Among Towers of Magic (Part 1)
The Academy's gates opened with a sound like steel sighing. A shimmer of wards rippled outward, brushing over Mildern's skin like cold rain. For an instant, he thought they might burn through his hood, peel away his disguise, reveal him to the world. But the wards passed over them without pause, indifferent.
Inside, the world shifted.
The courtyard stretched vast and immaculate, cobblestones polished to a sheen that mirrored the sky. Enchanted lanterns floated above, glowing faintly despite the day's light. Statues lined the walkways—stone figures of archmages past, their hands frozen mid-incantation, their eyes carved to follow intruders with a gaze that made Mildern's stomach twist.
And everywhere, nobles.
Students in deep blue robes embroidered with gold threads. Instructors with staffs that hummed faintly with restrained power. Attendants carrying books, scrolls, enchanted crystals. Their voices mingled in a low symphony of chatter, polished and precise.
The childs gasp shattered the hum like a thrown stone. "Big! Mi-der, look, big!" He tugged Mildern's sleeve, pointing at a statue of a person with a crown of flame. "Fire person!"
"Quiet," Mildern muttered, pulling him close. He felt eyes on him already—disapproving glances from students, curious stares from attendants. He lowered his hood further, his heartbeat roaring in his ears.
A noble student no older than sixteen wrinkled her nose as she passed. "Commoners," she murmured, though her gaze lingered oddly on Mildern. "Strange... doesn't he seem...?"
Mildern stiffened. His hand clenched around the childs shoulder, too tight. He forced himself to loosen his grip.
They moved deeper, past fountains where water flowed against gravity, twisting in elegant shapes. Past training grounds where students practiced spells, laughter and incantations ringing in the air. The kids eyes darted everywhere at once, too many wonders to hold.
And then—trouble.
The child slipped free, running toward a group of young apprentices clustered near a practice circle. "Magic! Magic!" he squealed, bouncing on his toes as he pointed at the glowing sigils under their feet.
Mildern's blood froze. "No—!" He lunged forward, nearly tripping over his cloak as he caught the kid just before he crossed the boundary of the circle. One more step, and the spell would have flared—lightning shaped into a cage.
The apprentices turned, startled. One student sneered, his voice sharp. "Who let a brat in here?"
Another, older, eyed Mildern. "...And you. You shouldn't even be inside the gates."
Mildern's throat locked. His instinct was to shrink, to vanish, to apologize just to make the weight of their eyes disappear. But the kid was trembling against his leg, wide-eyed, and shame and anger twisted hot in his gut.
He straightened slowly, his hood still shadowing his face. His voice came low, laced with steel despite the tremor beneath.
"Then perhaps guard your toys better, if they're so dangerous."
The apprentices bristled. One stepped forward, hand on his wand. "Watch your tongue, outsider—"
A voice cut through the courtyard, clear and commanding. "Enough."
The crowd parted as a mage approached—a figure draped in silver-trimmed robes, his staff tipped with a crystal that pulsed faintly. His hair was white, though his face seemed unlined, ageless. The air around him crackled faintly, and the apprentices shrank back at once, bowing their heads.
The mage's eyes settled on Mildern. Cold, sharp, unblinking. "You," he said, voice calm but heavy. "Why are you here?"
Mildern's breath hitched. His tongue knotted. A hundred excuses tangled in his mind, each faltering on his lips. He wanted to vanish. To run. But the kid clung to his cloak, looking up at him with trust so painfully bright it made him ache.
"...I'm searching," Mildern forced out, his voice hoarse, halting. His gaze dropped to the cobblestones. "...For the child's family."
A murmur rippled through the nearby students. The mage's gaze lingered a beat too long, as though peeling back layers of shadow. For a terrifying moment, Mildern thought he saw recognition flicker there—something in the slope of his jaw, the weight of his bearing.
But then the mage's expression smoothed. He inclined his head slightly. "The Academy is not an orphanage. You'll find no families here."
The kid whimpered softly, burying his face against Mildern's leg. Mildern's throat tightened. Shame, sharp and deep, cut through him. He couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
The mage studied him another moment, then turned away. "See that they leave," he said to the apprentices. His voice carried finality, the kind that brooked no argument.
Mildern's heart hollowed as the apprentices smirked faintly, satisfied at his dismissal. He felt their eyes linger as he turned, guiding the kid back toward the gates. Each step was heavy, dragging.
The kid whispered, voice small, "Mi-der... mad?"
Mildern froze. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Then he forced a crooked, bitter smile, though the boy couldn't see it beneath the hood.
"No," he whispered. His voice broke, breaking on the word. "...Just tired."
But as they stepped back into the crowded streets of the noble city, the towers still gleaming above them, Mildern felt the truth gnawing inside him.
He hadn't belonged in the castle. He hadn't belonged in the forest.
And now, not even here—among the magi, among strangers—did he belong.
Yet the kid still clung to his hand, as if none of that mattered.
And that, somehow, hurt the most. But he just moved forward with the kid knowing all to well... That he was just a kid.
Ashes Beneath the Towers (Part 2)
Night fell over the noble city.
The glow of lanterns shimmered across the stone streets, throwing soft halos into the darkness. Merchants closed their stalls, gates were drawn across shops, and the hum of magic dimmed as students returned to their dormitories in the Academy towers. The whole city seemed to settle into a low, contented breath.
All except Mildern.
He sat on the edge of the rented room's narrow bed, his hood tossed aside, his face pale in the lantern's glow. His cloak pooled at his feet, heavy with dust and shame. The kid had long since curled up on the second bed, asleep in a bundle of covers, the wooden horse still tucked beneath his chin. His breathing was soft, steady, untroubled.
Mildern envied him.
He pressed a hand to his eyes, dragging it down his face until his palm covered his mouth. The silence pressed in on him, thick, unbearable. All day the words of the mage replayed in his head: The Academy is not an orphanage. You'll find no families here.
He had known it was foolish. He had known it before he even stepped through the gates.
The child's parents weren't there. They were never going to be here. The Academy wasn't a place of hope or happy reunions—it was a gilded cage, built for the elite, for heirs with polished titles and bloodlines that mattered. It was a place for the powerful... not for a lost child.
Not for a ruined prince.
And yet, he had come anyway.
He told himself it was a quest to find the kids parents, to bring comfort and closure. But deep down, he knew the truth: Mildern wanted the child to see the colors of magic, to feel wonder and possibility, even if just for a fleeting moment—something bright to hold onto before the inevitable goodbye.
But hope built on lies never lasts. By the time they reached the Academy, the truth was undeniable. The parents weren't there. They had never been there.
In the end, it wasn't just Mildern who was humiliated. The child, his only friend, had been dragged into the same false dream... and both of them were left standing in the wreckage of it.
And yet... he had gone.
Because part of him—pathetic, desperate—had wanted to see the kids face light up at the sight of magic. To let him marvel, to give him something beautiful before they continued their search. Just one small miracle before leaving one another worried it may be soon.
Instead, he had been dismissed like dirt. Mocked. Scorned. A child's laughter had curdled into tears in his arms, and he had stood there—tongue-tied, humiliated—unable to fight back, unable to defend even his only friends very joy. And it was all his fault.
You couldn't save him then. You couldn't save him now.
The memory struck like fire. Another kid. Another pair of eyes, wide and terrified in the glow of burning stone. Small hands reaching through smoke—hands Mildern had promised he would grasp, had sworn he would protect.
But he hadn't.
He had run.
Mildern dug his nails into his palms, trembling. His breath came sharp, ragged, as the image burned brighter behind his eyes. He pressed a fist to his mouth to stifle the sound, but a broken sob still tore free, shuddering through the room.
From the other bed, the kid stirred.
"...Mi-der?"
Mildern's spine went rigid. He turned sharply away, dragging his cloak over his shoulders as though the fabric could hide the wreck of his face. "Go back to sleep," he muttered, his voice broken and hoarse.
The child blinked blearily, sitting up. His feet padded across the wooden floor until he stood beside the bed, clutching the wooden horse. He tilted his head, watching Mildern with eyes too innocent, too clear.
"You... sad?"
The words were simple. Barely more than a whisper.
Mildern froze. His throat closed, his hands shaking in his lap. No one had asked him that in years. No one had cared enough to. And now—a child, too young to understand the depth of grief, could still pierce through him with two words.
He swallowed hard, forcing a crooked smile, sharp at the edges. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, his tone bitter. "I'm fine. Better than fine. I've lived through worse than pompous magi turning up their noses. Why should I care what they think?"
But the kid only stepped closer, his hand brushing against Mildern's sleeve. "Mi-der... sad."
Something cracked in his heart. A fissure too deep to mend.
He turned his face away, but his voice betrayed him. "...And if I am? What then? What good is it, kid? I can't even speak to people without choking on my own words. I can't... I can't make friends, or smile, or give you what you want." His voice broke, falling into a harsh whisper. "I'm supposed to be a prince. Do you understand that? A prince. Someone who protects. Someone who leads. But I couldn't save my kingdom. I couldn't save... anyone. And now I can't even give you a single moment of happiness."
The child blinked at him for a long moment. Then, simply, he climbed onto the bed, settling against Mildern's side as if the teens storm of words had meant nothing. His small arms wrapped around bigger Mildern's arm, warm and steady.
"You... Mi-der," he murmured sleepily, as if that were enough.
Mildern's breath hitched. His eyes burned.
"...Idiot," he whispered, but his voice shook, and his free hand came up to cover his face. Tears slipped hot down his cheeks, unstoppable. He bent forward slightly, shoulders trembling, trying desperately not to let the sobs escape.
But the kid held him anyway, too young to understand the grief that weighed on him, but still there. Still present. Still accepting.
For a long time, Mildern wept in silence, the sound muffled against his hand. The kids warmth at his side anchored him just enough to keep from drowning completely.
Eventually, the child drifted back into sleep, head against his arm, the wooden horse still clutched tight.
Mildern sat in the dim lantern light, staring down at him. His heart ached with shame, but also... something else. Something softer.
Maybe he didn't belong anywhere. Maybe he never would. But at least—at least here, now—one person accepted him. Even if that person couldn't understand.
Mildern closed his eyes, pressing a hand gently against the childs hair. His voice trembled as he whispered into the silence:
"...I'll do better. I don't know how... but I'll try. For you."
Outside, the towers gleamed silver against the night sky. Unreachable. Uncaring.
But in the small room, in the quiet, something fragile and new was beginning to take root.
TO BE CONTINUED...