Chapter 2: The Walk of Shame

**Chapter 2: The Walk of Shame**

Whispers of contempt and disdain filled the grand hall as Shahil was led away. The ministers, once deferential in his presence, now spoke openly of their disdain.

"He never deserved to be a prince," one muttered, his voice dripping with scorn.

"A disgrace to the royal bloodline," another sneered. "His mother was a commoner. How could someone of such low birth ever hope to rule?"

Shahil kept his head down, the clinking of the chains around his wrists echoing through the halls as a painful reminder of his fall from grace. The weight of the manacles dug into his flesh, but it was the barbed words of those who once feigned loyalty that hurt more.

As he was marched through the palace corridors, the memories of a life not lived washed over him. He saw the contemptuous glares of his step-siblings, their smug satisfaction at his downfall. They had won, for now. He was nothing more than a prisoner, an object of scorn and ridicule.

The palace gates loomed ahead, and with them, the beginning of his public humiliation. As he stepped out into the bright morning light, a chorus of jeers and insults greeted him. The common folk, having been fed lies of his treachery, lined the streets to witness the disgrace of the once-prince.

"Traitor!" they shouted, their voices merging into a hateful cacophony. Rotten vegetables and fruits were hurled in his direction, splattering against his body and staining his tattered clothes. Shahil winced as a particularly hard projectile struck his cheek, leaving a stinging bruise.

Step by agonizing step, he was paraded through the streets of the capital, a spectacle of disgrace for all to see. The weight of his chains and the constant barrage of abuse were almost too much to bear. He felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter, powerless against the tide of hatred that surrounded him.

His thoughts drifted to his transmigrated life, a world where such cruelty seemed unfathomable. But here, in this harsh and unforgiving reality, he was at the mercy of forces beyond his control. All he could do was endure and hope for the end of this torment.

As the rotten vegetables ran out, some of the more vicious onlookers resorted to throwing stones. Shahil's pace quickened, driven by a desperate desire to escape the cruelty. Each stone that struck him was a fresh wound, a new reminder of his fall from grace.

Despite the pain, Shahil forced himself to remain upright, refusing to give his tormentors the satisfaction of seeing him collapse. He focused on the distant gates of the capital, his only solace the thought that his punishment would soon be over.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he reached the outskirts of the capital. The crowd began to thin, their interest waning now that the spectacle was over. Shahil took a deep breath, the relief of leaving the jeering masses behind mingling with the pain of his injuries.

As he was led to the carriage that would take him to his place of exile, he glanced back at the city one last time. The towering spires and grand buildings seemed cold and distant, a stark contrast to the warmth and simplicity he longed for.

His body ached, his spirit was battered, but Shahil held onto a glimmer of hope. In the countryside, away from the treachery and the cruelty, perhaps he could find the peace he so desperately desired. Yet, as the carriage began to move, carrying him towards an uncertain future, the stars above twinkled once more, hinting at a destiny yet to be fulfilled.