CHAPTER 455: THE WRETCHED PRINCE

Reuben’s breath came shallow, ragged, as though the very air around him had thickened. The words declared war echoed like a death knell in his mind. His hands clawed at the sheets, trembling, desperate to hold on to something solid.

War.

And he lay broken. Helpless.

He tried to shift, to push himself upright, but fire ripped through his legs, searing him from hip to ankle. His body betrayed him. His strength—the strength he had always prided himself on—was gone. He collapsed back against the pillows, sweat beading on his brow.

My legs. My throne. My name.They’re gone.

The thoughts tumbled over one another, a spiral he could not stop. What use was a crippled heir? What worth was a prince who could not ride, could not lead, could not even stand?

And then his mind snagged on a scene earlier—his mother. He saw the fury in her eyes. The slap of her hand against the physician’s face. The way she shrieked at them to restore him or suffer her wrath. He could still see her, rigid with madness, like a lioness stripped of her cub.

For the first time in his life, he feared her.

If he remained broken, would she still see him as her son—or as a shame to be hidden, a weakness to be purged?

His throat tightened. She will destroy them all for me. For this shattered body. And if I fail to heal... she will destroy me too.

He turned his head slightly, catching the eyes of the physicians who hovered nearby, whispering among themselves, careful not to meet his gaze. Pity. That’s what he saw in their eyes. Pity where once there had been respect, even fear.

He wanted to scream at them, to remind them who he was, what blood ran in his veins—but the words caught in his chest. Because deep down, he knew. Power meant nothing when your bones had been broken like kindling.

And beyond all of it, like a shadow that loomed larger and larger, was Turik. The pain of bone snapping echoed in his memory, a nightmare replaying in an endless loop. His enemy had left him crippled, humiliated, unworthy.

And then there was Amielle, the woman who had been with him at the beginning. The woman who loved him first, but he abandoned for a selfish concubine.

And worse—Turik was free.

Reuben pressed a hand against his chest, his heart thundering like a war drum. "I..." His voice cracked, but he forced the words out. "I failed. I failed them all. Especially Amielle. Even my mother."

Jethru, still standing by with arms crossed, tilted his head, eyes unreadable. "Better that you realize it now than never."

The words stung like salt in an open wound.

Reuben shut his eyes, but the darkness offered no refuge. He saw only the kingdom burning. He saw himself forgotten, replaced—perhaps by Alaric, perhaps by Alderan. He saw war, and his name already fading into ash.

Tears welled at the corners of his eyes, hot and shameful. For the first time since boyhood, Prince Reuben wept—not from pain of the body, but from the shattering of everything he had thought himself to be.

And somewhere deep inside, a seed of hatred took root. Not only for Turik. Not only for Zura. But for all who would dare pity him.

He swore, silently, teeth grinding: If I must crawl, I will crawl. If I must shed blood to rise again, I will. Cripple or not—I will not be cast aside.

But even as he swore it, he felt the icy hand of doubt grip him tighter.

The chamber dimmed. Or perhaps his sight was failing. Either way, the edges of the world blurred, and shadows thickened until they bled into grotesque shapes.

Reuben blinked hard, but the darkness clung to him, heavier with each breath. His head lolled back against the pillow, his skin clammy. Somewhere, distantly, he heard the physicians whispering, the clatter of a basin, the rustle of bandages—but it was as if their voices came from underwater.

Then he heard another sound.

A voice. It was low, mocking, and familiar.

"Pathetic."

Reuben’s eyes flew open. Across the room, seated casually in a chair that had not been there before, was Turik. His enemy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, smiling with teeth like knives.

"You cry in your bed like a child, while I walk free." Turik’s voice dripped with contempt. "You remember, don’t you? The sound your bones made when I snapped them? The way you begged without words? That was the moment you ceased being a prince."

Reuben gasped, shaking his head. "No—"

But the room shifted again. The chair was gone, and now his mother loomed at his bedside, her hands clawlike, her face twisted with fury. Helga’s eyes glowed like coals.

"My son cannot be a cripple," she hissed, the same words she had spat at the physician. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in. "You will rise, or you are no son of mine. Do you hear me, Reuben? No son of mine."

"Mother—please—" He tried to reach for her, but his arms felt like lead. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

The shadows shifted again. This time it was the throne. His throne. Golden, radiant, perched high above a hall of faceless courtiers. He dragged himself toward it, crawling on shattered legs, blood marking his path. Each pull forward was agony, but the throne seemed always farther, receding with every motion.

Above it, Alaric appeared—whole, strong, Lara at his side, the hall roaring his name.

"Not you," a thousand voices chanted, faceless mouths open wide. "Not you. Not you."

Reuben screamed, but no sound came. His throat closed, his lungs burned, and the weight of failure crushed down on him.

He was falling, tumbling into an endless black void.

And then—

A gentle touch. Cold water dabbed his forehead. A voice, soft and insistent: "Your Highness, stay with us." A woman’s voice.

The visions shattered like glass.

Reuben’s eyes fluttered open. He was back in his chamber. The physicians leaned close, a female caregiver holding a damp cloth, another checking the splints on his legs.

Jethru stood at the corner, arms folded. He frowned as he saw the myriad of emotions on Reuben’s face. Looking at him, he knew he must be drowning in self-pity and self-loathing.

"Your Highness, you should focus on getting better. Do not wallow in self-pity, as it will hinder your recovery. Remember, that the greatness of a man is not measured by his physical ability but by how well he overcomes adversities."

Reuben turned his gaze on Jethru. He was the man who won the martial arts competition in the master’s category. He easily beat Julian Cardill. He was Helio Bandor, a martial artist convicted of deceiving the king 25 years ago. He came back to clear his name and take back what was his.

Perhaps he knew what he was saying.