Chapter 61 The Broken Prince
Victory parades echoed through the city of Chandlok like thunder. Red flags flew high, drummers beat their chests with pride, and flower petals showered from palace balconies like rain from the gods themselves.
Hatim walked through it all like a carved statue — head high, armor blood-streaked, hands stained with the remnants of southern conquest. His eyes, once youthful and curious, now held a storm behind them. Cold. Calculating. Cracking.
The people roared for him.
But the prince who returned wasn’t the boy they remembered. Something inside Hatim had shattered — quietly, violently — and no one noticed.
Not even him.
He made it to the throne hall, where Roshni awaited with open arms and a viper’s smile. She pulled him into a hug, cold and firm. There was no warmth in it, only pride soaked in manipulation.
“You’ve done it, my lion,” she whispered. “The South kneels. Your name is carved into history now.”
But Hatim didn’t smile.
His mind was still on her. On Sana. On the last time he saw her standing in the courtyard, challenging him with nothing but honesty in her eyes and truth in her voice. It had haunted him through the nights he couldn’t sleep — and there were many.
Yet pride—Roshni’s pride—wrapped itself around his neck like a chain. He had to believe Sana was lying. He had to.
“She came out to watch me train again,” he said suddenly, almost absent-mindedly.
Roshni stiffened.
“She’s watching you,” she said smoothly, “because she knows her web is falling apart. And she’s desperate. That’s what traitors do.”
Then, she pulled out the forged documents. Sealed. “Letters” from Sana to some of the rebel factions in the southern border. A familiar game — but Hatim, already weary and hungry for certainty, read every line with a clenched jaw.
“See?” Roshni murmured like venom. “She played with your heart. She entered this palace to destroy it from the inside.”
Hatim said nothing. Just nodded once and walked out.
---
That evening, the palace held a celebration in Hatim’s honor. Nobles from every corner of Chandlok filled the halls with gold-dusted robes and sycophantic laughter.
And Sana walked in like a ghost in silk.
No veil. No jewels. Just her — dignified, silent, terrifying in her grace.
Eyes turned. Whispers flared.
She was not welcomed. Not anymore. But she walked straight through them like a queen made of fire.
Hatim saw her.
And it felt like ice under his skin.
He crossed the hall with slow, deliberate steps. The crowd hushed.
“Sana,” he said, his voice echoing through the golden chamber.
She turned to him, calm. “Your Highness.”
That stung more than it should’ve.
He held up one of the forged letters for all to see. “Explain this.”
Her eyes flicked to the parchment, then back to his face.
“I don’t explain lies,” she said, “I expose truth.”
A murmur ran through the room. Hatim’s hand tightened around the paper.
“You want the people to think you’re innocent?” he said, louder now. “To make them forget your schemes? You watched my mother bury your crimes — and you let it happen.”
Sana looked around the room. Dozens of faces stared at her like she was dirt.
She looked back at Hatim and said softly, “If you knew what your mother buried, you would not sleep at night.”
He snapped.
“ENOUGH!” he roared.
Sana didn’t flinch.
“You parade around this palace like some kind of saint, but you’re nothing but a liar with a pretty face. You used me. Played me. Manipulated me.”
Every word he spat tasted like poison in his mouth.
She stood there, untouched by the storm he’d become.
“If I truly had that kind of power,” she said, voice low but firm, “you’d still be someone I loved.”
That sentence silenced the whole court.
Hatim stared at her like she’d slapped him.
“Leave,” he growled. “Before I do something I’ll regret.”
Sana smiled — not out of joy, but out of sorrow too deep to hide. “You already did.”
And she turned and walked away, each step a silent scream, each breath a declaration that she refused to break.
---
That night, Hatim sat alone in the war chamber, surrounded by maps, trophies, and ghosts.
He read the letters again.
Read them until the ink blurred and doubt took hold.
The cracks had begun.
He remembered the way Sana didn’t beg. The way her eyes didn’t plead — just held him accountable.
And somewhere in the coldness of that room, he whispered to himself:
“Why didn’t I ask… why didn’t I look deeper?”
But it was too late.
The damage was done.
And Sana? She was no longer waiting to be believed.
She was ready to be heard.