Chapter 103 PAST SEED
The crowd murmured.
Athalia pressed a hand to her mouth.
It could not be.
“Enough,” the older guard snapped. “I’m done with this nonsense. Go home.”
“I have no home,” the man said quietly.
The words cut through the laughter like a blade.
Silence fell.
Then the younger guard scoffed. “Listen to him. You practiced the speech, didn’t you?”
“I don’t care if you believe me,” the man replied. “I will wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For someone who does.”
The guards stared at him.
“You’ll be waiting a long time,” the older guard said.
The man stepped back from the gate and moved to the side, leaning against the stone wall as if settling in for the night.
The guards shrugged and turned away.
The crowd slowly dispersed.
Athalia remained, though in doubt.
She watched him from across the square, heart hammering.
Could he be here son or some deceiver as they all say.
No, she thought desperately.
"No..no..."
She forced herself to breathe. She had learned what hope did to the careless.
The man sat with his hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes half-lidded, as though the noise around him barely registered. He did not beg. He did not argue. He simply waited.
As dusk crept in, torches were lit along the palace walls. The square emptied further, until only a few stragglers remained.
Athalia gathered her courage and crossed the space between them.
She stopped a few steps away.
“You’re serious,” she said softly.
He opened his eyes.
“Yes. But why are you still here?.”
“Nevermind that” she asked. “But why come back now if what you say is true?”
“Because I was told it was time.”
“Told by whom?”
He studied her face, as if weighing something.
“By someone.”
Athalia swallowed.
“And who was that?”
He shook his head. “I can't tell you her name."
Her heart lurched.
“Her?”
"Thank you for your concern, miss but you must leave me.”
“You won’t convince the guards,” Athalia said.
“I know.”
“You could be arrested.”
“I know.”
“Or killed.”
A flicker crossed his face—not fear, but resignation.
“I’ve been alone longer than I was ever held,” he said. “If this is where it ends, then so be it.”
Athalia’s resolve hardened.
“No,” she said.
He looked up sharply.
“No,” she repeated. “This shouldn't be where it ends. You must live a long life ahead. Good bye, son.”
His eyes widened.
“No one had ever called me son, not even Selene” he murmured.
Then he looked towards the old lady going away and back to the gate.
The palace gates loomed before him—impenetrable and cruel.
The man folded his hands in his lap, heart pounding—not with fear, but with something sharper.
Reckoning.
"Aren't you leaving?" One of the guards cried
out.
“No, I'll stay here tonight,” she said. “If anyone asks, I'll say nothing more.”
“Meaning?”
“I will find someone who remembers me and can pass my message.”
“Who?” he asked.
He didn't have that answer for he knew no one.
From the shadows near the gate, unseen eyes watched him closely.
The next day, the sun was already tilting westward when Maeron left the palace.
It was the hour when the corridors grew quieter—when courtiers slipped away with measured bows and the echo of boots softened against stone. Maeron liked this hour. It allowed him to think without interruption, to weigh words already spoken and those yet to be said by the King.
He pulled his cloak tighter as he descended the palace steps. The square beyond the gates lay half-asleep under the afternoon heat. Merchants dozed beside their carts. Guards leaned on their spears, bored and restless. The palace gates themselves stood open only for official traffic, their iron shadows long and sharp against the ground.
That was when Maeron noticed the young man.
He sat against the outer wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, face turned slightly toward the sun as if drawing warmth from it. Dust clung to the hem of his cloak. He looked as though he had been there for hours—long enough for the guards to stop noticing him entirely.
Maeron asked the carriage to slow down.
Something about the stillness bothered him. Not the lazy stillness of a beggar or the weary slump of a traveler, but a composed stillness—deliberate, contained.
He gestured to the nearest guard.
“Why is that man there?”
The guard squinted. “Him? Been there since yesterday, my lord.”
“And you let him sleep at the gate?”
“He claimed he had business with the king,” the guard said with a shrug. “So does everyone these days.”
Maeron’s gaze returned to the young man. The face was unfamiliar, yet… not entirely strange.
“What business?” Maeron asked.
The guard snorted. “More like nonsense and wouldn’t say more. Just kept repeating that it was important message.”
Maeron felt a flicker of irritation. “And you didn’t remove him?”
“He wasn’t causing trouble,” the guard replied. “He was just waiting.”
Maeron studied the young man again. Waiting...for what?
He approached, boots crunching softly against gravel.
“You,” Maeron said.
The young man’s eyes opened at once. Sharp. Alert. Too alert for someone half-asleep.
He rose smoothly to his feet and inclined his head.
“My lord.”
Maeron took note of the voice—steady, unhurried.
“It seems you’ve been here for long” Maeron said. “Why?”
“I’m waiting to speak to the king.”
“You and a dozen others. But about what, this time?”
“My Lord, this matter cannot be spoken of to anyone else.”
Maeron folded his arms. “That is not how audiences work.”
“I know, my lord”
“Then why persist?”
The young man met his gaze without flinching.
“Because it concerns the king directly.”
Maeron raised an eyebrow. “You think that makes you unique?”
The young man did not smile.
“I think it makes this unavoidable. But it's just a try.”
Maeron felt it again—that pull. Not persuasion, exactly. Conviction.
“What is your name?” Maeron asked.
“I will only give it to the king.”
Maeron’s lips thinned. “Young man, it seems you test my patience.”
The young man inclined his head slightly. “I test nothing, my lord. But I'm sorry. I'll wait to answer that to the King.”
A long pause stretched between them.
Maeron sighed. “Very well. Speak. I am the king’s chief adviser. If this matter is truly urgent, you may tell me.”
The young man shook his head. “I was told not to.”
“Told by whom?”
The young man hesitated—only a breath. Then, “Someone who believed the king would not listen if it came from anyone else.”
Maeron’s eyes narrowed. “And you believe the king will listen to you?”
“I believe he must.”
There it was again. That certainty.
Maeron studied him carefully now—the structure of his face, the set of his shoulders, the way his hands rested loosely at his sides. He did not look like a liar. Nor did he look like a fool.
“What is it you wish to tell the king?” Maeron asked quietly.
The young man held his gaze.
“That his past has come to find him.”
A chill crept up Maeron’s spine