TYND 6

Rothy, who’d been eagerly polishing his empty bowl, blinked when Ultje took it away, his gaze drooping, sadness settling in his eyes. Unable to bring himself to ask for more, he wrapped himself in the blanket and scurried to the farthest corner of the bed, curling up tight. 

That corner had become his own little sanctuary. 

The bed was massive, dwarfing his small frame, making him look less like a person and more like a lump of blanket huddled into itself. Ultje gave a quiet order, and soon a servant appeared with another bowl of soup, this time accompanied by a freshly baked roll.

“Eat slowly,” he instructed, holding the bowl out. 

“This isn’t just broth—there’s meat in it, so chew before you swallow. Only if you eat properly will you get bread.”

He set the bowl down with those firm instructions, and Rothy hesitated, casting a wary glance at him. Ultje simply waited, patience steady as stone. At length, the boy edged closer and cautiously took the bowl.

“Hold the spoon properly in your hand.”

“……”

“Now, take it slow. One spoonful at a time.”

Rothy clutched the spoon awkwardly, glancing up at Ultje before… 

gulp, gulp—

He tipped the bowl back, draining the soup in desperate swallows. Ultje’s temples throbbed, and he pressed his fingers to them, feeling the dull ache spread. For three days since leaving that prison cell, Rothy had been here, and for all three days, he ate like this—as if swallowing was the only way he knew how.

What did they put him through?

A simmering resentment against Yolone Sirin crept in. Just yesterday had been the archmage’s funeral, a ceremony Ultje had attended. As the chief steward, he’d often stayed with the wounded in the rear, rarely crossing paths with Yolone. And on the rare occasions they did meet in camp, the archmage’s cold, overbearing attitude only deepened Ultje’s disdain. Yet, every time he saw those brilliant flashes of magic on the frontlines, he felt reassured, knowing Yolone was there. In his prayers, he’d even asked for protection over not just the archduke, the Black Lion Knights, and the crown prince, but the archmage too.

O Great Seará, watch over Lord Yolone Sirin, who always leads the war from the very front.

They’d never exchanged a private word, yet during the memorial service, he’d felt his eyes sting.

What a waste of my tears.

He hadn’t thought the archmage would conduct experiments similar to Faye’s, but he’d certainly subjected the child to abuse just as severe. Seeing the scars left behind, Ultje found himself wishing to reclaim those tears.

“I suppose you’d try to swallow the bread whole too, wouldn’t you? I’d better cut it up for you.”

He cleaned his hands, slicing the bread into tiny bites, arranging them neatly on a tray. Rothy watched his every movement in silence, eyes fixed and unblinking. Then—knock, knock—the door creaked open, and in came Chungnip with a bright smile. 

“Lord Chungnip.”

“Ultje, enough with the ‘lord’, please. I’m not even a noble.”

The knights standing guard outside shut the door behind him. 

“My, you’re cutting up the bread yourself? That’s dedication. Couldn’t leave it to the servants, I see.”

“No, not at all. It’s been a refreshing change of pace. Reminds me of His Grace when he was young.”

“His Grace and Rothy? Worlds apart, surely.”

“Yes, in both size and temperaments, they were absolutely opposites, which is why it takes me back. His Grace would’ve never let me cut his bread—he’d tear right into the loaf.”

Chungnip laughed heartily and pulled up a chair. 

“Hey, Rothy. Were you eating?”

The child’s emerald eyes fixed on Chungnip, who greeted him with such casual ease. But as Chungnip returned his gaze with a smile, Rothy nearly jumped to the ceiling, then pulled the blanket up, hiding his face. Then he cautiously peeked out again. 

“He seems happy to see you, Lord Chungnip.”

“Yes, doesn’t he? Can’t say why, but he’s taken a liking to me. Perhaps it’s because I’m handsome. Aren’t I, Rothy? A whole different kind of handsome than His Grace, wouldn’t you say?”

Ultje watched as Chungnip continued to prattle on about his looks to the silent child, a smile tugging at his own lips. Of all the visitors, it was Chungnip who came most often, each time with a look of sympathy, as if the mere sight of Rothy tore at him, and he’d linger to chat the hours away. 

“Has PLEIN mages been by today as well?”

“Yes, they were here earlier this morning.”

After Chungnip, the PLEIN mages were the most frequent visitors. They’d stop by at least three times a day, without fail, and each time:

“Do you know how to use magic? Show us.”

“You better release your magical power.” 

“Were there other children besides you?”

They’d pelted him with questions, ordered him around—only to leave empty-handed. Rothy feared and distrusted them utterly. Each visit left him cowering under his blanket, trembling long after they’d gone. Ultje speared a piece of bread with a fork, holding it out. Rothy hesitated, eyes darting up warily, before gingerly taking the offered piece.

“Make sure to chew it well before you swallow.”

Rothy took the piece in a single bite, gulping it down, then cast a longing glance at the tray piled high with bread, clutching his now-empty fork.

“More……”

“You’ll make yourself sick that way, Rothy.”

“He certainly will. Just yesterday, he’d a fever from it, and we’d to call in a physician.”

“We’ll need to teach him how to eat slowly. By the way, Ultje, why do you use such a stiff tone of speech with him?”

“I’ve heard that if it’s confirmed he possesses the magic stone, he’ll be presented as Lord Yolone’s hidden disciple. Once the dust from the war settles, Sir Yolone is set to receive a ducal title posthumously, which will pass to Rothy. In that case, this child would become someone of great rank, far above me.”

“Ah, makes sense. I suppose I should start addressing him properly as well.”

Lowering his voice, Ultje leaned in and asked, 

“What do you think, Lord Chungnip? Do you believe those rumours about the experiments?”

“I can’t say for sure. It’s a bit risky for me to answer.” Chungnip replied with an awkward smile, sidestepping the question. But in dodging it, he’d already given his answer. 

“Give it to me. I’ll feed him myself and build up our bond. Take a break, Ultje.”

“Yes, thank you.” Ultje handed him the tray and stepped back.

Chungnip broke the bread into smaller pieces, feeding them to Rothy. The child took each bite like a baby bird, eager and wide-eyed. It was just a small roll, but halfway through, Rothy’s shoulders shrank, and he hesitated to take another bite. 

“Looks like he’s full. But still, two bowls of soup and half a roll? That’s quite an improvement in just a few days.”

“When I look at the Black Lion’s apprentice knights around your age, they could devour an entire basket of bread. Rothy, you’ve got to start eating more!”

Just as Chungnip was clearing away the tray, the door burst open without warning, and a large man strode in. 

“Your Grace.”

“Your Grace.”

Chungnip and Ultje sprang to their feet, bowing respectfully. 

“He’s eating at this hour?”

“We’ve only just finished.”

Theon’s imposing figure loomed over the bed, casting a long shadow that seemed to swallow Rothy whole. The child shrank back, gripping the bed so tightly his knuckles turned white. He was terrified—and yet, at the same time, glad. 

“Your Grace, you never miss a day,” Ultje remarked with a warm, almost bemused smile. 

Theon came every day without fail. He never spoke to the child, nor did he stay long—just a few moments to confirm that Rothy was still alive. But even that small gesture astonished Ultje. It meant the boy wasn’t entirely forgotten. Perhaps the archduke wasn’t as heartless as he seemed. 

Ignoring Ultje’s satisfied smile, Theon turned to Zey—who was waiting outside the door—with a curt nod. The aide promptly stepped forward and entered the room, carrying something square and covered with a black cloth. 

Screech! Screech!

A cry rang out from whatever was under the cloth caught Rothy’s attention. His wide eyes blinked, intrigued. Curious, he straightened up a little, allowing the blanket to slide down and reveal his thin shoulders. 

The aide then lifted the cloth. 

Inside the cage sat a writhing crowd of white weasels, all nearly identical in size, glaring out with fierce, red eyes—Squeak!—their shrieks filling the room. 

“Is one of these your weasel?”

“Chi-chi…isn’t here……” Rothy’s voice was a whisper as his shoulders slumped.

The speed of his answer made everyone pause. Each weasel looked identical, yet Rothy had not even bothered to inspect them before shaking his head. 

“How could he possibly know if his pet is there or not? They’re all the same. None of them have collars.”

Zey voiced the question on everyone’s mind. Chungnip, however, spoke up in Rothy’s defence. 

“If Rothy really has a magic stone inside him, and he’s a mage capable of wielding it, he’d be able to recognise his pet through its unique life force. Every living being emits its own signature of inherent magical energy.”

“I may not know much about magic, but I do know that detecting inherent magical energy within a living being is extremely difficult, and without a proper magitool, it’s practically impossible.”

“I’ve just explained—if he’s carrying a magic stone, no magitool is needed.”

All eyes turned towards Rothy. 

He began to tremble and retreated further beneath the blanket until only a small tuft of fluffy white hair was left visible.

“Then, it seems we’ll have to continue the hunt for now,” Theon said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. 

The lump under the blanket visibly flinched at his words. Slowly, he poked his face out, his large emerald eyes were filled with a tumult of emotions—betrayal, worry, resentment, and fear.

“I’m helping you to find it. Why do you look so afraid?”

For the briefest moment, Theon’s usually impassive face showed a flicker of confusion, clearly puzzled by the child’s rapidly shifting emotions.