Chapter 3 – Threats of a King, Tears of a Boy

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📖 Chapter 3 – Threats of a King, Tears of a Boy

Night had fallen heavy on the town. The street where Thomas’s little panipuri cart once stood was now nothing but splinters and spilled spices.

Royal guards had come like a storm, breaking everything without a word. The King’s anger had spoken through their swords.

Thomas stood in the dark corner of the market long after everyone had gone home. His brothers slept in the tiny room they rented. He could have gone back too, but he didn’t. He just stood there, staring at the ruins of his livelihood. His fingers clenched around the last few coins in his pocket.

“Not for me,” he whispered. “For Sam. For Harry. I will stand again.”

By dawn, he was at work. From thrown-away wood, broken iron rods, and old sacks, Thomas built another cart. His hands bled but he didn’t stop. His eyes were swollen with no sleep but his spirit still burned.

When the sun rose, a new stall stood in the same place. Smaller, rougher, but alive.

Thomas stood behind it, back straight, eyes calm, serving the first customers of the day.

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But word travels fast.

Before noon, the King himself appeared, not in his royal hall, but in the marketplace. His soldiers parted the crowd as he walked, his black cloak trailing behind like a shadow.

The King’s eyes found the new stall.

And Thomas.

For a moment, his heart twisted — admiration, rage, obsession — all at once. How could this poor boy still defy him? How could he stand so tall after being crushed?

He walked right up to the stall, stopping so close that Thomas could feel his breath.

“I broke your stall,” the King said, his voice low, dangerous.

“And yet here you are again. Selling food as if you belong to no one.”

Thomas didn’t reply. His fingers tightened around the edge of the cart.

The King’s face darkened. He leaned in, his voice now a trembling whisper, not of power, but of a dangerous kind of desperation:

“If you touch this cart again…

If you rebuild even once more…

I swear, I will end my life right here.”

His eyes burned with madness.

“The kingdom will see my body on the ground and they will blame you, Thomas Stanley.

You will be the boy who made the King kill himself.”

The crowd gasped. Guards shifted uncomfortably. Even Sam and Harry, who had come running to see the commotion, froze in fear.

Thomas’s heart dropped. He could fight against cruelty, but not against guilt. He couldn’t bear to be responsible for someone’s death — even this man who had destroyed his life.

“Stop,” Thomas whispered. “Please… don’t say such things.”

The King’s face softened, just a flicker. His voice lowered further, almost a plea now:

“Then stop defying me. Don’t force me to do this. Come with me. Be mine. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want me to die.”

Thomas felt his strength crumble. For his brothers, for his conscience, for the fear of blood on his hands — he gave a small, trembling nod.

And in that moment, the King smiled faintly. Not with love. Not with kindness. But with victory.

Thomas’s defiance had been his last wall.

Now, it was broken.

The contract that would enslave him had just begun.

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