Through the Fields of Death (Part 1)
The village faded behind them.
Mildern didn't look back. He couldn't. The whispers in the inn still clawed at the edges of his mind, every syllable like a blade: The fallen prince. Doesn't he look familiar?
No. He couldn't risk it. If anyone truly recognized him—if his name was spoken aloud again—it would unravel everything. The life he had built in solitude. The fragile safety he had carved from the ruins of his past. And now... the child.
Especially the kid.
The child skipped ahead on the dirt path, the wooden horse clutched tightly in one hand. He hummed a nonsense tune, stopping now and then to point at butterflies or the shapes of clouds. Every sound from him was innocent, oblivious, untouched by the weight of the world that pressed so heavily on Mildern's shoulders.
"Stay close," Mildern warned for the hundredth time, though his voice came out softer than usual. The kid only twirled in reply, his laughter scattering across the road like falling petals.
The air changed as they left the farmlands behind. The ground sloped upward, the soil thinning, until finally the path opened wide into a plain of flowers.
A breathtaking sight. A terrible sight.
Stretching for miles in every direction, the earth was blanketed in blossoms—red, white, and violet, swaying gently in the wind. They glowed faintly beneath the overcast sky, an otherworldly shimmer that would have seemed beautiful, even holy... if not for the silence.
No birds sang here. No insects buzzed. Only the whisper of wind moving through the endless sea of flowers.
Mildern's steps faltered. His heart tightened, dread blooming in his gut.
The kid gasped in awe. "Pretty!" he cried, darting a few steps forward.
"Stop!" Mildern barked, his hand shooting out to catch the child's shoulder. His grip was firm, trembling. "Don't run. Not here."
The kid blinked, confused, tugging against his hold. "Why?"
Mildern's eyes scanned the field. He remembered the stories—whispered among soldiers, murmured in the castle halls. The "Flower Fields of Death." Where poisoned pollen lingered thick in the air, where corpses were found cradled in blossoms as if they had simply lain down to rest. A cursed place, they had called it. Beautiful, but deadly.
"No games," he said sharply, his voice lower, taut with fear. "Do not leave my side. Do you understand?"
The kid frowned but nodded slowly. His small hand found Mildern's cloak and clung to it.
They walked on.
Every step felt heavier than the last. Mildern's throat itched, his lungs raw from breathing shallowly. He wrapped part of his cloak across his mouth, though he knew it was more a comfort than a shield. The kid mimicked him, tugging the fabric up over his face with a small giggle, as if it were a game of masks.
"Quiet," Mildern whispered again, though his own voice shook.
The field stretched on, endless. Red blossoms brushed against his boots. Their scent was sweet, cloying, suffocating. With each passing minute, his mind slipped deeper into memories.
He remembered the night of fire. The screams in the castle halls. The kid he could not save—dark hair, wide eyes, small hands reaching for him as flames devoured everything.
The child at his side tugged on his cloak again. "Mi-der...?"
Mildern blinked, jolting back into the present. The kids eyes were wide, not fearful but curious, searching his face for reassurance he couldn't give.
"I'm here," Mildern muttered hoarsely. He tightened his grip on the kids hand. "I won't let go."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. His heart ached at the promise, at the memory of the promise he had failed once before.
Time bled strangely in the fields. Minutes felt like hours, hours like days. The flowers swayed in silent unison, as though watching them, waiting.
At one point, the child stumbled, nearly falling face-first into the blossoms. Mildern yanked him back with a force that made the child cry out.
"Do you want to die?" Mildern snapped, harsher than he intended. His voice broke, raw with terror.
The kids lip trembled. Tears welled.
Mildern froze, shame crashing over him. Slowly, he dropped to one knee, pulling the child close, his hood shadowing them both. His voice lowered, trembling.
"...I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." He shut his eyes, gripping the child's shoulders tightly. "I just... I can't lose you too."
The child sniffled, then hugged Mildern's neck. His voice whispered into his ear, soft and simple: "No lose."
Mildern's breath caught. His arms put the kid down holding his hand, holding it fiercely for a moment, as though he could anchor himself against the memory of every ghost clawing at him.
And then, slowly, they rose and walked on.
Hours later, the flowers finally thinned. Stone replaced soil, cobbled paths pushing up through the grass. The air cleared, easier to breathe.
And there it was.
Beyond the hill, in the distance, towers rose like spires of white marble and glass. Bridges arched between them, banners fluttering in colors that gleamed even from afar. The city stretched wide and proud, wrapped in tall walls that shimmered faintly with protective wards.
At its heart, vast and magnificent, stood the Academy.
The noble city of magi, a place where the elite of kingdoms gathered, where power was honed and bloodlines preserved.
Mildern stopped at the crest of the hill, the kid tugging eagerly at his cloak, eyes wide with wonder.
"Home?" the child asked, pointing at the shining city.
Mildern swallowed hard. His hood shadowed his face, his heart heavy.
"...Not ours," he whispered. "But maybe yours."
The wind carried the kids laughter ahead of them as they began their slow descent toward the gates.
And for the first time in years, Mildern felt the world beyond his forest truly pressing in on him. A world that had forgotten his name... but not forever.
The City of Towers (Part 2)
The gates loomed tall and glittering with wards.
Each bar of iron shimmered faintly, etched with runes that pulsed like veins of light. Guards in polished armorplates stood at either side, their spears sharp, their eyes scanning every face that passed beneath the archway.
Mildern froze at the threshold. His hood shadowed his face, but it felt like every gaze pierced straight through the fabric. His heart pounded, sweat chilling his palms. He was just one teen among many—merchants with carts, pilgrims with staffs, nobles on horseback—but the weight of being seen crushed him all the same.
The kid, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement. He pointed at everything—the banners, the carved runes, the horse tails flicking in the air—and babbled with delight. "Mi-der! Big! Big!" he shouted, tugging at his cloak.
"Quiet," Mildern hissed, though his voice trembled. He pulled the child closer, as if the childs very brightness would expose him.
When at last they passed through the gate, Mildern expected to feel relief. Instead, the city struck him like a blow.
Streets of pale stone stretched wide, lined with shops spilling colorful silks and glittering charms. Fountains gushed clear water, sculpted with angels and beasts. The air thrummed with the hum of magic—sigils glowing faintly on doorframes, enchanted lanterns floating lazily overhead.
And above it all, the towers.
The Academy rose at the city's heart, a crown of marble spires stitched together by silver bridges. Its walls gleamed with protective wards that shimmered faintly like a second skin. Banners of midnight blue fluttered in the wind, each marked with the emblem of an open hand cradling a star.
The kid gasped so loudly heads turned. "Pretty! Pretty!" He pointed skyward, tugging on Mildern's sleeve until the hood slipped slightly back.
Mildern yanked it down again, face burning. Every shadow felt like it held eyes. Every passerby felt like a threat.
No one knows me here, he told himself. It's been years. They've forgotten.
And yet—
"...Doesn't he look familiar?" whispered a voice as they passed.
"...That hair. And the eyes. Reminds me of—"
Mildern quickened his pace, dragging the child behind him. His throat closed, breath shallow. The city felt suffocating now, too bright, too alive. He hated the press crowds, the constant hum of voices. His heart throbbed with the weight of failure: he couldn't even walk down a street without trembling.
The kid, oblivious, had already darted to a shop window filled with pastries that floated on silver trays. "Mi-der! Food!" he chirped, pressing his nose to the glass.
"Not now," Mildern muttered, pulling him away. His voice broke, too sharp. The child pouted, lip trembling, but followed.
Every corner brought more noise, more color. A mage in silver robes conjured sparks in the square to entertain children. Nobles glided past in carriages etched with runes. Bells rang high above, their sound rolling like thunder across the towers.
Mildern felt small. A ghost in a world that had moved on without him.
And yet... his eyes kept straying back to the Academy.
It was impossible not to. Its spires seemed to watch him, each window like an unblinking eye. Once, long ago, envoys from the Academy had visited his father's court. They had spoken of destiny, of the bloodlines of royals tied to magic older than kingdoms themselves. He had scoffed at them then. What use had a prince for books and spells, when he commanded armies and wealth?
But now, standing in its shadow, he felt the weight of its presence pressing on him. A reminder of what he had lost. A reminder of what he might still fear.
The child tugged his hand again. "Mi-der... we go?"
Mildern looked down at him, the child's wide eyes reflecting the towers above. He swallowed hard.
"...Yes," he whispered, though his voice broke. "We'll go."
They walked toward the Academy. Step by step, the streets grew quieter, the crowds thinning as the towers loomed closer. Wards glimmered faintly in the air, soft as mist. Students in dark robes passed with books under their arms, their laughter echoing against the walls.
Mildern's hood shadowed his face, but he felt the weight of every glance. His heart ached with a thousand memories—shame, grief, fear. He wasn't ready for this world. He wasn't ready for people, for questions, for eyes.
But the kids hand was warm in his own. Steady. Trusting.
For his sake, Mildern forced himself to keep walking.
At the gates of the Academy, the kid stopped, gazing up with awe so pure it almost hurt to see. He pointed at the highest tower. "Mi-der... castle!"
Mildern's breath shuddered. His throat tightened. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to weep.
"...Something like that," he murmured.
And as the great bells tolled above, Mildern realized the truth he had been trying to avoid.
The world had not forgotten him.
And now, standing here, neither could he.
TO BE CONTINUED...