The Chains of Judgment (Part 1)
The Great Court of the Academy had not been opened in decades. Its chamber was vast, carved of pale stone and lined with high stained-glass windows that shimmered with magic sigils. Tapestries of ancient wars hung heavy from the walls, silent witnesses to the weight of judgment about to be passed.
At the center of the hall, bound to the ground by layer upon layer of glowing chains, knelt Prince Hujo Zaki.
The Hollow Prince.
Chains of silver, iron, and pure conjured light wrapped his arms, chest, and legs. Each cuff burned with sigils of suppression, each loop heavy enough to anchor a mountain. His twisted mist had turned darker since the battle, streaked now with glowing veins of red, as though his defeat had only fed it. But the chains held.
And Hujo smirked.
His black-and-white hair hung ragged around his face, the crimson star hairpin still lodged like a brand of defiance. Blood had dried across his lips and chin, but his grin remained unshaken. His eyes—those fever-bright eyes—moved across the hall with contemptuous ease, daring anyone to look away.
On the far side of the chamber, nobles, mages, and emissaries of kingdoms filled the tiers. Their robes gleamed with jewels and sigils of power, but beneath the finery, unease rippled. Whispers filled the air like gnats—rumors, fear, the word war spoken too often in the last days.
At the edge of it all, cloaked in plain robes, stood Mildern Yazukaze.
The fallen prince.
He shifted uncomfortably, the child beside him clutching his sleeve with small, insistent fingers. The kids eyes were wide, drinking in the grandeur of the hall. To him, this was all still a story. But to Mildern... it was a nightmare returned.
The herald's voice boomed through the chamber.
"Hujo Zaki, prince of the Zaki line, known as the Hollow Prince of the Mist. You stand accused of treason, unlawful assault, destabilization of the Magi City, and the incitement of war. The penalty is either imprisonment without end, or death by execution at dawn."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some cheered for death. Others murmured for restraint. The debate had already begun, long before judgment was given.
Hujo only laughed. The sound was hoarse but loud, a blade across silk.
"Execution? Imprisonment? Do you fools not see? You've already lost. The spark is lit. You could bury me beneath stone, burn me in your fire, and still, the war will come."
The guards tugged at his chains to silence him, but he kept laughing.
Mildern's fists clenched. His body shook as he watched Hujo's smile—mocking, taunting, alive even in defeat. Every word echoed in him like poison.
A voice called from the dais.
"Prince Mildern Yazukaze. Step forward."
The hall turned to him. Murmurs rippled. Some had heard his name whispered since Hujo's capture. The lost prince. The survivor of a fallen kingdom.
The child tugged harder at his sleeve, whispering, "M...Mi-der... don't go."
But he had no choice. He moved forward, each step dragging with invisible weight, until he stood beneath the eyes of hundreds.
The high judge's voice rang clear.
"You, as the one who defeated the accused, are called to speak. Tell us—should Hujo Zaki be executed for his crimes, or cast into eternal chains?"
The hall silenced. The weight of the decision pressed down like a storm.
Mildern's throat tightened. He could feel every stare. His body screamed to run. His voice caught, shallow, trembling. He thought of his kingdom burning. Of the nation he lost. Of the kid at his side now.
And then, Hujo's voice cut through his silence.
"Kill me, Yazukaze!" the Hollow Prince spat, laughing between words. "Kill me like you should have in the tower! Crown yourself a savior. Show them the monster you really are."
The words ripped through him. Rage flared hot, shame biting deeper. He wanted to scream, to strike, to silence that laughter forever.
But when he turned his head—he saw the kid.
The child's wide eyes glistened, his small hand pressed to his own. No judgment. No fear. Only trust.
Mildern's breath trembled. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his voice broken, but steady.
"No."
The word rippled through the chamber. Gasps, shouts, outrage. Hujo's smile faltered for a heartbeat.
Mildern's voice rose, trembling but unbroken.
"Execution would only make him a martyr. A shadow to haunt us all. Let him rot. Let him live chained in the dark, powerless, forgotten. That is justice."
The hall erupted—anger, relief, debate clashing in a storm of sound.
Hujo threw back his head and laughed, wild and furious. "Chains?! You think chains can hold me?! Fools! You've doomed yourselves!" His voice cracked into a scream as the guards dragged him down. "War is coming! The world will burn, and when it does—you'll wish you killed me!"
Mildern turned away, his face pale, his hands trembling. His legs nearly gave beneath him.
The kids hand found his again, small and warm, anchoring him in the storm.
And for the first time in years, as the chamber roared and Hujo's laughter echoed into silence, Mildern realized:
He had chosen.
And that choice—whether it brought peace or war—was his to bear.
The Balcony of Peace (Part 2)
The storm of voices had raged for days.
Nobles shouted in chambers, emissaries scribbled frantic letters to their kings, and the Academy's high council debated until their voices broke. Fear had nearly torn them apart—every whisper, every rumor threatening to spill into fire.
But Mildern Yazukaze saw what the others could not.
He stood in the shadow of the council chamber, cloak drawn tight, watching lords and magisters argue with trembling fists. He didn't hear the words so much as feel them. A strange, low thrum at the edges of the air, like distant thunder.
Darkened mana.
It was faint, unseeable to anyone else—but to him, it spilled from bodies like smoke, curling around the most enraged voices. He alone could see it, the residue of emotion too dark to contain. Hatred, grief, envy—war made manifest in invisible threads.
And it struck him, sudden and cold.
This was what Hujo had used. His twisted mist was not born of ordinary magic—it was fed by this unseen force. Darkened mana was the raw essence of broken hearts, of sorrow too deep to heal, of rage too heavy to carry. Perhaps, Mildern thought, Hujo's own childhood had drowned in such things. Perhaps his madness had been shaped by grief.
But if that was true... Mildern pushed the thought away. He couldn't afford pity now.
What mattered was this: the war had almost begun, not from politics, but from shadows in the heart. And if the council could be calmed, if darkened mana could be understood—then peace was possible.
So he spoke. For hours, quietly but firmly, he told them what he saw. He explained the mana they could not sense, the way it poisoned judgment, and how Hujo's presence had amplified it.
At first, the lords scoffed. Then, as his words sank deeper, silence spread. Finally, when a trembling archmage admitted he had felt something gnawing at his soul during the trial, the chamber shifted. Fear gave way to thought. War gave way to peace.
And at last, the gavel struck.
There would be no war. Not yet.
When the news reached the streets, the city erupted. Bells rang. Candles lit every window. People poured into the square below the Academy, cheering not only the council's decree, but one name whispered more and more boldly:
Prince Yazukaze.
They called for him. Thanked him. Sang his name.
And Mildern hid.
He stood in the shadows of the high balcony, his chest tight, his palms sweating. He had faced Hujo's laughter, chains, and blood without flinching. But the roar of a grateful crowd was somehow more unbearable.
"They want you," said a mage softly behind him. "The people need to see who saved them."
Mildern's jaw clenched. His voice broke as he whispered, "I... I can't."
Then, a small tug at his cloak.
The kid. Wide-eyed, smiling, pointing toward the balcony. "Mi-der... go."
Mildern froze. The child's voice was so simple, so certain, so unafraid.
His heart twisted. He wanted to say no. To stay hidden, to let the crowd believe what they wished. But the childs hand was warm around his own, insistent, pulling.
And in that moment, Mildern realized—it wasn't for the people. It was for him.
So he took a breath that shook his whole frame. His legs carried him, stiff and trembling, out of the shadow and into the light.
The roar hit him like a wave. Cheers, cries, songs—all rising into the night sky. Torches flared, bells rang, petals scattered from the rooftops.
Mildern Yazukaze, the fallen prince, stood before them.
For an instant, he wanted to flee. But then—his hand tightened around the kids, and he let the sound wash over him. His stomach hurt. His eyes burned. Yet for the first time in years, he did not look away.
The kid lifted his free hand, waving clumsily to the crowd. A ripple of laughter and joy answered him.
Mildern's lips parted. The words stuck, his shyness heavy as iron. But his voice, quiet and hoarse, carried enough.
"...Thank you."
The crowd erupted again, louder than before.
And though fear gnawed at him, though scars still bound his heart, Mildern stood there beside the kid—bathed in light, surrounded by voices, and for one fragile moment, at peace.
TO BE CONTINUED IN THE MOVIE: The Prince At Milden Duke Hall Manor THE MOVIE: Seeking Answers!...