Chapter Text
The harsh noonday sun beats down on the training field, its glare catching on flashing blades and gleaming armor, glimmering off sweat-slick skin, crystal-clear droplets of exertion slipping down to sink beneath leather belts.
A grunt, followed by a discordant clang rings out as the warrior prince’s gauntlet smashes against his sparring partner’s sword. The blade skitters across the ground, knocked out of its wielder’s hands.
“Well done, crown prince. I have nothing more to teach you.”
“There’s always more to learn,” the other disagrees.
“Off to your studies then?”
“Mm.”
The grizzled drillmaster, grey streaked through his hair and beard, harrumphs, grumbling. “A son of Kremnos has no right spending so much time buried in books.” He sighs. “There’s nothing to criticize of your combat. Just one more thing: belated felicitations on your Naming Day, Your Highness. I was in the field until yesterday, so I couldn’t make the celebrations.”
Mydei thanks him, confirms their appointment for tomorrow, and leaves the sparring grounds. Accepting a towel from the servant by the gate, he wipes off the sweat before heading into the white stone walls of the palace, the cool breadth of stone blocking out the searing heat of the day. His steps are swift and sure, armor clinking quietly as he passes through the halls, responding to the deferential bows and greetings he receives with a small nod.
The guards flanking the door of the prince’s study salute him sharply, spears clanging against shields. Mydei goes in, the click of the heavy stone door sealing him in solace. Breathing out, he makes for the adjoining washroom.
Going to that place covered in sweat would be disrespectful to the gods. Removing his dirtied training attire, he goes to the washbasin and splashes his face. Damp towels are used to wipe down hair and body before he deems himself sufficiently clean. He puts on the clean leggings and robe laid out for him but leaves off his usual thigh guards and greaves, opting for soft leather boots instead for noiseless movement.
Heading back into the study, he gathers texts, workbooks, and ink into a satchel, and goes to the balcony doors, opening them wide. Sultry summer heat promptly greets him, warming his skin as he climbs onto the railing. With the ease of long practice, he traverses across the wall, dropping lightly down onto the parapet below. Pushing off with horizontal momentum, he grasps a handhold of the corner molding. A quick dash across, and then he’s dropping down onto lush grass, the temperature cooling as he descends into the garden.
This is a sacred space, visited by neither worshippers nor priests, a verdant domain of lush botanical greenery tended by no human hands. At the heart of the grove is a towering tree, its crown nearly the height of the castle’s mighty fortifications. The canopy of boughs shelters the garden in its dappled shade, glimmerings of veiled light diffusing through leafy verdure to bathe the grounds in a gentle viridescent glow.
The Sanctum is Castrum Kremnos’ greatest mystery, a puzzle for the ages. In an era of the past, Aquila’s clouds that zealously guard the sky had parted, divine light shining down from the heavens upon the City of Might to bestow a celestial gift: this magnificent tree, which had sprouted from the earth, a lush garden blooming beneath its wide boughs.
A gift from the heavens was an unprecedented honor only… why had the City of War been given vegetation? Priests and diviners had respectfully and devoutly studied this phenomenon trying to decipher the intent of the Celestial Gods.
When no answers were to be found, the head priest posed a tentative inquiry to the Terrestrial God worshipped by the lands of Kremnos, honored Nikador, the Lance of Fury. No instruction was given, only a confirmation that the great tree was granted by the Heavens, and was where it was intended to be. At a loss, Castrum Kremnos had, for the first time in centuries, opened its gates to outsiders, welcoming renowned academics and esteemed men and women of the cloth to unravel this conundrum.
Priority was given to scholars from the Grove of Epiphany. The great tree bore a notable resemblance to Cerces’ boughs, which had once been the bustling core of the intellectual city, but had withered away long ago in a tragedy. For a time, researchers had flocked over in droves, thrilled by the opportunity to study this singularity, a connection to the Sky above the Sky, the mythical Heavens beyond Amphoreus’ Terrestrial Titans. Those of the Grove were driven by a desire to revive their long-withered Tree of Reason, hoping to glean some clues to its rejuvenation.
Years passed, decades went, little by little, the numbers of researchers dwindled without extracting a single secret, even by the greatest of minds. From beginning to end, all that was known was that the tree and its accompanying verdure flourished independently, reversing the attention of human hands in refusal. The one mortal intention accepted was the humble irrigation system built from three different water sources—the palace, the city, and the underground aqueduct—so the garden’s streams would never run dry.
After two centuries of fruitless effort, Castrum Kremnos accepted that the Sacred Tree was a divine miracle, not meant to be understood by mortal minds. The ponderous gates of the city closed, the garden sealed off as a holy sanctuary with the wards only accessible by those of royal blood. Time flowed onward, and this place that held little interest for the warrior society was all but forgotten, a passing curiosity in the footnotes of history. Dynasties have risen and fallen, wars come and gone, yet this sanctuary remains eternal, aloof from the secular world beyond its walls.
Mydei had first seen this fairylike place in his dreams, faded memories of a queen mother whose face he can’t quite remember. Queen Gorgo’s spirit had departed to the Sea of Souls in Mydei’s second summer of life, fallen to a traitor’s blade. The subsequent bloodbath was said to have drenched the streets, reaping the lives of the betrayers and leaving behind stains that could never be washed away. On rainy days, the scent of rust rises from cracks in the cobblestones, a reminder of the consequences of rebellion.
Nowadays, the Sanctum has a regular visitor.
On his twelfth winter, Mydei had ridden out with their armies, deemed old enough to die on the battlefield, but it wasn’t until his fifteenth Naming Day that he was granted freedom from his minders. Since then, this place has become his place of refuge, a peaceful haven where he can study and contemplate, removed from the mountainous weight of his responsibilities, distant from the conquest and strife that defines their city.
Here, the scent of old rust and sun-baked stone is absent. In its place is a fresh and invigorating blend of resinous wood and damp earth, the crisp herbaceous scent of green leaves with a touch of minty fragrance. A light breeze caresses his skin, tall grasses brushing their swaying limbs over the sides of his boots in welcome. Golden, luminescent butterflies flitter past, circling playfully in the air.
Mydei goes to his favorite resting place, a hollow formed of the tangle of the tree’s great roots. The wizened bark has been worn smooth by the restless moving about of a youth over the years, now a comfortable place for him to ensconce himself. Taking out textbook, wax tablet, and stylus, he begins his practice.
The secret truth is that the Undying Prince’s greatest foe… is numbers. He excels at any other subject, and he can manage the basics, but anything more advanced is beyond him. For a soldier, it’s permissible. For a ruler, it’s unacceptable.
He works diligently on the practice problems, stumped when the answer book doesn’t match his calculations. He spends half an hour doing the same set of problems, arriving at different wrong answers, until the eternal silence of the grove is interrupted by a voice, light and cool as the night breeze.
“I cannot endure this anymore. How is it possible for someone to be this abysmal at maths?”
Mydei leaps to his feet, boots lightly balanced on the roots with his gauntlets up in a fighting stance, his heart racing. Tablet and books clatter to the ground, forgotten.
How did someone sneak up on him? How is someone here?
In front of him is a slender figure with an androgynous kind of beauty, though the timber of his voice identifies him as male. The single pink-blue eye that regards the prince from beneath a pale green fringe is unimpressed, a heavy gold-embroidered patch obscuring the other eye. The stranger’s manner of dress is strange as well, an elaborate but foreign style with too many layers for the summer weather, layered vests over dark trousers, a dramatic capelet sweeping down from his shoulders. The night-colored blue-black scheme of his outfit is accentuated by gemlike ruby accents that draw the eye—a dangling crystal earring, a pendant at the right hip, and prisms at the flowing ends of his cape which sway gently in place.
“You trespass on sacred grounds. Name yourself,” Mydei demands, even as his mind whirls in confusion. The insular city of Castrum Kremnos doesn’t let just anyone in. The only foreigners he knows of is a visiting delegation from a vassal state.
The man scoffs. His arms are relaxedly folded, making no move to defend himself despite facing one of Kremnos’ famed warriors. “It’s you who trespass on my domain, crown prince.”
His domain? This place belongs to no one, not even the king; the authority that has dominion over it is only the heavens.
“Let’s dispense with the boring procedures. Come, capture me if you can.” The man holds out his palm in offering.
Made wary by the man’s words, and the sight of the crystal embedded in the back of the man’s hand, Mydei cautiously reaches out to grasp the stranger’s wrist.
His hand closes on nothing, but his eyes tell him something is there, the illusory arm partly obscuring his gauntlet. “What are you?” Mydei asks, astonished. There is an answer floating at the back of his mind but it’s impossible. The Sacred Tree has been silent for centuries, responding to neither kings nor priests nor scholars, accepting not pleas nor prayers nor offerings.
…Surely Mydei’s arithmetic can’t be so vile that it drove a sacred spirit to manifest?
“You already know the answer.” The roots of the great tree shift, curling like limbs to pick up the fallen books and stylus, settling them on the flat, table-like surface of a larger root. “I’ve watched you for a year; you’re not so stupid, despite what your current endeavors would suggest. The hour we have before you must return to the study isn’t enough time for me to drill a modicum of intelligence into that thick head. Sit down.”
“You’re the tree?” Mydei blurts out, head spinning.
The man’s or—spirit’s?—lips purse in annoyance. A thick branch reaches down to thwap the boy’s head.
Not expecting it, Mydei doesn’t dodge. He hisses on receiving the blow, hand flying to the hot, rising lump on the back of his head.
“If you’re not interested, I’m going.” The spirit turns, the tails of his cape flaring dramatically. An indistinct translucence begins fading the edges of his figure.
“Wait!” Mydei doesn’t know why a divine spirit would stoop to teaching a mortal, but he is in desperate straits. The royal tutors have given up on this subject, making only cursory efforts to instruct him on it. His jaw clenches. “Please teach me.”
The spirit pauses, head turning slightly. “I expect due diligence of those under my tutelage.”
Mydei’s spine straightens. “I won’t disappoint you. I’m not lacking in effort.”
**
30 minutes later…
“You’re not lacking in effort, you’re lacking in brains,” the celestial spirit hisses. He holds his forehead in his hand, apparently developing a metaphysical headache. “No, my judgment can’t be wrong,” he mutters to himself. Then, “Go bring me two workbooks each in literature, history, and sciences.”
When Mydei only blinks at him in confusion, the spirit barks, “Now.”
Mydei’s body is already moving, mind catching up a second later. He chooses his best work from the study to present to the spirit and returns to the garden.
Sitting at his “desk” Mydei awaits judgment. The spirit leans over him, a hand on his chin. There is a continuous susurrus as the pages of the workbooks swiftly turn themselves.
“Above average.”
Mydei nods. His tutors had sung his praises to please their superiors, but this is also his personal assessment. Eyes on the novelty of the self-flipping pages, he doesn’t see the brief glance the spirit flicks at him.
A second notebook is perused, a third. “Economics, mechanics, alchemy,” the spirit’s voice rises in incredulity. “High marks. This is impossible. A foundational understanding of mathematics is required for these subjects.” The gaze he turns on Mydei is extremely strange. “I really want to open up that brain and see what’s wrong with it.”
Mydei tenses, scooting away. He reflexively surveils the branches and roots, evaluating the threat.
The spirit doesn’t look like he’s joking. At all.
“You should donate your body to science when you die,” the spirit says, completely serious.
“I can’t die,” Mydei tells him, at a loss how to respond.
The spirit nods. “The Undying Prince. This is also worth studying.”
…The heavens aren’t meant to be understood by mortals, Mydei concludes. With single-minded persistence, he asks, “Does this mean I can’t be taught?”
To Mydei’s relief, the question is instantly dismissed. “If the student is willing to learn, they can be taught. As expected, I was correct; the intellect is not absent. Let’s continue.” An elegant finger taps a line on his worksheet. “Why did you use this function here?”
**
Fishing for the spirit’s name, Mydei formally introduces himself the second day. “I am Mydeimos, the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos. What should I call you?”
“I know who you are. Call me as you like.”
“What if I call you Tree?” Mydei asks with interest.
The spirit is not amused. Mydei quickly shields his head, ducking the smack of a hefty branch.
“Choose something else.”
It’s disappointing but unsurprising to receive no hint of the spirit’s identity, given what he knows from history. Mydei mulls over a name for the entire day and night. Teacher or Professor would be the correct titles but that’s what he calls the Royal Tutors. Either seems inadequate for a divine spirit. After tossing and turning, the perfect sobriquet comes to him. He tests it out at the end of his next lesson.
“I’ll see you tomorrow… Sage,” Mydei watches the spirit closely for his reaction.
This word struck a chord with him the moment it had crossed his mind. Sage: the title given to the wisest of scholars within the Grove of Epiphany, Amphoreus’ center of knowledge.
It must mean something to the spirit as well, because the look he gives Mydei on hearing it is sharp and penetrating.
“…Until tomorrow,” the Sage says, implicitly accepting this name.
**
Over the following week, Mydei’s mathematics slowly but surely improves.
“Contemplating the origin of the world is less strenuous than trying to drill a single concept through the obtuse density of your thick skull,” the Sage marvels. “You’re truly a miracle of creation.”
…Mydei’s skin also grows an inch thick, receiving daily tongue lashings from the Sage. It’s a wonder how such an elegant, erudite voice can roast someone into barbecue without using a single curse word. Mydei would be impressed if his pride wasn’t being beaten black and blue on the regular. As it is, he secretly takes down mental notes, hoping to one day return the favor to this illustrious teacher.
Needless to say, the Royal Tutors’ are delighted by Mydei’s inexplicable progress in mathematics. When he states it was achieved in his self-study hours, he is granted more personal time. His secret lessons with the Sage continue, balanced with his official duties and forays into the battlefield.
These military assignments have become more frequent as Mydei gets older. The progression is within reason, but something about it strikes him as unnatural, the deployments stepping up in frequency with the occasional attempts on his life. The question forever lingers in his thoughts of whether it’s related to what he saw that fateful day, three years ago.
On his twelfth winter, Mydei had rode onto the battlefield for the first time and died beneath an enemy’s sword. Baptized within the Sea of Souls with an immortal body, he opened his eyes to the shocked face of his King Father. More than his death, what stayed with him was the flash of disappointment he saw in his father’s eyes. He wished he could fool himself that it was imagined, but his senses have always been too sharp. The reaction of Kremnos’ citizens stood in bitterly ironic contrast. Unlike his father, they rejoiced at the return of their prince, who they proudly gave the epithet of Undying.
Since then, Mydei has harbored doubts in his heart. Was he not meant to return that day? Every time he leaves for war, is his King Father hoping he will fall in battle? Why?
Outside the walls of the sanctuary, Mydei’s embroilment in Kremnos’ life of war continues, the seasons changing yet the garden ever-green. Battles are fought and won until that day of the year comes again, his Naming Day.
This year, as the years before, a grand celebration is thrown in his honor.
This year, as the years before, his King Father makes a brief appearance, giving Mydei his indifferent, obligatory congratulations, laden with the reminder of his sworn duty of continuing Kremnos’ honored traditions, a backbreaking weight pressing down on his shoulders. The king bestows upon him a gift worthy of a crown prince and leaves with the excuse of having other responsibilities.
It’s because the prince was the one the rebels were after the day of the Royal Assassination, the whispers say. The beautiful and heroic Queen Gorgo, the fated match to the majesty of King Eurypon’s soul, died that day in the prince’s place.
The hushed chatter is wind passing by his ears. He has heard the same since childhood, his mind too bright and his ears too sharp. Perhaps it’s true, or perhaps it isn’t. The files for that case are one of the few things beyond his authority as the Crown Prince.
Regardless, what he knows is this: his King Father has no care for him. It’s an old scar by now, a hollow feeling beneath his ribs that he carries with him, along with his faded longing for a mother he can barely remember.
In the ballroom, Mydei performs his duty, accepting felicitations from generals and courtiers. He drinks their toasts, and then slips away when the celebrations get rowdy, the wine flowing freely.
No one follows.
In the past, he was closely watched, unknown agents who appeared after his awakening in the Sea of Souls following him from the shadows. His refusal of their surveillance was denied. They were there for his safety, he was told.
But whether Mydei still wanted that person’s regard, a lion cub was still a lion. He caught these people and knocked them out, tossing them into high-traffic public spaces to be found. There was no need to be excessive against those just doing their jobs, and this was more effective than violence—a secret agent was hardly secret anymore if their face was exposed. The covert surveillance soon stopped. These days, they know when to leave him well enough alone, guards only tolerated outside the doors of his personal rooms.
There are no guards outside the study at this time of the night. With honey-brew on his breath, he scales the wall outside the study, sneaking into the Sanctum like a thief. He has no books or questions with him, nor does he have expectations.
This year, as the years before, he sits beneath the sacred tree and breathes in the crisp, refreshing scent of greenery, the one place untainted by the blood that has seeped into the foundations of their city.
It’s a little less lonely this year, knowing the Sage is here with him in some way, even if he never shows his face. Speckles of moonlight dance through the garden, filtered through the gentle rustle of branches and leaves. Closing his eyes, he leans his head back against the bark, thinking of nothing.
“A meaningless celebration.”
The statement is callous and dismissive, the voice as cold as winter frost, yet the temperature in Mydei’s heart warms a few degrees at the sound. His eyes open to see a beautiful visage, illuminated by moonlight.
“However, I suppose it’s as good a day as any to mark the passing of the year.” The Sage lightly sweeps his hand. “Drink.”
A wooden bowl appears on the desk by Mydei’s elbow, half-filled with golden liquid.
Is this a birthday gift?
“How do you know today is my naming day?” There were hints that the Sage is aware of happenings in the city, but he didn’t have confirmation before today.
“I know all the major events that occur within these walls.” A golden butterfly flutters down to land on the Sage’s finger… a species commonly seen in Castrum Kremnos, despite their city having few trees.
On hearing this, the uncertainty at the forefront of Mydei’s mind spills out. “The day of the assassination, my mother, was it… was it because of me?” His hands tighten into fists, nails digging red crescents into his palms. He’s never voiced the thought out loud.
The Sage scoffs, the butterfly flitting away as the arm drops to cross over his chest. “What fault could a two-year-old infant have? The vast majority of the populace is ignorant, but I know you have a brain. Why does it seem to selectively malfunction?” His fingers tap against the opposite elbow with impatience. “The safety of that life is the responsibility of the person themselves, and the adults around them. Putting the blame on a child is as illogical as it is contemptible.”
The tight knot around Mydei’s heart loosens, his breaths coming easier. “Then why does my father—”
“I’ve no interest in your city, and even less interest in politics,” the Sage cuts in, bitingly cold.
Mydei’s gaze drops to the ground, going silent.
This is a Kremnos matter, a private one no less. He shouldn’t be involving outsiders.
The Sage releases a long sigh. “You will learn the truth for yourself in time. It’s not my story to tell, understand?”
Mydei nods.
“However, know that I meant every word I said. Keeping pace of the happenings in Kremnos is a distasteful necessity of existing here. I’ve no desire to be embroiled in Strife.”
The remark has profound implications. The Sage didn’t choose to be in Castrum Kremnos. In all likelihood, he doesn’t want to be here at all. If that’s the case, who sent him here? Why can’t he leave? Asking the person himself is pointless; the Sage doesn’t answer personal questions.
I’ve no interest in your city. Interacting with Mydei, the crown prince, may already be pushing the line of the Sage’s neutrality.
“I understand,” Mydei tells him solemnly, meeting the Sage’s gaze.
The Sage’s regard is heavy on him for a long moment. “Good,” he eventually replies. He gestures with impatience. “Hurry up and drink then.”
Having nearly forgotten the maybe-gift, Mydei takes up the bowl, glad for the distraction. “What is it?” he asks, already tipping it back. Thin roots suddenly whip out from the ground to bind his wrist, ropelike coils preventing the liquid from reaching his mouth. Fortunately, the drink is thick and viscous like honey, sluggishly sliding within the bowl without spilling despite the jostling. “Sage?”
“Drink slowly. Small sips,” the Sage enunciates as if speaking to someone particularly slow. “It’s the condensation of knowledge.”
The root tying Mydei’s wrist—much stronger than anticipated—releases him, sinking back into the earth.
Legend has it that in ancient times, when Cerces yet remained in the world, the Grove’s sacred tree was able to concentrate libraries of information into fruits, and condense knowledge from its roots and leaves into a drop of dew, merging into the Library of Philia’s pool. Does the Sage have some connection to Cerces, the Grove’s God of Reason? Why then didn’t he reveal himself to any of their scholars? Virtually nothing is known about the heavenly beings, much less what their relation is to the Terrestrial Gods on the mortal plane.
“I kept the mathematical concepts to a minimum,” the Sage drawls, interrupting Mydei’s thoughts. “Otherwise, I fear it would overwhelm the deficient part of your brain and cause it to explode.”
“You told me that’s not how brains work,” Mydei retorts.
“It isn’t. But how then do you explain that gaping hole in your grey matter where the basic ability to process numbers should be?” the Sage mutters darkly.
Mydei shrugs. “A mystery for the ages.” Cautiously, he takes a small sip from the bowl. “It’s sweet,” he murmurs, surprised. The drink has a pleasant fragrance with a touch of bitterness, a thick nectar that goes down easily. And then something rushes into his mind, making him sway in place and turning his thoughts chaotic as his head thumps back against bark. He sets the bowl down, wood clacking on wood as the world tilts oddly, an ache building between his temples.
Faintly, he hears the Sage’s voice, “Was it too much?”
A cool and green feeling flows into Mydei’s mind from the trunk his head rests upon, the pressure instantly relieved.
“Tsk, I didn’t adjust for your age. A novice’s mistake.”
Mind in the process of being unscrambled, Mydei frowns. By Kremnos’ laws, he’s of age.
“I’m not that young.”
“You’re clever for your age,” the Sage allows, and then abruptly stops.
It might be the first time the Sage has ever complimented Mydei.
The Sage waves a hand, the bowl disappearing. “I’ll adjust it.”
Mydei isn’t able to appreciate the amount of thought that went into this bit of liquid until he drinks the new bowl. The promised smidge of mathematics, a wealth of military tactics and bygone battles, and the forgotten history of a time past when Kremnos had been a city of honor—a gift painstakingly handcrafted for him. He lowers his eyes as the knowledge percolates in, a slight tremble in his fingertips as he sets the bowl down.
The taste on his tongue is sweet and slightly bitter.
He has received many extravagant gifts in his life, some even thoughtful, but none quite like this—not made for the crown prince, but solely for him, Mydeimos. In that hollow place within the cage of his ribs, his heart swells with warmth.
The following year on this day, and the year after that, there is a slight figure waiting for him beneath the boughs of the tree, a bowl of sweetness and care at his side.
**
It’s by accident that Mydei discovers the Sage’s passionate love for dromases. He only mentions his war mount Kokopo in passing, but the Sage latches onto the subject with fervent intensity, grilling him about their stables, the quality of the feed, the armor they provide for the dromases. Mydei is bemused but happy to answer his questions; Kokopo is a dear companion who he raised from the egg. To be honest, he’s a little excited, having wanted to find a way to repay the Sage for his kindness but unable to do so when he doesn’t know what he likes.
Disguising himself, Mydei goes into the city to browse the shops. Ultimately, he settles on a blue dromas plush, a red ribbon bow around its neck. On returning to his chambers, he begins to have second thoughts.
Is it too childish a gift? The Sage is a heavenly being… though he seems quite earthly when he’s elegantly and thoroughly flaming Mydei’s dim-wittedness.
The plush languishes in his closet for a few dithering days.
If the Sage doesn’t like it, he can pass it off as a joke, he finally decides. With plan in mind, he takes the plush with him to the next lesson.
The Sage loves the dromas plush.
What the Sage’s mouth says is, “It’s not bad. I can accept it as your goodwill.” He waves his hand disinterestedly. “Set it over there.” But he rearranges the plush ten times while Mydei is there, the corner of his mouth twitching oddly as he tries to suppress a smile. His reaction is somehow terribly human, making Mydei’s heart do something funny in his chest.
Afterwards, Mydei has to repress the urge to immediately go into town and buy all the dromas merchandise available. Even if he’s stealthy, doing that much would be noticed, and he doesn’t want anyone to know about the Sage, to disturb the spirit’s peace or try to turn him into a weapon, a very real possibility in the Kremnos of today.
Instead, a small collection of dromas items gradually accumulates with the occasional chimera, tucked into a chest for safekeeping to protect them from the elements, and hidden beneath the tree’s roots.
It’s as much the Sage’s treasure as Mydei’s, a tiny smile collected in his memories to accompany every gift.