The Hollow Prince Arrives (Part 1 of The Hollow Prince arc)
The night after their rejection from the Academy was restless.
Mildern hadn't slept. He had sat in the dim room long after the boy drifted off again, staring at the city's glowing towers through the window. The memory of the mage's words cut deep. He had failed. Again. He told himself it was only the Academy—it didn't matter—but shame clung like a second skin.
When morning came, he thought perhaps the city would feel lighter, quieter.
He was wrong.
The air that day was heavy, buzzing with something unseen. People on the streets whispered more than usual. Merchants closed their stalls early. Students from the Academy walked in uneasy groups instead of scattered laughter. Even the enchanted lanterns flickered faintly as though the wards themselves were uneasy.
Mildern noticed. He always noticed unease. It pressed against his own nerves like a mirror.
But it wasn't until noon that the city discovered why.
The first sign was the sound.
A deep, resonant horn blast that rolled across the cobblestones like thunder. The kind of sound that wasn't made to announce a guest, but to warn of one.
Mildern froze mid-step, the kid clutching his hand as the entire marketplace seemed to fall still. People turned toward the northern gate, where dust rose in the distance. A procession.
At its head, a teen.
He couldn't have been older than Mildern was when the kingdom fell. Sixteen? Seventeen at most. And yet, he walked with the confidence of a conqueror, his every step deliberate, calculated, meant to be seen.
His hair was black streaked with sharp strands of white at the ends, like blades dipped in ash. At his temple, pinned into place with precision, gleamed a red star-shaped hairpin. His cloak trailed behind him, royal velvet dyed in deep crimson, embroidered with sigils Mildern recognized but dared not name aloud.
What made the crowd recoil, though, wasn't his youth or his finery. It was the way the air bent around him. Thick. Suffocating. Like a mist that wasn't there, but still crept under the skin.
The Hollow Prince of the Mist.
Mildern had heard the name only in whispers, years ago—before he vanished into the forest. A rumor. A ghost. A child of royalty with ambition so sharp it cut through his own family. A collector of forbidden knowledge, cloaking his power in secrecy. A name carried only in hushes, because to speak it loudly was to invite him.
And now he was here.
Prince Hujo Zaki.
The crowd parted as he approached, his boots striking against stone in deliberate rhythm. Attendants trailed behind, faces half-hidden in masks, badges gleaming on their robes—marks of magic skill, each earned in secret. Even the most arrogant students of the Academy stepped back, unease curling in their throats.
The child tugged on Mildern's sleeve. "Mi-der... scary..."
Mildern's breath caught. His first instinct was to pull the child close, vanish into the alleys, flee. But it was too late.
Hujo's eyes had already found them.
Grey as storm clouds, sharp as daggers.
He stopped mere paces away, his cloak billowing in the faint wind. A slow smile curved his lips—not warmth, but recognition.
"Well, well," Hujo drawled, his voice smooth, cultured, yet edged with something venomous. "And here I thought this city had grown dull. Imagine my surprise to see you."
Mildern stiffened. His hood cast his face in shadow, but Hujo's gaze pierced it as if it weren't there.
"You've been gone a long time, haven't you, Mildern Yazukaze?"
The name cut the air like a blade.
Gasps rippled through the marketplace. Merchants froze. Nobles whispered behind raised hands. Yazukaze. The name of a fallen prince, a ruined kingdom. A name that had nearly been forgotten.
Mildern's stomach constricted. His throat closed. He wanted to speak, to deny, but no sound came. He could barely breathe.
The child blinked up at Hujo, uncomprehending, then looked at Mildern with confusion. "Mi-der... name?"
Hujo's smile widened faintly. He knelt to the childs level, his cloak pooling elegantly around him. His eyes glinted with cruel amusement.
"And this," he said softly, "must be your little... charge." His hand brushed the air near the kids hair but never touched, like a predator toying with prey. "How curious. A child who doesn't belong here. A child from another world, if the whispers I've uncovered are true."
The marketplace stilled to silence. The words another world hung heavy, absurd. Yet Hujo's voice carried conviction, layered with hints of evidence.
"Strange patterns in the wards since his arrival," Hujo continued, rising smoothly to his feet. "Unfamiliar mana signatures. And let's not forget the way your little friend speaks. Words broken, twisted. Not our tongue. Not quite even if he is a kid I can tell... Even from mumbles."
The kid tilted his head, confused, clutching Mildern's cloak tighter.
Mildern's heart pounded in his ears. Every instinct screamed at him to shield the child, to silence Hujo, to deny. But he couldn't find the words. He had no defense. And Hujo knew it.
The Hollow Prince spread his arms slightly, addressing the crowd now as much as Mildern. His voice rose, smooth and commanding.
"You see, my friends, the Academy hides truths from you. They always have. But I—Prince Hujo Zaki, rightful heir of mist and fire—I bring you the truth. A fallen prince returned. A child from another world. Do you not see how the Academy conspires to keep you blind?"
The crowd stirred uneasily. Some scoffed, others muttered. Yet the seed of doubt had been planted. Whispers spread like wildfire.
Mildern trembled, his fists clenched tight beneath his cloak. He wanted to scream, to fight, to tear the words from Hujo's mouth. But the kid clung to him, small and trusting, and his voice caught in his throat.
Hujo's gaze flicked back to him, sharp and satisfied.
"Don't worry, Yazukaze," he murmured, so low only Mildern could hear. "I won't bury your name. I'll spread it. I'll make it the spark that lights the world aflame. Magic World War One."
His smile deepened, cruel. "One... because there will be more."
And with that, Hujo turned, his cloak snapping behind him like fire. His attendants followed, and the crowd parted once more, murmurs swelling like a rising tide.
Mildern stood frozen, the child pressed against him, his own name ringing in his ears like a curse.
For years, he had hidden. Buried himself in silence, convinced the world had forgotten.
But the Hollow Prince had dragged him back into the light.
And the world was watching.
The Crowd of Eyes (Part 2)
The words had barely left Hujo's lips before the world seemed to tilt.
A name once buried—Mildern Yazukaze—now echoed on every whispering tongue. The murmurs were endless, swelling into a rising tide that pressed against his skull.
"Yazukaze... wasn't that the fallen kingdom...?"
"Could it be true?"
"Impossible. He'd be dead."
"And the child—what did he mean by another world?"
Mildern's knees trembled beneath his cloak. He wanted to run, to vanish into shadow, to escape the thousands of eyes that now seemed to pierce through him. But the kid clung tightly to his side, his hand gripping the fabric of his clothes.
The crowd was growing restless. Fear mingled with fascination. Some gazes burned with suspicion, others with awe, others still with contempt.
And then—cracks of light.
From the direction of the Academy gates, a surge of magic rushed outward, parting the air like the crack of a whip. A group of robed figures descended the steps—mages, their garments gleaming with embroidered sigils of the elite. Their staffs shimmered faintly, charged with spells not yet loosed.
The lead mage, a tall figure with streaks of silver in her hair, lifted her hand. The air stilled. The whispers dimmed, though did not cease.
"Prince Hujo Zaki." Her voice carried like iron. "You overstep."
Hujo paused in his stride, turning smoothly, his cloak brushing the cobblestones. His smile lingered, languid and unshaken.
"Do I?" he said, his tone the picture of innocence. "Is it overstepping to reveal truths you would rather keep hidden?"
Her eyes narrowed. "There are boundaries. This is not your domain."
Hujo chuckled softly, a sound that slithered into every ear. "Ah, but knowledge belongs to no domain. It belongs to those with the will to see. And I..." His gaze slid back toward Mildern, slow and deliberate, "I see plenty for a war that could spark under the influence of my own choices."
The kid whimpered, pressing his face against Mildern's side.
Mildern's stomach tightened. He wanted to speak, to shield the kid from Hujo's gaze, to deny everything. But the words caught in his throat. He couldn't breathe beneath the weight of so many eyes.
The mages shifted. Their staffs lowered slightly, circles of faint light glowing at their tips. Not yet an attack, but a warning. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.
"Enough," the silver-haired mage commanded. "Your words spread fear. Falsehoods."
Hujo tilted his head, his expression dripping with mock pity. "Falsehoods? Then why does he tremble so?" His hand gestured, open-palmed, toward Mildern.
Dozens of heads turned. Dozens of eyes bore down.
Mildern froze. His hood shaded his features, but it wasn't enough. He could feel their stares crawling across his skin, their suspicion like knives. His heart constricted. He wanted to shrink, to vanish.
"Speak, stranger," another mage barked, his voice sharp with command. "Who are you? Name yourself!"
The words rang like a blade drawn across stone.
Mildern's lips parted, but no sound came. His throat was dry. His pulse hammered in his ears. All his carefully built walls of solitude cracked beneath the weight of expectation. He was supposed to be a prince once. A leader. A voice.
And yet, here he stood—silent.
The kid tugged at his sleeve again, confused by the stillness, by Mildern's trembling. "Mi-der...?" he whispered.
The sound nearly broke him.
Hujo's laughter did instead. Low, cruel, mocking. "See?" he said smoothly. "The silence of guilt. What more proof do you need?"
The crowd erupted again. Murmurs surged like a storm.
"Could it be true?"
"Yazukaze..."
"A prince in hiding?"
"And the kid—another world—what does that mean?"
The silver-haired mage raised her staff higher, voice sharp with authority. "Hujo Zaki, enough! You are forbidden from stirring unrest in this city!"
Hujo's expression did not waver. He bowed slightly, mockingly, his cloak sweeping low. "As you wish, Esteemed One. But unrest does not vanish once spoken." His eyes glittered with malice as they swept once more to Mildern. "It lingers. It grows. It waits for corruption over this world I want to burn from rumors that I spread with my own ambition."
And with that, he turned, his procession flowing behind him like mist, disappearing into the alleys as though swallowed whole.
The silence he left behind was deafening.
The crowd did not disperse immediately. They lingered, buzzing with unease, with suspicion, with fear. Their gazes kept darting back to Mildern, to the child, to the trembling teen in the hood who could not speak.
The mages turned next.
"You," the silver-haired person said firmly, her voice not unkind, but heavy with expectation. "Come with us. The Academy must know who you are."
Mildern's breath caught. His body stiffened. The child clung tighter, sensing his fear.
He wanted to scream no. He wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at him to flee. But his legs were rooted, his heart pounding so loudly it nearly drowned out the world.
He managed only a whisper, whispered and broken, barely audible even to himself:
"I... I can't."
The figure frowned. "You can. And you will."
Her staff glowed faintly. Not a threat. Not yet. But a reminder that refusal was not a choice.
Mildern's hands trembled. His stomach burned with shame. He had failed again—failed to speak, failed to stand, failed even to protect the child from the weight of all this. He was no prince. He was barely a person.
And yet...
The kid looked up at him. Wide eyes, confused, frightened—but not with suspicion. Not with doubt. Just trust.
The child's small hand slipped into his trembling one. "Mi-der..."
Something inside him cracked. Not strength. Not courage. Just a fragile, aching need to shield that trust from shattering.
"I..." His voice shook as he looked at the mage, at the crowd, at the world pressing down. "...I need time."
It wasn't an answer. It wasn't what they wanted. But it was all he could give.
The silver-haired person studied him for a long, silent moment. Her gaze softened—only slightly. She lowered her staff.
"Then you will have one night," she said firmly. "Tomorrow, you will come to the Academy. Or we will come for you."
And with that, she turned, her entourage following, leaving Mildern in the center of the marketplace—alone beneath the crushing stares of a thousand watching eyes.
That night, the city did not sleep. Rumors spun faster than fire in dry grass.
And in a small rented room on the edge of the square, Mildern sat awake, the kid curled beside him, trembling with shame and fear and the weight of his name finally dragged back into the light.
The Hollow Prince had struck.
And the first sparks of war had been lit.
The Spark in the Dark (Part 3)
The city never slept that night.
Rumors swept through Magi City like wildfire, devouring alleys and plazas, slithering into taverns and cloisters. The words replayed endlessly in Mildern's mind:
Yazukaze.
The fallen prince.
The kid from another world.
He sat on the edge of the narrow bed in the small rented room, the hood of his cloak discarded, his hands trembling as they dug into his knees. The kid was curled beneath the thin blanket, his breathing soft, even, utterly unaware of the storm outside their walls.
Mildern envied that.
He couldn't close his eyes without seeing faces—faces from years ago. His people, his family, the ones who had cheered his name, bowed to his crown, and died when his kingdom crumbled. He had buried those screams in the forest. He had buried his own name. And now Hujo had clawed it back into the open like a weapon.
What kind of prince can't even speak to defend himself?
What kind of coward trembles before others and whispers?
He pressed his palms to his eyes, but the shame only deepened.
A small weight shifted on the bed. The child, half-asleep, shuffled closer and pressed against his arm, murmuring something incoherent before nestling in again. His hand, found Mildern's trembling fingers and held on.
Mildern froze. His heart cracked with a painful ache.
He wanted to push the child away. He wanted to say: Don't trust me. Don't stay. I'll fail you too. But the words never came. His throat was locked, as it always was.
So he sat there in silence, holding that hand, as the city outside simmered with unrest.
By dawn, the streets were louder than ever.
Mildern hadn't slept. His eyes burned, his body heavy with exhaustion, but his nerves thrummed like taut strings. He kept the child close as they moved through the alley toward the Academy gates.
That was when the world shook.
A pulse of magic rolled across the city like a wave. The cobblestones hummed. Lanterns flickered and shattered. Above the Academy's spires, the sky split with streaks of crimson light, spiderwebbing outward like cracks in glass.
People screamed.
Mildern clutched the kid and looked up. His blood turned cold.
Hovering above the Academy's central tower, shrouded in mist that pulsed unnaturally, stood Hujo Zaki. His cloak billowed in the storm, his red star hairpin gleaming like a cruel sun. His hands stretched outward, weaving runes in the air that glowed with malignant power.
"People of Magi City!" Hujo's voice boomed, amplified by enchantment until it rang across every street, every ear, every heart. "You whisper names in fear. You spread stories in doubt. And so the world listens."
His eyes burned, a storm of grey laced with cruel fire.
"Rumor is truth. Doubt is power. And I—Prince Hujo Zaki—will make your whispers real. For too long, this world has rotted in peace. Stagnant. Lifeless. Content to grow fat in its own stillness. But no longer!"
The sky cracked again, and the crimson light deepened. A circle of runes spun beneath his feet, ancient and twisting, feeding on the buzzing voices below.
"As long as rumors spread," Hujo declared, "this spell will live. And it will spread with them. War will rise from your tongues. Hatred will grow from your fear. And this world will know movement once more. This is the echoed cry of Magic World War One!"
The crowd below screamed, some in terror, others in blind frenzy. The rumors fueled the magic, the spell spiraling wider, seeping into every street, every mind.
Mildern's breath caught. His entire body shook, not with fear—but with something deeper. Anger.
He had stayed silent for too long. He had let the world bury him. He had let Hujo drag him into the light, had let shame choke his voice. But now... now this child—the only one who trusted him—was trembling in his arms, threatened by a mad prince who thought the world a toy.
Something inside him snapped.
Mildern set the child gently against the wall of the alley. The kid looked up at him, confused, afraid.
"Mi-der...?"
Mildern's eyes, usually cast down in shyness, burned now with fire. He stepped forward, his cloak whipping in the unnatural wind. He walked into the open street, the crowd parting as if the storm itself made way.
He looked up at the Hollow Prince.
And for once, his silence was not weakness. It was fury.
Hujo's smile flickered.
Mildern raised his hand.
A circle of light burst into being, sharp and raw, the old power he had buried clawing its way back into his grasp. The air cracked with the force of it.
And then—he unleashed it.
The blast tore upward, a spear of searing magic, striking Hujo squarely in the stomach. The Hollow Prince's body was hurled backward, crashing through the stained-glass window of the Academy tower. Shards of colored light rained down like falling stars.
The crowd gasped.
Mildern's stomach heaved. His hand trembled. His lips parted, and though his voice was broken, raw, it carried.
"Take care... of the child."
The mages, stunned, stared at him. And then one by one, they nodded. They understood. This was not the trembling, silent figure of yesterday. This was Mildern Yazukaze—the fallen prince, reborn in fury, tempered by loss.
The kids wide eyes filled with tears, but he clung to the words, to the promise that he would be cared for.
And Mildern—haunted, trembling, furious—turned his eyes back toward the shattered tower.
For years, he had fled from the world. For years, he had hidden from the weight of his name.
But now, someone threatened not just his life, not just his peace—but the one fragile bond he had left.
And for that, he would fight.
The Hollow Prince and the Fallen One (Part 4)
The Academy tower was a furnace of chaos. Marble walls cracked, ancient wards shattered, and the floor burned with the residue of spells neither should have survived.
Prince Hujo Zaki stood at the center of it, hair wild, cloak shredded to ribbons, blood dripping from a dozen cuts. His crimson star hairpin gleamed beneath the moonlight streaming through the broken roof, and his eyes burned with delirious joy.
"YES! YES!" he roared, his voice echoing like thunder. "Show me more, Prince of Ashes! Show me the fire you buried! This is the duel I've waited for!"
His laughter rang sharp and unending, even as blood trickled down his chin. He staggered, but his arms lifted again, summoning sickly green mist that writhed like living serpents.
Mildern Yazukaze's stomach heaved, his breath ragged, his face pale with exhaustion. His tunic was torn, one arm scorched from a near-fatal blast, his palms blistered from the force of his own magic. Still, his eyes never left Hujo.
The kids face flashed in his mind—small, innocent, sleeping safely in some quiet corner of the Academy. That tiny hand, gripping his own. That trust.
And then another kid. A face from the night the kingdom burned. A child he could not save.
His rage tightened, and he thrust his hand forward.
A spear of pure light erupted, tearing through Hujo's mist, carving a path straight into the Hollow Prince's chest. Blood sprayed, painting the stone crimson. Hujo staggered back, coughing violently.
And then—he laughed.
"Glorious!" he shrieked, his voice wet with blood. "Every strike, every wound—proof that the old prince is still alive! Do you feel it, Yazukaze? Do you feel how much the world needs me to wake you up?!"
Mildern's stomach twisted. Every word was poison. Every laugh pierced deeper than the spells.
They clashed again—Hujo's mist screaming, claws of shadow lashing like whips, tearing at Mildern's arms, leaving cuts that burned like acid. Mildern countered with blinding arcs of light, each impact sending shockwaves that shattered pillars and collapsed sections of the tower.
The chamber was no longer recognizable. A battlefield of blood and ruin.
Hujo's body trembled, his movements slower, but the grin never faltered. His laughter grew hoarse, yet never stopped, even as chunks of flesh scorched and his knees buckled.
"You can kill me!" he wheezed, spitting blood with a grin that split his battered face. "Do it! Strike me down and let the world see the monster! The fallen prince who destroyed his own kingdom—do it again, and I'll live forever in your shadow!"
Mildern raised his arm, a final strike gathering. His light burned so bright it drowned the stars above.
The mages who had gathered at the edges of the ruined tower froze, watching, waiting. The world seemed to hold its breath.
Hujo spread his arms wide, laughing, his body barely holding itself upright. "YES! Kill me, Yazukaze! Crown yourself with my blood!"
Mildern's hand trembled. His fury screamed at him to end it. His shame demanded justice.
But the kids face returned. That small, fragile smile. That trust. That innocence.
The light flickered. His breath caught. His arm dropped.
"No," Mildern whispered, his voice shaking with fury and grief. "You're not worth it."
The light vanished, leaving only silence.
Hujo blinked, stunned for the first time. His laugh faltered, turning into a wet cough. "Coward," he rasped, though the word cracked. "You'll regret this."
Mildern turned his back. Each step he took echoed in the hollow, broken tower, louder than Hujo's fading laughter. His body trembled, but he did not stop.
The Academy mages surged forward, seizing Hujo with chains of searing magic. The Hollow Prince writhed, his grin returning as the bindings cut into his scorched flesh.
"You think this ends me?!" he howled, voice breaking into frenzied laughter. "No chains can bind what I've begun! The spark is lit, Yazukaze! War is coming—whether you kill me or not!"
The guards dragged him away, his laughter echoing long after he was gone.
Mildern stepped into the night air, his bloodied hands trembling, his heart pounding. He looked to the stars—distant, uncaring, cold.
He had spared him. He had walked away.
But there was no victory in it. Only the weight of a storm that had not yet broken.
Somewhere, the kid slept safe. That had to be enough.
Yet Mildern knew this night had not ended the Hollow Prince's war—not in his own eyes.
It had merely postponed the inevitable, delaying, until the day they learned the true measure of his punishment... and the full length of his prison sentence.
And when the storm came, there would be no walking away.
TO BE CONTINUED...