"Your mother's not here, huh, shorty?" Marcus asked while adjusting the saddle. His hands were quick and practiced, checking that the stirrups were properly fastened.
Not far away, Eliot crouched on the ground, busy ruffling the fur of his uncle's hunting dog—an old hound with mismatched eyes and a scarred snout.
"She went to Grandpa's house," Eliot replied. In truth, he couldn't remember what was really going on, but he repeated the words the maid had taught him by heart—just to keep his uncle from worrying.
"Every day, I forget more," he thought. Mom told me not to tell anyone about my brain. But… does that include Uncle? Will I forget him too, like I keep forgetting her?
But that trip wasn't just a visit from a daughter to her grandfather. If only she knew—it was a journey meant for her own future.
"I miss your mother… That's not wrong, is it?" Marcus murmured.
Eliot merely nodded, not fully understanding Marcus' words—the kind of longing that came not from friendship, but from the scent, the warmth, and the voice of a woman.
"I hope she returns before I leave."
Eliot nodded again.
Without another word, Marcus picked up the small child and lifted him into the saddle. He tightened the belt, adjusted the cloak, checked the boots, and paused briefly at the dagger hanging from Eliot's waist. The blade was far too big for such a small body. Marcus chuckled.
"What?" Eliot frowned.
Marcus pressed his forehead to the boy's.
"My little pie," he whispered, gently brushing Eliot's hair.
"Don't grow up too fast, okay?"
He was grateful Eliot had inherited the one thing he loved most about the boy's mother—her eyes and hair. If he couldn't gaze at the woman he once held—after letting go of her hand so long ago—he could still see fragments of her in the child. And he had vowed to protect every last piece of that woman... because he suspected Lukas wouldn't be able to protect either of them.
Eliot shoved Marcus away, his cheeks flushing. "Gross."
Marcus laughed quietly, turning as a knight—an old friend from his academy days—approached to discuss the hunting route. Still, Marcus gently stroked his nephew's cheek one last time, a wistful look in his eyes.
"Some rotten traditions from the past are better off buried. I won't lose this child too." the man resolved silently.
Now alone in the saddle, Eliot quietly pulled dried meat from his pocket. Making sure no one was watching, he popped three small pieces into his mouth.
Srrk.
Shadows crept across the damp ground, causing the boy to glance up, trying to find the shape of the leaves above—but his eyes widened instantly.
A blinding flash of sunlight pierced down, sharp and deliberate, as though someone had aimed it directly at his face to blind him. Eliot raised a hand to shield his eyes—but at that moment, the horse beneath him stirred, jolting the pouch on his thigh where the meat was kept.
"Argh," he groaned.
The wound on his wrist—inflicted by the creature from the previous night—throbbed once more.
The sounds around him began to fade.
The air grew heavier.
The sky turned grey. Not dark enough for rain, but not bright enough to be called day.
The wind stopped.
Something felt... wrong.
Eliot's heart raced.
He stopped chewing.
The meat froze in his fingers. His body stiffened. Breath held tight. The only part of him still moving were his eyes—gazing deep into the forest.
Crrrpt. Cript.
A squirrel—the same one from the balcony days ago—dropped two nuts onto his head.
Was it deliberate?
Maybe.
But Eliot didn't react.
His soul felt distant. As though something ancient, unfamiliar, and watchful was crawling beneath his eyelids.
Then... a tiny bird fluttered past.
Its feathers shimmered in strange, indescribable hues. It was no larger than a thumb. It sang—a soft, fragile tune. But the melody twisted midway, bending unnaturally.
There was a warning in its song.
Today was not the day to enter the forest.
The horse neighed, hooves scraping the earth.
Yet no one looked toward Eliot.
Marcus's reins slipped from his hands.
And Eliot… remained still. Face pale. Eyes wide open.
"Your highness?"
A hoarse voice called out from behind a tree. A man staggered from where he had been leaning.
Clarity Robane.
He'd seen this before.
Twenty years ago.
On Queen Thalia's face.
That day...
Dark veins bled from beneath her eyes, like ink spilling from an invisible wound.
Clarity's chest tightened.
The bottle of rum fell from his hand, shattering on the roots.
He rushed toward Eliot.
"Your highness—wake up!"
Eliot didn't respond.
Smack!
One slap.
And again.
The sound echoed through the trees.
Finally... Eliot gasped—pulling in a deep, rattled breath.