POV: Chris Blackwood (Still in Disguise)
The cell was damp and bitterly silent, save for the scuff of boots approaching outside. I sat on the cold bench, cloaked in filth and humility, hands trembling not from fear—but from restraint.
The door creaked open again. Two guards stepped in. One younger, tense. The other older, colder.
I stood slowly, weakly. "Please," I rasped, stepping forward with hands raised in surrender. "Tell the Dictator... please just tell her I'm not a thief."
They scoffed.
"Tell Amara—please. She'll know. She'll see I'm not dangerous. I didn't mean to cause trouble. This festival... it's a celebration for everyone, right? I came to witness it, not ruin it. You can't just lock me away... I—"
"Shut up!" the older one barked, slamming the butt of his rifle against the iron bars.
I flinched, dropping to my knees with dramatic force. "Please... I'm not resisting."
The younger guard looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight.
"You think throwing their names around will get you out of this?" the older growled, walking toward me with a sneer. "Do you even know who they are? Amara? The Dictator? You speak like you've stood in their presence."
I looked up, eyes wet and pleading. "No, sir. I've never met them. But I've heard stories... good ones. Of how they helped people like me. I... I believe in them. Please. Just get someone. A lawyer. A scribe. A priest. Anyone."
The younger guard stepped forward, voice lower. "Why would you mention the Dictator and Amara? You're just a beggar."
"I overheard things. I live on the streets. People talk. Names echo. I don't mean harm—I just thought if anyone could help... maybe they could. I meant no offense."
The older guard huffed. "You've got a loud mouth, beggar. You think you're part of this empire? You think this festival was made for the likes of you?"
"The King said it was for everyone..." I murmured. "Even the poor. Especially the poor. That's what the crowd was saying yesterday. That Chris Blackwood made a place for all."
They stared at me for a beat too long.
Uncertainty. Suspicion. Maybe even guilt.
"You're lucky the tanks didn't roll over you," the older spat.
"Please," I said again, clinging to my role. "I just want to be part of it. The festival. Just to see it."
The younger one whispered, "Let's report this. The way he talks... maybe one of the top aides should see him."
The older hesitated. Then grunted. "Fine. But not because he asked. Because something's off."
As they walked away, I stayed slumped over, smiling faintly into the dirt.
Yes. Report it. Send word up the ladder. Let them bring in someone close. Let them wonder how a beggar knows names whispered only in war rooms.
They didn't realize it yet…
The king isn't watching from afar—he's already inside.