Steps Beyond the Trees (Part 1)
The forest was no longer sanctuary.
It was a path.
Mildern moved briskly, his cloak brushing against undergrowth, his steps purposeful but tense. The boy trailed beside him—or rather, around him. Sometimes ahead, sometimes lagging, sometimes darting after birds or butterflies as if death did not lurk in every shadow.
"Stay close," Mildern hissed, glancing back sharply. "If you wander, I won't look for you."
The kid giggled, leaping from one mossy stone to another. "Mi-der!"
Mildern clenched his teeth. The forest, once his fortress of silence, was now filled with chatter and rustling footsteps, with every laugh from the kid making his nerves bristle.
At one point, the child darted toward a patch of wildflowers, chasing a dragonfly. In his excitement, he nearly stumbled down a slope slick with wet leaves.
"Stop!" Mildern lunged, grabbing the childs arm just before he slid. His heart hammered painfully. "Idiot child! Do you have no sense of survival?"
The kid blinked up at him, wide-eyed, then laughed sheepishly as if it were a game.
Mildern's hands shook. He wanted to scold more, to rage, but the words caught in his throat, tangled with fear. He released the kid slowly, turning away so he would not see the terror etched across his face.
Not long after, they crossed a shallow stream. The child, refusing to wait, tried hopping across the stones on his own. Halfway through, his foot slipped—he flailed, arms windmilling, about to fall headlong into the rushing water.
Mildern was there again, seizing him by the collar and yanking him upright. Water splashed across them both.
"That's twice!" Mildern snapped, his voice louder than he intended. His stomach heaved, his hands trembling as though he had just fought a battle. "Do you want to die before we even leave the forest?"
The kid frowned, tears welling. Then, with the fragile logic of a child, he whispered, "Mi-der... mad."
Mildern froze. The kids lip trembled, his small hands clutching at the hem of his tunic. And for a moment, the anger drained away, leaving only exhaustion and shame.
He sighed, rubbing his hair. "I'm not... mad," he muttered, softer now. "I'm... afraid."
The kid blinked at him, uncomprehending. But when Mildern tugged him gently to the bank, he followed without resistance.
They walked on, slower this time. Mildern kept his hand near the childs shoulder, ready to snatch him back from danger again. His sharp tongue still lashed out now and then—snide remarks, bitter mutters—but each word was laced with the quiet truth: he was terrified of losing him.
By late afternoon, the forest light dimmed, shadows stretching long. They came upon a wide old oak, its roots sprawling across the earth like the limbs of a sleeping giant. Mildern halted, his body heavy with weariness.
"Here," he said, gesturing to the grass beneath the tree. "We'll rest."
The kid plopped down happily, rolling onto his back and staring up through the branches. He hummed tunelessly, pointing at shapes in the clouds.
Mildern sat beside him, his back against the bark. For a rare moment, silence stretched between them—not empty, not suffocating, but almost... gentle. His heart ached with it.
He tilted his head back, watching a hawk circle high above. The kids humming wove into the sound of rustling leaves, into the rhythm of the world. For the first time that day, Mildern let out a breath that wasn't sharp or heavy—it was almost a sigh of relief.
But peace was fleeting.
As the sun dipped low, they rose again and pressed onward. The trees began to thin. The path widened, less wild, touched faintly by human presence. Mildern's pulse quickened with every step.
And then—just as twilight painted the sky in violet and gold—the forest broke open.
Below, nestled in the valley, smoke curled gently from chimneys. Lanterns glowed faintly along a cluster of rooftops. A village—small, humble, alive.
Mildern froze at the edge of the trees. The child clutched his hand, pointing excitedly. "Home!"
The word pierced Mildern. His heart clenched, caught between hope and dread. He stared at the village, the world he had abandoned, the people he had sworn to avoid.
It was no longer a question of if. He had promised.
And promises, no matter how impossible, were the one thing he could not break.
The Village That Forgot (Part 2)
The village smelled of smoke and bread.
That was the first thing that struck Mildern as he stepped past the last of the trees, the boy tugging impatiently at his sleeve. The scent was warm, earthy, alive—so different from the damp moss and sharp pine of the forest.
It wasn't unfamiliar. He had been here once, long ago, on a royal visit when banners had flown and villagers had lined the streets to cheer. He remembered children throwing flower petals into the road, merchants pressing gifts into his hands, peasants bowing so low their foreheads nearly touched the dirt.
Now, he walked the same path, only this time, no one bowed. No one even looked twice.
His heart thudded in his chest, paranoia gnawing at him. He pulled his hood low, trying to shadow his features. If they recognize me— But no, he realized quickly: they wouldn't. His kingdom had fallen, his name lost to ashes. He was a ghost of history to them, nothing more.
The child, however, had no such caution.
"Mi-der! Toy!" the child cried, pointing toward a stall overflowing with wooden figures, whistles, and ragdolls. He tugged insistently at Mildern's cloak, eyes wide with yearning.
"Quiet," Mildern hissed, glancing around as though the very word toy might draw attention. "We're not here to indulge in trifles."
But the child ignored him, wriggling free to run straight to the stall. Mildern cursed under his breath and followed, his stride stiff, his hood falling lower to shield his face.
The stallkeeper—a person with sun-browned skin—smiled warmly at the kid. "Well, aren't you a lively one? You've got an eye for the soldiers, do you? Or maybe the horse?"
The kid pressed both grubby hands against the display, entranced. "Mi-der! Horse!"
Mildern's face heated. His instinct was to snap, to drag the child away and end the spectacle, but his tongue caught again. The stallkeeper's gaze flicked to him, curious.
"Your son?" she asked kindly.
Mildern's throat constricted. He wanted to deny it—violently, immediately. But the child turned at that exact moment, clutching a small wooden horse to his chest with a grin so radiant it froze him.
"Yes," he muttered, barely audible. His eyes darted to the ground, cheeks burning. "Something like that."
The stallkeeper chuckled, no suspicion in her tone. "He's a sweet one. You should get him the horse—it'll keep him quiet on long walks."
Mildern's fingers twitched. He did have a few coins, remnants of trade from years past, carefully hidden away. But to spend them now—on something so foolish, so frivolous—
"Mi-der..." The childs voice was softer now, almost pleading. His small eyes shimmered with hope, hands tightening around the horse.
Mildern looked away, jaw clenched. His heart twisted painfully. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he fished out two tarnished coins and set them on the counter.
The stallkeeper beamed. The kid squealed with delight.
Mildern, meanwhile, tugged the hood lower and turned quickly, half-dragging the child away before anyone else could stop them. His pulse hammered, his hands damp with sweat.
The streets buzzed around them—merchants shouting prices, children laughing, hammers clanging from the blacksmith's forge. Every sound pressed against Mildern's ears like a storm. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched, every instinct screaming that he did not belong here.
The kid, meanwhile, galloped happily beside him, clutching the wooden horse and making exaggerated neighing sounds. Villagers glanced their way and smiled at the sight—not at Mildern, but at the kid.
And for the briefest moment, Mildern felt something strange.
Not shame. Not fear. But... relief.
They weren't looking at him.
They didn't remember.
He was no prince here. Just a person in a hood, awkward and out of place, tethered to a child who called him Mi-der.
And yet, as the kid tugged him toward another street, babbling about sweets this time, Mildern realized something with a bitter twist of irony.
For a prince who had wished only for solitude, he had never felt so exposed.
TO BE CONTINUED...