“She speaks well,” the old woman whispered.
Diana knelt beside her and took her hand. “Please call me Diana.”
The old woman’s eyes softened.
From that day, Muniaka’s mother loved her.
But love, in a village, is never invisible.
Whispers began.
The princess was spending too much time near the farmer’s hut.
The farmer walked taller when she was near.
The princess laughed more freely with him than she did in the palace.
Servants whispered to guards. Guards whispered to advisers. Advisers whispered to the king.
King Jifawan listened.
At first, he dismissed it as childish curiosity. Then reports grew more specific. His daughter had been seen under a tree with the farmer. His daughter had brought food to the farmer’s mother. His daughter had ridden alone with him in her car.
The king’s pride curdled into anger.
To him, Diana was not only his daughter. She was strategy. Alliance. Legacy. Her marriage could strengthen the kingdom. Her children would inherit royal blood. Her beauty and education were political currency.
A poor farmer threatened all of it.
Still, Diana and Muniaka did not yet know the storm gathering over them.
One evening, after days of unspoken tension between them, they walked near the fields at sunset. The sky was burning orange and purple. The air smelled of dry grass and distant rain.
Diana stopped.
Muniaka turned. “Princess?”
She smiled sadly. “You still call me that.”
“You are that.”
“I am also Diana.”
He lowered his eyes.
She stepped closer. “Muniaka, I have tried to fight what I feel. I told myself I was only curious. Then I told myself I admired your courage. Then I told myself friendship was enough.”
Her voice trembled.
“It is not enough.”
Muniaka became very still.
Diana took a breath. “I love you.”
The words changed the evening.
Muniaka stared at her as if the earth had opened beneath his feet.
“My princess…”
“No,” she whispered. “Do not hide behind that word.”
His eyes shone.
“I have loved you from the day you looked at me as if I were not above you, but beside you,” he said. “I told myself it was madness. You are the king’s daughter. I am a farmer with nothing but debts and a sick mother.”
“You have more than many men with palaces.”
“My heart does not know how to stop loving you.”
“Then do not ask it to.”
They moved toward each other slowly, almost fearfully, until their hands met.
Their first kiss was soft, trembling, and full of everything they had refused to say.
Neither saw the man hidden among the trees.
King Jifawan’s private detective returned to the palace before midnight.
By morning, everything had changed.
The guards came before sunrise.
Muniaka’s mother woke to boots pounding the earth. His siblings screamed as armed men surrounded the hut. Muniaka stepped outside, raising both hands.
“What is this?”
The captain of the guard struck him across the face.
“You were warned by your own poverty,” the man said. “But you did not listen.”
They beat him in front of his family.
His mother dragged herself from the doorway, crying, “Please! He has done nothing!”
The captain looked down at Muniaka bleeding in the dust.
“The dust must not mix with the cloud.”
Then they left.
At the palace, Diana was brought before her father.
King Jifawan’s face was hard as carved stone.
“You have shamed me.”
“I have loved honestly.”
“You have been deceived.”
“No.”
“That man wants a throne.”
“He never asked me for anything.”
“That is how clever beggars work.”
Diana stepped forward, tears burning her eyes. “You can insult me. You can lock me away. But do not call him a beggar as if poverty is a crime.”
The king’s voice thundered.
“You will never see him again.”
Diana was locked in her chambers. Guards were placed at every door. Her servants were changed. Her letters were taken. Her phone was removed.
Meanwhile, the king sent orders across the kingdom: no one was to employ Muniaka. No farm owner, no construction manager, no merchant, no hunter’s buyer. Anyone who disobeyed would face royal punishment.
By the next week, Muniaka had no work.
By the next month, his family had almost no food.
The village pitied him, but fear was stronger than pity.
Men who once praised him looked away. Women who wanted to help brought food at night in secret. His younger siblings stopped going to school because there was no money for fees.
His mother wept silently.
“This is because of me,” Muniaka said one evening.
“No,” she whispered. “This is because some men think power means crushing what they cannot control.”
At the palace, Diana refused to eat for two days. Queen Amara begged her.
“My child, you must live.”
“For what?” Diana asked. “To be sold into a marriage?”
The queen sat beside her and took her hand.
“I know your father is harsh.”
“He is cruel.”
“He is afraid.”
Diana laughed bitterly. “Afraid of a farmer?”
“Afraid of losing the future he invented for you.”
Diana turned away.
Days became weeks.
The kingdom grew quiet, as if everyone sensed something unnatural had been done. The princess no longer appeared in public. The farmer no longer worked in the fields. Even the palace celebrations stopped.
Then King Jifawan fell ill.
It began during a council meeting. His hand shook. His voice faltered. Then he collapsed.
Doctors were summoned from the city. Herbalists came from distant villages. Priests prayed. Healers burned incense. Nothing worked.
