The Weight of Questions (Part 1)
The market square was noisier than Mildern remembered.
Merchants barked from their stalls, children darted between carts, and the air swelled with smells of spiced meat, baked bread, and damp earth. Every sound pressed against him, thick and suffocating.
The kid, of course, was undeterred. He clutched his wooden horse tightly, skipping along as though the world itself had laid out a festival just for him.
But Mildern's thoughts ran colder, heavier. He hadn't come here to humor a child with toys. He had made a promise—a reckless, impossible promise—to find the childs parents.
Which meant he had to do the thing he feared most.
Talk.
He lingered at the edge of the square, heart pounding. Villagers bustled past, brushing close enough that their sleeves grazed his. Every time someone's gaze flicked near him, he ducked his head lower beneath the hood.
Just ask. Ask if they've seen him. That's all. Simple words. Nothing more.
He spotted a baker sweeping crumbs from his stall. Forcing his legs forward, he cleared his throat.
"Ex—" The word cracked in his throat. His palms dampened. The baker looked up, expectant.
Mildern froze. His tongue locked. Heat flushed up his neck, and in that moment, he turned away sharply, pretending to study a basket of apples at the next stall.
The kid tugged his sleeve. "Mi-der? Talk."
"I was," Mildern muttered through clenched teeth, though his heart was burning.
He tried again with a woman selling yarn. "This child—" he began, voice low, but the granny leaned closer to hear. His throat seized, the words collapsing into silence. The granny gave him a puzzled smile, then turned back to her wares.
Mildern's hands shook as he pulled his hood lower. He could feel the shame digging deeper with every failed attempt. I'm useless. I can't even speak a single sentence.
The child watched him curiously, then tugged at a passing persons face. "Papa?" he chirped, pointing at the stranger, then back at himself.
Mildern's blood turned cold. "Don't—!" He scooped the child up, retreating a few steps. The person only chuckled, patting the stranger head kindly before walking on.
Mildern's stomach ached. He set the child down gently, his voice trembling. "Not everyone is your papa," he whispered, barely audible. "Not everyone is safe."
The child tilted his head, uncomprehending, then pressed the wooden horse into Mildern's hand as if to comfort him.
Mildern swallowed hard. His heart throbbed with shame—because it wasn't the child who needed comfort. It was him.
Finally, gathering the scraps of his will, he tried once more. An elderly gramps sat on a bench near the well, watching the bustle with tired but kind eyes. Mildern approached, fists clenched.
He crouched slightly, keeping his hood low. "This child," he rasped, the words painful but forcing their way out, "do you know... where he belongs?"
The stranger peered at the kid, who grinned and waved his horse in greeting. He shook his head slowly. "I've not seen him before. But perhaps the innkeeper knows more—she hears everything that passes through this village."
Mildern exhaled shakily. He had done it—spoken, asked, endured the gaze of another person. His knees felt weak, but the faintest flicker of relief threaded through his shame.
The kid leaned against his leg, humming happily, as though nothing had happened at all.
Mildern tightened his cloak around himself. "The inn, then," he muttered. His voice was steadier this time, though inside, he still felt like he was unraveling.
And so, with trembling steps, they turned toward the heart of the village—toward answers that might heal or shatter, but answers nonetheless.
The Innkeeper's Eyes (Part 2)
The inn was louder than the market.
Mildern hesitated at the door, the kid clinging to his cloak with one hand and clutching his wooden horse with the other. Inside, laughter rolled like thunder, mugs clinked, boots scraped against the wooden floor. The smell of ale, roasted meat, and sweat struck him hard—so much life all in one place, and he felt himself shrinking against it.
He almost turned back. But the child tugged him forward, oblivious, and Mildern found himself inside before his mind could scream protest.
The innkeeper spotted them first. A person with red cheeks and hair pinned in a messy knot, she looked more like a barkeeper than a merchant. She leaned over the counter, squinting at the sight of Mildern's lowered hood and the small figure at his side.
"Travelers?" she called. Her voice was warm, unthreatening. "You'll be wantin' food or a room?"
Mildern's tongue stuck in his throat. Every eye at the nearest table seemed to glance their way, even if only for a moment. His palms itched with sweat.
The kid beat him to it. He marched right up to the counter, lifted his wooden horse high, and declared, "Mama!"
The inn erupted in chuckles. A few drunkards clapped the child on the back, amused at his innocence.
Mildern's face burned crimson beneath his hood. He stepped forward, scooping the child close to his side. "Not... not mama," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "We're... looking for his. Parents."
The words nearly stuck, but he forced them out. His heart pounded like a war drum.
The innkeeper blinked, studying the child. The laughter in the room softened, curiosity replacing it. The child squirmed, still proudly holding up his toy horse.
"Poor thing," the innkeeper murmured, her tone lowering into something almost maternal. She leaned closer to Mildern. "Folk been talkin' about a lost child, aye. Word came from a farmstead north of here—couple been searchin' for their son these past days."
Mildern's breath hitched. His stomach tightened, a flood of emotion—relief tangled with dread. So soon? Could it be that easy?
The child, meanwhile, seemed unbothered. He had climbed onto a stool, kicking his legs and grinning as if the world were no heavier than his little wooden horse.
The innkeeper's gaze lingered on Mildern now, sharp in its quiet way. "And you? You his kin?"
Mildern froze. Every muscle in his body screamed to recoil, to deny, to run. But the kid turned to him then, smiling with such blind trust it knocked the breath from his heart.
"... Something like that," Mildern whispered, repeating the words he had used before. His voice broken, but he forced them through his teeth.
The innkeeper's expression softened again, suspicion fading. She nodded, wiping her hands on her apron. "You'll want to head north, then. Best do it soon—storms been rolling that way."
Mildern inclined his head quickly, eager to end the exchange before more questions could dig into him. He tugged the child from the stool, his cloak swirling as he moved toward the door.
But just before he left, a murmur rippled through the room.
"...Doesn't he look familiar?" someone whispered.
"...Reminds me of the old days. Didn't the fallen prince have blondish hair like that?"
Mildern's blood ran cold. He shoved the door open, the kid toddling behind him, and stepped back into the cool night air. His lungs ached as he sucked in the quiet, the noise of the inn fading behind him.
The child clutched his cloak, unbothered, humming to himself as if nothing had happened.
Mildern pressed a hand to his heart, heart racing. He had escaped notice—for now. But the past was not as buried as he had once believed.
And with the kid at his side, it would not stay buried for long.
TO BE CONTINUED...