MDL | Chapter 2.3

No red burn marks, not even a single scratch.

So where was this pain coming from? As the prince pondered this, he reached his hand between his shoulder blades… and in that moment, a searing agony unlike anything he had ever felt before tore through him, as if his spine were being split in two.

And then…

The sharp scent of medicinal herbs hit his nose. It was the smell of a boiling potion made from Rosa flowers, known to enhance wound recovery. When blooming naturally, Rosa flowers emitted a sweet fragrance, but once boiled, they released a pungent, smoky aroma. A contradiction, much like his own existence.

A bitter smile flickered across his lips, but it vanished so quickly that even the servants and attendants didn’t notice. With a glance, he signaled his attendants to leave, and they swiftly exited, leaving him alone in the vast bathhouse.

He exhaled deeply, letting out a suppressed groan through clenched teeth. His body was a mess. The wounds he had sustained on the battlefield—slashed, stabbed, and cut—still tormented him, especially on gloomy days like this. From injuries a decade old to those from just a few months ago, his body remembered every drop of blood spilled, even if he had forgotten.

He untied the sash of his velvet robe, letting the heavy fabric slide off his shoulders. As he did, his expression hardened.

He sensed a presence. Someone was there, hiding like a mouse in the steam, creeping toward him…

The moment a cold hand brushed against the front of his robe, he didn’t miss it. He swiftly grabbed the wrist. It was as thin as a twig. Surprised by its frailty, he hesitated for a moment but didn’t dwell on it. He twisted the wrist sharply, pulling it high above the intruder’s head to prevent any further mischief.

“Ah… ahh!”

A short, sharp cry escaped. He pulled the figure closer to get a better look, and another cry followed.

Golden, curly hair, a height at least two heads shorter than his, and a gray shirt that hung loosely over small shoulders.

Damn. It was a child.

“Ouch, it hurts, it hurts…”

To make matters worse, the child began to sob uncontrollably.

“Who are you? A spy from Tyleum? From Vasrak? Or did Lord Roshik send you to watch me? Father Roshik? Son Roshik?”

“Please… let me go. It really, really hurts. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

The child’s crying grew so loud that conversation became impossible. Frustrated, he released the child, who crumpled to the floor, crying even louder. What was so unfair? He stared down at the child with cold eyes. Everyone in the castle, even the newest servant, knew how much he despised being seen undressed. Yet here this child was, sneaking into the bathhouse and now crying about it?

The child’s wailing made his already aching body feel even worse. The pungent scent of the Rosa flowers mixed with the faint smell of food emanating from the child’s body—caramelized sugar, cream stains on the ill-fitting gray shirt, and various sauces. The child must have been working in the kitchen.

“You’re noisy. Stop.”

He spoke irritably. The child, sensing his tone, covered its mouth with both hands and looked up at him. Its eyes were unusually large and blue. With a good wash and a comb through its tangled hair, the child might have looked as delicate as a porcelain doll. Though the sobbing stopped, tears continued to well up in its eyes. Watching the large teardrops fall, he felt a pang of pity for himself.

“Get out.”

“B-but… Your Highness… I thought… you might need help bathing…”

“I don’t repeat myself.”

The child scrambled to its feet and stumbled out of the bathhouse like a newborn fawn. He watched the child’s retreating figure—the messy golden hair and the small, skinny frame.

After finishing his bath in a foul mood, he questioned his steward, Lord Ostro, about the child.

“I’ve never seen that face before. Did you bring him in?”

Lord Ostro chuckled awkwardly, his white eyebrows drooping.

“Don’t you remember?”

“What?”

“The child you personally brought here ten days ago.”

“I did?”

He set aside the documents he was reading and tried to recall ten days ago. It was the day he returned from a routine monster hunt in the White Forest. He had no memory of picking up a child.

“I don’t remember.”

Lord Ostro laughed again.

“It’s understandable. A dirty little brat like that… such a trivial matter.”

Relieved by the steward’s answer, he assumed the child might be an orphan from a village near the border, ravaged by monsters. Perhaps he had ordered food to be given to the survivors, and the soldiers had brought the child to the castle.

As he picked up the documents again, he suddenly asked, “What’s the child’s name? Do you know?”

“Ah, the name… the child’s name is…”

The name…?

What was it? What was the child’s name?

Whose memory was this? The cold castle where white breath escaped with every word despite the thick fur clothing. The pungent scent of medicinal herbs soothing his pain. The golden-haired boy whose head barely reached his chest. What was all this?

Dizziness overwhelmed the prince. As if urging him to snap out of it, Sleipnir nuzzled his cheek with its soft, damp nose. The touch of the animal’s snout brought him back to reality.

He had been lost in pain, briefly hallucinating.

It was just a dream.

He was here now, in a world cracking and collapsing, a world where he had to plunge his sword.

As he took slow, deep breaths to ground himself, he realized something.

The fiery pain between his shoulder blades had vanished.

But it wasn’t just the pain that was gone.

The beautiful white moon and the scattered stars in the night sky had also disappeared. Yes, the second night, the brief night between dusk and dawn, had arrived.

With the sun, moon, and stars all gone, darkness enveloped everything. But the prince didn’t lose his way back. Thanks to the trail of light powder scattered like breadcrumbs on the ground. Yes, the wizard had left it behind.

Following that humble trail of light, the prince and the three horses safely returned to the campsite.

“Ah, you’re back?”

The red cloak greeted him. The rest of the party was already asleep. The wizard, curled up like a caterpillar in his sleeping bag, had his eyes closed. Was he really asleep this time? Haha… who knows? That’s… a secret between the wizard and me.

The prince poked the wizard’s flushed cheek with his fingertip, then chuckled to himself and settled by the campfire. The red cloak, who had been watching him intently, offered him a lit pipe. After a moment’s hesitation, the prince took it and inhaled deeply, the pungent smoke swirling in his throat. It reminded him of the scent of boiling Rosa flowers—a harsh, medicinal aroma that lingered.

“Thanks for letting me stay. And for the food. If fate allows, we’ll meet again.”

As soon as dawn broke, the red cloak bid her farewell and left without a trace of hesitation. Her carefree attitude left Zig scratching the back of his head.

“I was worried she might be a bandit or something.”

“She slept just fine, though. In fact, she was the last one to wake up.”

“No, Wizard! That’s… that’s because I was sleeping lightly! I was only half-asleep, you see. The other half of my soul was awake, like a sentry on a tree branch!”

“Ah, sure. Got it.”

“You clearly don’t! I’m a knight, you know. A knight! I’ve trained rigorously to stay alert even while sleeping lightly… Wizard? Wizard, I wasn’t done talking! Hey! Wizard!”

“Ugh, leech! Stop following me!”

Zig froze, stunned by the wizard’s sharp retort.

Honestly, I have no idea how Zig became a knight. He doesn’t seem to have the knack for it. Though, it’s still too early to judge. Whether Zig is truly “Knight Zig” will only be revealed when real danger arises.

But that’s a matter for later. You can forget about it for now.

“Come to think of it, I didn’t get to ask her about that thing…” Rose muttered regretfully.

“That long thing she carried… with smoke coming out of the round end.”

She must have been curious about the red cloak’s “gun.” Not exactly a princess-like curiosity, is it? A storybook princess should be more interested in romantic kisses, love, and marriage with the prince.

…Well, it’s fine for now.

“Her outfit was strange too.”

“Don’t worry. Our clothes are just as strange.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’ll understand if you go down to the village below.”

The wizard shrugged and added boastfully, “That’s what cultural differences are all about.”

The wizard was right.

As they descended to the village near the palace, even the most dignified elders stared at them wide-eyed. The shopkeeper, where they stopped to replenish supplies, laughed loudly and said outright:

“Haha! You all look like monks from two hundred years ago! Is that the trend among young folks these days? Where are you from? You’re not from around here, are you?”

…Well, there’s probably at least that much of a time difference between The Sleeping Prince of the Thorn Castle and this story. At least two hundred years, I’d guess. Considering the importance of “gold thread” as a form of currency in old tales, it’s likely set in a medieval-ish era. But, well, it’s not that important. It’s not my fault the story’s all mixed up! You know how it is, right?

“Haha. We’re from… over there.”

“Where?”

“Hahaha. You know, over there, over there…”

“What? Where?”

Given the red cloak’s reaction when they mentioned coming through the forest, it seemed best not to reveal their origins too clearly.

“Where are you from?!”

“Over there…”

The shopkeeper, annoyed by the wizard’s evasiveness, still kindly added some thinly baked wheat bread as a bonus. It was close to noon, the perfect time to feel hungry. Sharing the bread, the group took a moment to explore the village.

It was a small, humble country.

Like all the countries in these kinds of stories—small, humble, and beautiful.

Rows of similar houses, similar outfits, and even similar expressions and gazes. The muddy streets reeked of horse dung, and fist-sized field mice scurried about fearlessly, chased by snot-nosed children wielding sticks. Adults carrying goods to the market occasionally stopped to grab a child and wipe their dirty faces with their equally dirty sleeves.

Small, humble, beautiful.

And poor.

But since everyone lived similarly, the people’s expressions were gentle. Unlike countries teeming with ambitious individuals striving to outearn others in endless wealth and prosperity, this was a place where a miller’s daughter spinning gold from straw could become a national joke overnight.

However, the palace towering in the center of the village stood out starkly.

Why?

Well, it glittered.

…Literally. Under the midday sun, it shone so brightly it hurt the eyes. Golden.