Ashes in the Wind (Part 1)
The world still whispered his name.
Mildern Yazukaze—the lost prince, the kid who should have worn a crown, the prince who vanished when the kingdom burned. There were nights when the forest air carried fragments of the old songs, broken melodies sung by wandering bards who had never seen his face but repeated the tales nonetheless. To them, he was a tragic myth. To himself, he was something smaller, quieter: a shadow trying desperately to forget the light.
His cottage stood hidden beneath a canopy of ancient cedar and maple, its roof patched with moss, its walls smelling faintly of rain. It was nothing like the marble palaces of his youth. Here, every corner bore the mark of his hand: rough-hewn shelves, a crooked door, a hearth that smoked if the wood was damp. And yet, to him, this was the most honest place he had ever known.
Mildern's mornings were ritual. He woke to the cries of jays and the far-off rushing of a brook. He would chop wood, boil water, sweep the dirt floor with a bundle of reeds, and sometimes sit for long stretches simply staring at the shafts of sunlight piercing through the trees. It was not a glamorous life, but it was his, free of courtiers and jeweled masks.
Still, silence was a double-edged gift.
There were days when the weight of it pressed too heavily, when the quiet turned from sanctuary to prison. On such days, Mildern's mind betrayed him. He saw fire in the branches. He heard screams in the cawing of crows. The night of the betrayal—his father's shouts, his mother's bloodied gown, the crack of burning timber—returned again and again, until his heart tightened and his hands trembled.
He told himself this solitude was peace, but in truth, it was hiding.
And then came the child.
It was on a pale autumn morning, the forest shrouded in mist. Mildern had gone to gather berries along the slope near the brook, his knife flashing faintly as he cut brambles away. That was when he heard it: a laugh. Not the echo of memory, not the cry of a bird—an unmistakably human laugh. High-pitched, unguarded, alive.
He froze.
Through the mist, a small figure stumbled into view. A kid, no older than seven, his tunic ragged, his hair sticking up like wild grass. He was chasing after a butterfly, his bare feet splashing in the shallow stream as though the cold water meant nothing to him.
Mildern's chest constricted. Panic surged. How had the child come this far? His home was not marked on any map, his paths concealed by overgrowth he cultivated himself. The forest was not a place where children wandered. And yet—here was one, trespassing without fear.
Instinct told him to retreat, to vanish deeper into the trees and let the child pass. He had mastered the art of silence, of being unseen. But for reasons he could not name, his feet did not move. Instead, he lingered in the shadows, watching.
The child caught the butterfly between cupped hands, then gasped when it wriggled free, fluttering upward into the mist. Rather than cry, he laughed again, the sound ringing out like bells.
It was the kind of laughter Mildern hadn't heard in years.
And it terrified him.
Because that sound—bright, careless, unshackled—threatened to unravel the walls he had built around himself. It was a reminder of what he had lost, what he could never return to. It was dangerous.
He gritted his teeth.
"No. Not here," he muttered under his breath, voice rough from disuse. "Not in my forest."
The kid turned then, as if hearing him. His eyes—wide, curious, startlingly clear—met Mildern's across the fog. For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Mildern felt something stir in his stomach. Recognition? Longing? Fear? He could not tell.
And before he could stop himself, he stepped forward.
The forest seemed to sigh, as though it had been waiting for this moment. The leaves shifted, the stream murmured louder, and even the mist curled like fingers drawing them together.
Mildern Yazukaze—the fallen prince who had buried himself in solitude—had been found.
But whether this was salvation, or the beginning of another ruin, the forest did not say.
The Child Who Shouldn't Have Found Me (Part 2)
The air was still thick with mist. The forest seemed to hold its breath as the prince and the child stood locked in each other's presence. Mildern's cloak—threadbare, patched too many times—hung about his shoulders like a half-forgotten memory of nobility. The kid, barefoot and small, clutched at nothing in particular, staring at the stranger with eyes too wide, too trusting.
Mildern's tongue curled, searching for words. His instinct was sharpness; he had honed it like a blade, a shield meant to cut down anything that might draw too near. Yet when he opened his mouth, what came out was not the commanding voice of a prince, nor the cold snarl of a hermit, but something cracked and uncertain.
"You—" His voice rasped, startling even himself. He hadn't spoken aloud to another soul in... years. "You shouldn't be here."
The kid tilted his head. His lips formed a half-smile, as if he'd just been told a joke. He blinked slowly, like a small animal regarding something curious but not threatening.
Mildern bristled. "Are you deaf? Or perhaps stupid?" His words came harsher now, sharpened by his own unease. "This forest isn't your playground, child. Go home before you're swallowed whole by it."
But the kid only shuffled closer, his bare feet squelching in the damp soil. He looked up at Mildern with an expression far too calm, as though the prince's bark had been little more than a breeze rustling the trees.
Mildern's throat tightened. He hadn't expected resistance—he hadn't expected anything. Most men flinched under his tongue, recoiled at his disdain. This child, however, seemed incapable of even understanding the insult.
"You..." Mildern began again, then faltered. The child was close enough now that he could see the dirt smudged on his cheeks, the faint hollowness of hunger in his face.
A tremor stirred in Mildern's heart. He crushed it down with irritation.
"Stop staring at me like that."
The childs lips quirked upward into something resembling mischief. A small sound escaped him—not quite a word, but an attempt.
"Mi..." The syllable hung in the air. "Mi-der."
Mildern froze. His sharp tongue, always ready to strike, tangled in silence. The child had fumbled his name—not properly spoken, not fully formed, but recognizable nonetheless.
The sound burrowed into him like an arrow.
Mildern Yazukaze—the name of a fallen prince, whispered now by a kid too young to know its weight.
His heart ached. He wanted to bark back, to correct the boy, to demand how he knew that name. But instead he only stood there, stiff, his voice caught in his throat.
The kid reached out suddenly, fingers grasping at the hem of Mildern's cloak. His touch was feather-light, yet Mildern flinched as though struck. He stumbled back a pace, eyes wide.
"Don't," he hissed, though the venom rang hollow. "Don't touch me."
But the child only laughed, a high-pitched, bubbling sound that seemed to scatter the mist around them. To him, Mildern's reaction was no threat, no rejection—merely something amusing, something curious.
And just like that, the forest shifted. The silence that had for years been Mildern's fortress no longer belonged to him alone.
He turned sharply, cloak swaying. "Fine. Do as you like. Wander, get lost, starve—I won't stop you. But don't come near my home."
He began to walk, his steps brisk, purposeful. His heart pounded as though he were fleeing battle rather than a child. He could feel the boy's gaze trailing after him, like a thread tugging at the back of his spine.
But then came the sound.
Soft, uncertain.
"Mi...der."
Mildern stopped.
The forest seemed to hush once more.
Something inside him twisted. That broken little attempt at his name—innocent, unburdened—was the first voice to call out to him in years. It wasn't a courtier begging for favor, or a soldier crying orders, or an enemy spitting curses. It was just a child, clumsy and pure.
And though Mildern's body moved forward, away from the child, his mind lingered, snagged on that single syllable.
That night, in his cottage, the fire burned low. Mildern sat by the hearth, knees drawn up, hands clenched tight. The kids face—those wide, unafraid eyes—haunted him far more than the old memories of flames and blood.
He muttered to himself, bitter, sharp. "It's nothing. He's nothing. Just a child too stupid to fear the woods."
But his voice trembled.
And when he closed his eyes, he heard it again—
"Mi-der."
The laugh that followed was so bright, it cut straight through the darkness that had wrapped his heart for so long.
The Cottage in the Trees (Part 3)
The forest should have swallowed the bkid. That was what Mildern told himself. Its paths twisted, its roots caught the ankles of the careless, its silence pressed against intruders until they fled. He had shaped this place to be his wall—his fortress. No one found him here.
And yet, when Mildern returned from gathering herbs at dawn two days later, there he was.
The kid sat on the crooked steps of his cottage, his small legs dangling, humming tunelessly as though this moss-covered house were the most natural place in the world to be. He looked up at Mildern's approach, and his face bloomed into a smile—bright, unguarded, piercing straight through the prince's composure.
Mildern nearly dropped the bundle of herbs. His voice broke out sharp, defensive:
"You—! What are you doing here?"
The boy tilted his head, unbothered, as though the bark of the hermit prince was nothing more than the scolding of a stray dog. He pointed a finger at the door.
"Home."
Mildern blinked. His stomach tightened.
"This isn't your home, you insolent little—" He cut himself off, clenching his teeth. Talking was foreign, clumsy, like wielding a blade after years of rust. He spat out the rest anyway: "Go back to your family. To wherever you crawled out from. This place is mine."
But the child only smiled wider. "Mi-der," he said again, as if naming him claimed some unspoken right.
Mildern stiffened. His name—bent, childlike, but alive in another's mouth—echoed through him. He hated it. He hated how it warmed something long frozen.
He strode past, shoulders stiff, and shoved open the cottage door. "Do as you like," he snapped over his shoulder. "Sit there until you freeze. Starve if you wish. I won't be your servant."
Inside, the cottage smelled of woodsmoke and dried herbs. It was dim, the small window letting in only a trickle of pale morning light. Mildern set down the herbs with more force than necessary, his movements sharp, clipped. He tried to ignore the faint patter of footsteps following him.
When he turned, the kid was standing just inside the doorway, gazing around with wide eyes. His little hands trailed across the rough wooden walls as though they were treasures, as though this crooked, lonely place were a palace.
Mildern's throat constricted. "Out," he ordered, pointing toward the door. "This is not for you."
The child blinked at him. Then, without a word, he wandered over to the hearth, sitting before the low fire. He extended his palms toward the heat, shivering faintly.
Mildern froze.
The kids tunic was threadbare. His knees were scabbed. His face—beneath the dirt and playfulness—was drawn with the unmistakable signs of hunger.
Mildern's heart lurched. For an instant, his mind slipped back to the ruins of the palace: the screams of children, the lifeless faces, the smell of smoke clinging to torn silk. He had been powerless then—he had run, leaving so many behind.
"No," he muttered under his breath, shaking the memory off. His hands curled into fists. "Not again."
He turned his back, busying himself with pointless tasks—stacking herbs, shifting pots. But every clatter felt too loud against the silence of the childs presence.
Finally, he snapped. "You're not staying." His voice was sharper than intended, cutting like glass. "One meal, perhaps, if you're starving. After that—gone. Do you hear me? Gone."
The kid looked up, blinking. Then he smiled. It was small, tired, but so radiant it felt like sunlight piercing through the cracks of Mildern's ruined heart.
"Mi-der," he said softly.
Mildern froze again. His sharp tongue failed him, his chest tight with something between fury and... fear. Because in that moment, for the first time in years, he was not alone.
And it terrified him.
Yet still, he turned toward the shelves, gathering bread hardened by days, a sliver of dried meat, and a small wooden cup of water. His movements were brusque, almost violent, as if pretending this was no act of kindness at all. He thrust the food toward the kid without meeting his eyes.
"There. Eat, then leave."
The child beamed, clutching the bread in both hands as though it were a feast. He bit into it clumsily, crumbs tumbling down his chin, and laughed between mouthfuls.
Mildern turned away, pressing a hand to his ribs, nails digging into his palm. His sharp tongue had not driven the child away. His fortress had been breached. And though he told himself he despised it, his heart betrayed him—beating faster, louder, as if awakening from a long slumber.
The forest outside stirred. The wind whispered through the trees. And for the first time in years, the cottage was not silent.
The Ghost in the Quiet (Part 4)
Night wrapped itself around the cottage like a shroud. Outside, the forest breathed in hushed whispers, leaves sighing as if recalling secrets too old for words. Inside, the hearth burned low, its glow flickering faintly across the wooden walls.
The kid was asleep in the adjoining room, curled beneath a rough wool blanket Mildern had begrudgingly tossed onto the bed. His breathing was soft, steady, the kind of sound that could lull one into safety if one allowed it.
Mildern lay awake.
His bed was crude—a straw-stuffed mattress, thin and uneven—but that was not what kept him from rest. It was the silence. A silence broken not by emptiness, but by presence. By the fragile weight of another life beneath his roof.
He stared at the beams above him, his hands knotted against his shy heart, his jaw tight. He tried to steady his thoughts, but they returned again and again to the child's face. Not the child sleeping a room away, but another.
A face from long ago.
He remembered her—small, freckled, with hair like gold-threaded sunlight. A child who had once chased him through the palace gardens, her laughter shrill and bright. She had tugged on his sleeves, demanded stories, demanded that he be not a prince but simply Mildern, her playmate, her protector.
He remembered her screaming.
He remembered fire swallowing the garden, her small hand reaching for his.
And how he had failed to catch it.
His breath hitched. His body curled in on itself, a grown teen folding small, as if he could hide from memory. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes—hot, unwanted. He bit down hard, but the sob still clawed free.
He wept into his arm, muffling the sound against the worn cloth of his sleeve. The shame cut deeper than the grief.
A prince was supposed to protect. A prince was supposed to be strong, unshaken, a shield for his people. His father's voice echoed in his mind, stern and unyielding: "You are their light, Mildern. You do not falter."
But falter he had.
That night, when the kingdom burned, he had faltered most of all.
And now, years later, here he was—broken, trembling, unable to even speak properly to a kid who could barely string words together. He had hidden himself in this forest because it was easier to be no one than to face the truth of what he had failed to be.
His tears spilled faster, dampening the pillow beneath his cheek. He hated himself for it. He hated the weakness, the trembling, the ache that never dulled.
"Pathetic," he whispered into the dark, his voice breaking, harsh. "You call yourself a prince? You can't even..." His throat closed. The words refused him. "You can't even look a child in the eyes without falling apart."
The fire crackled softly. Beyond the thin wall, the kid stirred, murmuring something wordless in his sleep.
Mildern clutched at his ribs, as though to keep his heart from tearing open. The sound was too much—it was gentle, alive, unbearably real. It reminded him of what he had lost, and what he feared to lose again.
Another sob broke loose, raw and shuddering. He pressed his sleeve harder to his face, ashamed, always ashamed.
Because he knew the truth: he was still running. Not from enemies, not from war, but from himself. From the image of the prince he was supposed to be. From the weight of a crown he never wanted but still feels he betrayed.
The childs laughter earlier that day replayed in his mind—bright, innocent, unbothered by his sharp words. It had been a knife to his defenses, cutting open wounds that had never healed.
And now, alone in the dark, he could no longer hold the pieces together.
"I can't," he whispered to the ceiling, to the silence, to no one. "I can't be who I'm meant to be."
His tears soaked through the fabric of his sleeve. His heart ached with every trembling breath.
Yet through it all, the forest did not scorn him. The cottage did not crumble. The kid in the next room continued to sleep peacefully, unaware of the storm in the heart of the prince who had taken him in.
For the first time in years, Mildern cried not for a kingdom, not for a crown, but for himself—for the broken, frightened teen hiding beneath the title of "prince."
And though the night gave him no answers, no peace, it gave him this: the smallest crack in the walls he had built. A space where grief could breathe, and where, perhaps, something new might take root.
The wind shifted outside, rustling the trees like a sigh. And Mildern, exhausted by his own sorrow, finally drifted into a fitful sleep—his last thought the image of two children, one lost to flames, one still sleeping under his roof.
And the unbearable fear that he might lose this one, too.
TO BE CONTINUED...