heel caught on a loose stone. The crate slipped slightly in his arms.

  “I just need to pass,” he said again. “Please.” The first blow came suddenly. A fist slammed into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. Harry gasped, the crate falling from his hands as bottles shattered against the ground. Sharp pain bloomed across his side.

  He barely had time to cry out before another hit landed, then another. Hands shoved him. Feet kicked. The world tilted and spun as he fell to his knees.

  He curled in on himself instinctively, arms over his head, trying to protect something. Anything. Laughter rang in his ears, distant and cruel. A kick caught his stomach. White-hot pain exploded through him. His vision blurred. The street sounds faded, replaced by a dull ringing.

  He tasted blood. Another blow struck his back, then his side. His body felt heavy, unresponsive. The stone beneath him was cold against his cheek. His thoughts scattered. The palace. His room. The scrolls. Monica’s worried eyes.

  The last thing he felt was a final уnар to his ribs, hard enough to send darkness rushing in. Harry’s grip loosened. The street disappeared. And the world went black.

  Harry woke up in the physician’s quarters. The smell hit him first. Bitter herbs, old blood, and smoke from burned roots. His ribs ached with every breath, a deep, grinding pain that made him suck air through his teeth. His eyelids felt heavy, as though opening them required strength he didn’t have.

  When he finally did, the ceiling above him was unfamiliar. White cloth hung loosely from wooden beams. Bottles clinked somewhere nearby.

  He tried to move. Pain answered immediately. A sharp sound escaped his throat before he could stop it. “Easy,” a voice said. Harry turned his head slightly. Monica sat beside the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her eyes were red. She had been crying. On the other side of the room stood his father.

  The King Henry of Astania. Tall. Still. His arms were crossed, his face carved into something unreadable. He did not step closer.

  “What happened, boy?” the King asked. His voice was calm, but it cut through the room like a blade.

  Harry swallowed. His throat burned.

  “They.,” he stammered. “they blocked my path,” he said slowly, each word costing him effort. “They beat me up.”

  Silence followed. Thick. Uncomfortable. Monica stood abruptly and turned toward the King, dropping into a bow so deep her forehead nearly touched the floor. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it, “those boys must be punished if this is to ever to stop.”

  The King’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He did not look at Monica. His eyes remained fixed on Harry. “No,” he said. The word landed heavily.

  “He is a Jones," the King continued. “He must stand up and fight against his enemies.” Harry felt something twist inside his chest. Not anger. Not yet. Something smaller. Something colder.

  Monica straightened slowly and stepped closer to the King. “Your Grace,” she said, carefully, “the lad is weak. How then do you expect him to fight?”

  For a moment, the King said nothing. Then his hand curled into a fist. The sound of knuckles tightening echoed faintly in the quiet room. “His days as a weakling are over,” the King said. “He either rises to fight, or he dies.”

  Harry’s breath caught. The King stepped closer now. He stood beside the bed, looking down at Harry as though measuring something invisible. Harry forced himself not to look away. His heart thundered painfully against his ribs.

  “Prepare yourself, boy,” the King growled. “Tomorrow, you will journey to Alabama. You are going to join the Karat Academy.”