The child beneath the wildflowers

The forest stretched like a dream: soft, sun-dappled, and endlessly green.

Tall trees towered high above the ground, their thick leaves dancing with the breeze. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, warm and golden, casting moving shadows across a meadow dotted with wildflowers. Delicate white blossoms and bright red berries peeked from beneath bushes. The air was sweet with the scent of pine, grass, and blooming petals.

Two young boys ran through the forest, laughter echoing with the rustling leaves. One of them, a black-haired boy with eyes red like rubies raced ahead without a care, leaping over logs and kicking up petals in his wake.

“Loui! Wait up!” shouted the other boy, panting. He had soft white-silver hair that shimmered under the sun and ocean-blue eyes full of worry. At nine and a half, he was only months younger than his brother, but far more cautious.

“If we go too far, Dad will scold us again!”

The black-haired boy turned his head and rolled his eyes playfully. “Don’t be such obedient, Leo! I’m just playing. You’re too stiff.” He was barely ten, though he carried himself like a little prince with mischief in his veins.

He darted deeper into the woods, delighting in the wind brushing past his cheeks. But just as he grinned and leapt forward, his foot caught on something in the long grass.

He stumbled and then crashed to the ground with a thud.

“Agh!”

He winced and looked down. Blood trickled down from a scrape on his knee. “Ow, ow, ow!”

Leo rushed forward in alarm. “Louis!” He knelt beside his brother and carefully examined the wound. “I told you not to run off. See what happened?”

He tore a piece from the hem of his own shirt and gently wrapped it around the scrape, his little fingers trembling slightly.

Louis pouted. “I’m older than you, Leo! And it wasn’t my fault. I tripped on something!”

He stood up and turned back to the grass, curiosity flaring. “Wait, let me show you. I think it was a rock or a branch or-”

Suddenly, he froze.

His eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat.

“CLEO!!”

He grabbed his younger brother’s arm tightly. “Cleo, come here! I... I think it’s a corpse!”

Cleo looked at him like he’d gone mad, but stepped forward. As the grass parted, a gasp slipped from his lips.

There, lying among the wildflowers, was a tiny girl.

She looked no older than three. Her long pink hair was tangled and crusted with dirt. Her limbs were covered in bruises: some fresh, some so old they had turned dark purple. Her cheeks were scratched, her lips cracked. Her small form was limp and pale.

Her clothes were torn rags barely clinging to her thin body. Dried blood stained the fabric and her skin.

“She’s not dead,” Cleo whispered. He knelt beside her and touched her wrist. “She’s alive. But she is badly injured.”

Louis stared, his voice faltering. “So many bruises… Leo, wh-what happened to her?”

Before Cleo could answer, another voice called out from behind them. Calm, but firm.

“What are you two doing here?”

Both boys turned toward the older figure approaching. He had silver-white hair that fell neatly to his shoulders and calm violet eyes that missed nothing. He looked mature, commanding already tall and composed despite his young age of eighteen.

“Eric bro!” Cleo turned quickly, pointing behind him. “We found a little girl. She’s unconscious. She needs medical help, right away!”

Eric’s expression shifted. He walked swiftly to their side and knelt down. When his eyes fell on the girl, a sharp breath escaped his lips.

He reached out, gently brushing a strand of pink hair away from her face. Her skin was cold. Her body was so light in his arms when he carefully lifted her up.

“This is bad,” he murmured. “Let's go”

—

Not far from the forest, two opulent carriages rested beneath the shade of a great oak tree. The crest of the Elernburg Duchy: a silver dragon coiled around a crown gleamed on the side of each.

Few guards were stationed nearby, feeding the horses and standing alert.

A tall, imposing man paced back and forth with growing anxiety. His long black hair was tied loosely behind his back, and his piercing grey eyes carried the weight of power and blood.

His finely tailored coat, dark as ink, was adorned with the ducal emblem. A sword hung from his side: elegant, deadly. It had once slain a hundred men in a single battle.

This man was none other than Grand Duke Tristan Ashford, ruler of Elernburg and brother to the Emperor.

He was a man in his prime—thirty-five years old, yet his features held a youthful sharpness, a testament to the longevity of those born with royal blood. In this world, humans lived up to 150 years, and only after a century did their youth begin to fade. At thirty-five, Tristan Ashford still radiated the raw, magnetic charm of a man at his peak.

Once hailed as the “Black Wolf of the North,” Tristan had earned his title through ruthless military brilliance. His enemies feared him. His allies respected him. He was the blade that cut through treason and the shield that protected the Empire.

“Where did those boys disappear to?” he muttered darkly.

“Your Grace,” said a man beside him, bowing slightly. His long green hair was tied in a sleek ponytail, and his glasses reflected the light calmly.

Flynn Fletcher, the Grand Duke’s chief secretary. Known as the Empire’s brilliant strategist and scholar.

“Shall I look for them?”

Before Tristan could answer, a gentle hand reached for his.

The voice was like warm milk on a cold night. Giselle Ashford, the Grand Duchess, smiled gently at her husband. She was thirty-four, yet her beauty remained ethereal: snow-white hair cascading down her back, blue eyes as deep as the winter sea. Her long gown fluttered with the breeze, giving her the grace of a swan.

A former Lady General of the Royal Army, Giselle was known as the “White Hawk.” A warrior once feared by kings, now wrapped in the warmth of motherhood.

“Dear, relax,” she said, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Eric went after them. They’ll be back soon.”

“I—” Tristan started, but her gaze calmed him.

“Wait a little longer, Flynn,” Giselle added.

At that moment, a voice rang out.

“Mom! Dad!”

Cleo came rushing out of the woods. Giselle’s expression tensed. “Cleo, don’t run, baby—”

Louis and Eric appeared behind him. Eric was carrying the small girl in his arms. Her body was limp, her head resting against his chest.

Giselle gasped.

Tristan’s face darkened.

“W-What happened?” she asked.

Eric laid the girl gently inside one of the carriages, placing a soft blanket beneath her.

“She’s injured,” he said solemnly. “Badly."

Giselle’s eyes welled with tears. She knelt beside the carriage and brushed the child’s cheek with trembling fingers. “Who could... do this to a child?”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the girl's fragile, broken body. His jaw clenched. His fists shook not just with anger, but something else.

Sorrow.

Protectiveness.

“Flynn,” he said coldly, “Prepare to leave. We’re going home.”

Flynn nodded.

As the guards mounted their horses and the carriages prepared to move, the little girl stirred.

She opened her eyes slowly. Everything was too bright. Her body ached. Her chest was tight. Not only that, but her throat was dry.

Strange people were looking at her. Her small hands trembled as she tried to sit up, but she collapsed again. She curled into herself, hugging her knees tightly to her chest.

Who... who are these people? Where am I?

She didn’t know them. She didn’t know if they would hit her and take away her power. Or what if they take her to her parents?

Tristan took one step forward.

“...The Child of Prophecy?” he whispered under his breath.

Gasps echoed around the carriage.

The little girl whimpered softly and pressed her forehead to her knees. Her tiny frame trembled like a frightened bird. She couldn’t understand what they were saying but it scared away She just wanted the light to go away.

Tristan exhaled and gently shut the carriage door. He turned to Giselle, who wiped her eyes quickly.

“We will take her back,” he said. “No matter who she is… she’s ours now.”

And so, the carriages began to move.

And inside one of them, the little girl stared at the floor, trembling silently as her story began again.

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