The palace brewed with tension, but the town was no less restless. Marco found it harder each day to step outside. The market that had once greeted him with warmth now turned cold, every glance sharpened into judgment.
Stalls that had once offered him bread and laughter now withheld even a smile. It was a familiar feeling, one he had known in childhood — the sting of being unwanted — and it sent him spiraling into distress.
Lily walked beside him, her heart breaking at the sight. The inn, once alive with chatter and the smell of fresh pies, had grown silent. Customers no longer came, and the seamstress and ladies whispered cruelly in the alleys. "Even if I must go to another town for my things, I would never step foot in the inn of the slave and his mother," one said. Another added, "To think I once liked them. How foolish."
By evening, Marco decided to lock up the inn. Lily joined him, her steps heavy with sorrow. As they made their way home, a crowd began to gather. Faces twisted with anger, voices sharp with accusation.
"You both need to leave the town," one man shouted. "It is difficult for us to even look at you filthy people."
Another voice rose above the rest. "Isn't Marco a bastard? He has no father. No wonder he is a slave."
The words struck Marco like a blade, but before he could speak, Lily's fury erupted. She shouted back, her voice trembling with rage. "So it's better to be a bastard than to be the son of that monster! If you cannot help us, then do not stand in our way.
We have no connections to the prince, and even if we did, it is our business. Back off. We don't need anyone. It has always been us anyway."
The crowd froze, stunned by her defiance. No one spoke again.
When they reached home, Marco broke down. Tears streamed as he whispered, "It's my fault. Father was right. I am just a piece of shit. I will only pollute."
Lily pulled him close, her embrace firm. "It isn't like that. That scumbag was the piece of shit, not you."
Marco's voice cracked. "But isn't everything bad now?"
Lily cupped his face, her words soft but strong. "Marco, honey… dirt and stains only remain on white sheets. You are not dirt. You are not a stain."
They held each other, confiding in their pain, and as the night deepened, they drifted into sleep — grief heavy, but shared.
To be continued…