A Table for Two (Part 1)
Morning crept softly into the forest, spilling gold through the mist and laying a pale light across the moss-grown roof of Mildern's cottage. Birds stirred in the branches, their songs cautious and thin, as if testing the air for change.
Inside, Mildern was already awake. He always rose with the dawn, though this morning was different. The presence of another in the cottage—the kid sleeping in the adjoining room—hung over him like a weight. The silence was no longer his own.
He stood at the hearth, poking at the small fire, trying to steady his thoughts with the rhythm of ordinary work. The pan sizzled faintly as he laid strips of dried meat over it. He tore bread into uneven pieces, his hands sharp and deliberate. He told himself it was habit, nothing more. He cooked for himself every morning. Today was no different.
And yet—
His gaze flicked, again and again, toward the door of the other room.
The child stirred eventually, padding out on bare feet, his hair tousled into wild tufts. His eyes blinked sleepily, but when they landed on Mildern, they lit up.
"Mi-der," he said brightly, as though greeting an old friend.
Mildern nearly dropped the pan. He recovered quickly, scowling. "Tch. You're loud for someone who barely knows how to talk."
The child giggled, unbothered. He clambered onto the crooked wooden stool at the small table, resting his chin on his hands, watching Mildern with open curiosity.
Mildern felt the stare prickling his skin. He turned his back, muttering. "Don't look at me like that. Haven't you ever seen a person cook before?"
The kid kicked his heels against the stool, humming tunelessly. He pointed at the fire. "Hot."
"Yes, very good." Mildern's tone dripped with sarcasm, though his hands trembled slightly as he flipped the meat. "You've mastered the art of observation. Shall I applaud?"
The child only grinned, proud of his one-word declaration.
When Mildern finally placed the food on the table—bread, a little meat, a cup of water—the boy's face shone as if he'd been presented a royal feast. He reached eagerly, biting into the bread with such gusto that crumbs scattered across the table.
"Slow down," Mildern snapped, reaching automatically to steady the cup before it tipped. "You'll choke, and I don't intend to bury you in my yard."
The kid laughed, mouth full, crumbs tumbling from his lips.
Mildern clicked his tongue, sitting across from him. He tore off a piece of bread for himself, chewing in silence, trying not to notice how his own portion seemed smaller.
The kids gaze kept drifting to him, wide and unblinking. Each time their eyes met, Mildern looked away quickly, his face tightening. His sharp tongue rose to fill the space.
"What? Never seen someone eat before? You're like a stray cat staring at its keeper."
The kid tilted his head, considering. Then he smiled, a crumb still stuck to his cheek. "Mi-der."
Mildern froze, bread halfway to his mouth. His heart tightened in the same painful, infuriating way it always did when the boy spoke his name. His mask slipped for a moment, his face softening despite himself.
He hid it quickly, biting down the bread with unnecessary force. "Stop saying my name like that. It makes you sound like a fool."
The child only laughed again, unbothered, as though he'd already decided: this broken prince, with his sharp words and awkward silences, was safe.
When the meal ended, the child leaned back, humming, crumbs scattered across his lap. Mildern sighed heavily, standing to clean the table. His hands worked briskly, but his mind lingered on the laughter that still echoed in the small cottage.
He hated how it warmed the silence. He hated how much he didn't hate it.
When he glanced back, the child had dozed off on the stool, head tilted, mouth slightly open. Mildern's lips parted as if to scold him, but no words came. Instead, he only stood there, awkward and uncertain, his heart pounding too loudly for such a simple scene.
What am I doing? he thought bitterly, pressing a hand to himself. I was meant to be a prince. I was meant to be strong. And here I am—stammering at a child, too weak to even hold my mask steady.
Yet when he reached out—hesitant, trembling—to shift the kid into a more comfortable position, his sharp tongue did not rise to cover him. Only silence.
And for a fleeting moment, it was enough.
Echoes of Parents (Part 2)
The day stretched quietly after their awkward breakfast.
Mildern busied himself with chores—splitting logs, tidying shelves, grinding herbs—while the child wandered the cottage with an eagerness that bordered on reckless curiosity.
Every corner, every object was touched. The kid traced the rough grain of the walls, tugged at the frayed blanket on Mildern's bed, peeked into cupboards as though they hid treasure. At one point, he found an old brass goblet—dented, tarnished, a relic of the life Mildern had fled—and clutched it proudly like a prize.
"Put that down," Mildern barked, voice sharper than intended.
The kid froze. His wide eyes blinked up at him, not with fear, but with simple confusion. Then, as though sensing no real danger, he smiled faintly and set the goblet back with exaggerated care.
Mildern sighed, running a hand through his hair. His tongue wanted to lash further, but beneath it was something else—a softness, unsteady and raw. The kids innocent curiosity was like sunlight spilling into places Mildern had long kept in shadow. It unsettled him.
Later, as dusk fell and the hearth's fire painted the walls in amber glow, the child settled cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with a carved wooden figure Mildern had whittled months ago. It was crude, more splinter than art, but the child seemed fascinated.
Mildern sat nearby, arms folded, watching in silence. He had no idea what to do with him. The kid did not ask questions with words—he barely knew enough to shape them—but his eyes asked everything.
And then, softly, the child spoke.
"Papa...?"
The single word cut through the air like a blade.
Mildern's chest clenched. He sat up straighter, caught off guard. The kids face, lit by firelight, was innocent and expectant. He repeated the word, this time more plaintive. "Mama... Papa..."
Mildern froze. His sharp tongue faltered, leaving him defenseless.
The kids lips trembled, his small hands clenching around the wooden figure. Tears welled in his wide eyes, spilling down his cheeks as he whispered again, "Mama..."
And then he cried.
It was not a loud cry, not a tantrum—it was soft, aching, the sound of a child suddenly remembering the absence that shadowed him. His small body shook as he buried his face against his knees, sobbing quietly.
Mildern felt the sound tear through him. His heart, already fragile, cracked wider. Memories surged unbidden: his own mother's hands brushing his hair, his father's stern but steady presence, the warmth of a family that had burned to ash in a single night.
He wanted to turn away. To shut his ears, to let the childs grief pass on its own. That was easier. That was safer.
But he didn't.
With trembling hands, Mildern reached out. His touch hovered awkwardly above the kids shoulder, unsure, afraid. Finally, he let his palm rest there, the smallest gesture of comfort.
The child flinched at first, then leaned into it, as if the simple contact was enough.
Mildern's throat tightened. His voice came rough, halting.
"Your... your parents. They must be... somewhere." He swallowed hard. "We... we'll find them."
The kid lifted his tear-streaked face, blinking up at him. "Papa... find?"
Mildern nodded, though his chest ached with the weight of the promise. "Yes. We'll find them."
The kids small hand reached out, clutching at Mildern's sleeve. His tears slowed, replaced by a fragile trust. He nodded once, then tucked himself against Mildern's side, as though the matter were settled.
Mildern froze again, his entire body stiff. But he did not pull away.
As the fire dimmed, he sat there with the child leaning against him, staring into the flames. His thoughts twisted like smoke: shame for his failures, fear of the world beyond the forest, the bitter knowledge that he could not even speak properly without stumbling.
And yet—
He had promised.
For the first time in years, Mildern Yazukaze, the fallen prince who had buried himself in solitude, decided to leave the safety of his forest. To step once more into the world he had fled.
Not for a crown.
Not for glory.
But for a child who had called out for his parents and found him instead.
The forest groaned softly outside, as if it knew. As if it remembered that even in ruins, a prince cannot hide forever.
And so the second chapter of their story closed—not with peace, but with a vow.
TO BE CONTINUED...