It must be hard to believe him—any of it—but let me make it simple. If you refuse, you lose the chance to begin again. You lose a new life. But if you accept, you may never return to who you once were.Still, if you refuse, you'll remain what you already are—the broken prince, waiting for your final hour.My advice is this: whatever you choose, do not lose yourself in the process. For in your life, I see more than pain; I see entertainment, distraction, and perhaps danger. And I fear that you might not only enjoy it—you might fall in love with it.
"Henry… Henry! Wake up!"
The voice came sharply, dragging Henry out of a deep, dream-heavy sleep. He blinked in confusion, his heart pounding as the door creaked open and a servant burst into the room.
"His Majesty needs to speak with you," the servant said breathlessly. "In the main hall. Immediately!"
Henry sat up, rubbing his eyes. His room was small and plain, its only decoration a single cracked mirror and a wooden chest of tools. He was used to being invisible in the palace—a stable hand, a caretaker for horses and old servants. No one ever called for him by name.
"Why would the King want to see me?" he asked, bewildered.
The servant didn't answer. Instead, he threw open Henry's chest and began pulling out garments—fine ones, royal ones, wrapped long ago in cloth and dust.
"You can't go before His Majesty dressed like that," the servant said, shoving the worn shirt Henry had slept in aside. "You must look like who you truly are."
"What I truly am?" Henry muttered, standing awkwardly as the servant forced him into the layers of embroidered fabric. Gold thread glinted under the morning light. A sash of deep blue wrapped around his waist.
When Henry finally looked into the cracked mirror again, he froze. The reflection staring back at him was not the same man. The dirt and weariness that had shadowed his face for years seemed gone. His hair, usually tangled, fell smoothly over his shoulders. For the first time, he looked—impossibly—like a prince.
"Quickly!" the servant urged. "His Majesty is waiting."
As Henry walked through the palace halls, whispers followed him like ghosts. Servants who had never spoken his name now bowed as he passed. Their eyes were full of awe, and something else—fear.
He entered the grand chamber with heavy steps. The room was vast, its air thick with the scent of burning incense and old stone. At its center, standing tall beside a massive throne, was King Alexander.
Henry stopped at the foot of the throne and knelt.
"Rise," said Alexander, his voice calm but commanding. "You need not kneel before me—not anymore."
Henry looked up, confusion tightening his chest. The King studied him closely, as if weighing every breath he took.
"I believe you've already made your decision," Alexander said, eyes narrowing slightly. "And if you haven't, I'll take your silence as a yes."
Henry's lips parted, but no words came.
"Good," Alexander said softly. "Then it's settled."
At that moment, the chamber changed. A door materialized in the stone wall behind the throne, glowing faintly with a strange, silvery light. Every servant in the room bowed deeply and left—except one, who remained by the King's side.
Alexander gestured for Henry to follow. Together, they stepped through the mysterious doorway into a hidden chamber lit by golden fire. At its center stood a sword—massive, ancient, its blade resting on an altar of white stone.
"This," said the King quietly, "is the room where every ruler of my line is born."
Henry felt a shiver trace his spine.
Alexander's eyes darkened. "My family carries a curse. For centuries, no king of my bloodline has been able to bring a living heir into this world. Every son dies before he can draw breath."
He paused, staring at the sword. "My kingdom was built by divine favor—but that favor came with a price. I am the last of my line. If I die without an heir, the throne dies with me."
Henry's voice trembled. "Then… why call me here?"
"Because you," Alexander said, turning to him, "are my answer. My blood has no strength left—but this room does. It carries the power to bind souls and awaken hearts. That sword in the center—once touched—it can transfer the soul of a broken heart into the body of a child who would otherwise die."
Henry's breath caught. "Transfer a soul?"
"Yes," said the King. "But it only works if the child is of my blood."
Henry frowned. "But where is this child?"
As if in answer, the door opened behind them. A woman was carried in on a bed of silk—her face pale, sweat glistening on her forehead. She was in the throes of labor, her cries echoing in the sacred chamber.
"My wife," Alexander said softly. "She is giving birth to the child who must live."
The midwives rushed to her side, whispering prayers. Henry stepped back, his pulse hammering in his ears. The air itself seemed to tremble.
"Push!" cried the doctor. "Push, Your Grace!"
Moments stretched into eternity. And then, at last, a baby's cry filled the air—thin, desperate, alive.
The Queen reached for her child, tears streaming down her face. "I will not lose another son," she whispered hoarsely.
Alexander stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You will not lose this one."
The Queen's eyes fluttered closed as the midwives eased her into sleep. Alexander turned to Henry.
"It is time," he said. "Touch the sword."
Henry hesitated. "What will happen to me?"
"You will not die," said Alexander. "But you will no longer be what you are."
Henry looked from the King to the infant—small, fragile, yet full of life—and something inside him broke open. He reached out and placed his hand on the sword.
The world dissolved into light.
He felt his body tremble, his thoughts scatter like sand in the wind. Pain and warmth and memory all blurred together. He saw flashes—his father's tired face, the horses he cared for, the empty nights by the fire—and then, suddenly, silence.
When the light faded, the King's body began to crumble into golden dust.
"Live well, my son," Alexander whispered as his form dissolved into nothingness.
The baby in the Queen's arms let out a powerful cry—no longer weak, no longer fading. The sound echoed through the palace halls, strong and full of life.
Trumpets sounded outside, and servants rushed into the chamber, bowing deeply.
"The first son of the King is born!" they cried. "The Heart of the Realm beats once more!