Regas Vol 1. Chapter 12

Truyde carefully reviewed the reports that had co in daily for the past week. Though they seed repetitive, each had slight differences: what kind of bird they’d seen, how many eggs they’d taken from a nest, what fruit they’d picked, how they searched for animal tracks near droppings, how they caught a caterpillar and left it as a gift in a raided nest, and so on.

After reading every word, Truyde slowly raised his head. As if waiting for that mont, the attendant spoke.

“The Regas currently favored by His Majesty has obtained permission. His Majesty guaranteed he would personally enter the Dragon Forest. However, since His Majesty dislikes the forest, it seems unlikely he’ll go a second ti. Moreover, his Regas is also afraid of entering, so Lord Norhox has arranged for soone else to verify the report. The boy knows what to do, so there should be no problem confirming Abel’s account.”

Though Truyde had read the reports, his thoughts remained distant.

“Do you think these reports are false?”

“Of course. Abel has no choice but to report what he does each day—it’s part of the job—but he can’t possibly tell the full truth. Look at this pathetic content. Haha! Who would believe he trekked into the Dragon Forest only to toss worms at birds?”

The attendant's voice was laced with scorn. Truyde, who was the first to receive and read the reports, found every one of them seemingly useless.

“Then what do you think Abel did in the Dragon Forest?”

Truyde asked the question indifferently, and the attendant jumped at the chance to answer.

“He probably did nothing. He just wanted people to know he went into the Dragon Forest with the prince. That way, they’d think he was soone extraordinary. That he dared to enter where others wouldn’t, and still returned unhard with the prince. So, it doesn’t matter what he did—as long as he didn’t let go of the prince’s hand and didn’t get lost in the fog.”

Truyde nodded slightly in agreent, and the attendant’s face lit up with confidence.

“It’s already been a week, and there’s been no change in the prince. That alone proves Abel is useless.”

“Or maybe... he’s doing it all on purpose.”

Truyde looked up, pushing the report aside.

“It doesn’t matter if the prince doesn’t change. Postpone the king’s next visit to the Dragon Forest. We can’t waste this chance. As you said, if Abel ever lets go of the prince’s hand and the child is left alone... the only one who can bring him back is the king.”

****

Thud, thud, thud.

While busily digging in the ground with a branch, Abel didn’t forget to explain to the prince.

“See that shady, damp ground? It’s a great place to find animal tracks. It’s harder in the autumn when the leaves pile up, but in early sumr, just before sunrise, you can still see them. The frost keeps the ground moist. Those prints over there? Dormouse. I’ll teach you more later—faster animals have fewer toes. A deer, for example, has just two split hooves, and it’s the fastest.”

He paused, arm montarily limp with fatigue. Even for soone as strong as Abel, carrying the prince around nonstop for a week was difficult. By evening, the wounds inflicted by the prince worsened to the point that bits of flesh hung loose.

Pus oozed from the gashes on his neck and shoulders. His skin, blackened and hardened like tree bark, stretched painfully. Even treating the wounds nightly didn’t ease the constant pain, and Abel’s complexion had visibly worsened. Yet he never released the boy from his embrace. Kneeling, he continued to dig with one hand while holding the prince.

His breathing grew heavy, his heart pounded. Fresh blood dripped from a new bite on his shoulder. Still, Abel resud digging.

People mocked him behind his back, calling him a fool. So said he’d die from the prince’s attacks. A full week had passed, and the prince showed no change, so they believed Abel would give up soon.

What once seed miraculous—Abel returning safely from the Dragon Forest—had turned into a running joke. He was seen as a pitiful man, clinging to the prince even while being torn apart. But Abel never once felt disappointed by the prince’s silence.

“So it’s not easy to catch fast animals. Fortunately, {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} small creatures like field mice can be trapped. You dig a pit, hide it with leaves and branches. But even then, it’s tricky. Mice dig—they’ll burrow their way out. So, what do you do? Curious? Hehe, I’ll show you.”

Abel’s voice brightened with enthusiasm.

“The key is moss. Rember that moss I picked earlier?”

He grabbed it and placed it deep inside the hole.

“No matter how well a field mouse can dig, when it feels danger, it’ll hide. It loves the soft, damp underside of moss. So if you line the corner of the trap with moss, the mouse will nestle under it. Later, you just lift the moss—and if the mouse is there, gotcha! Fried field mice are delicious!”

His chest shook with laughter, jostling the prince slightly. Of course, the prince didn’t lift his head, but Abel kept talking with excitent. These were things his master had taught him. And not just about mice.

When the night tree bore fruit, they’d collect it and press it for oil. When Abel was small, he often lost to squirrels in the race for fruit. Still, if he worked hard, the oil would last all year.

A lump of that oil, lted in a pan, slled so savory it could rival a royal feast. Everything from the forest felt like a blessing. And if, by chance, he found a green sh mushroom under a gnarled tree—it was a lucky day.

His master especially loved mushrooms. Whenever they saw signs of wild boars rooting in the earth, he’d widen his eyes. Boars had incredible noses. They were experts at sniffing out buried pine mushrooms. Thanks to them, Abel learned to chase boars—his master insisted it was all “training.”

“I’m not making you chase wild boars because I want mushrooms, got it?”

But of course, it did look like he was obsessed with mushrooms. Still, Abel would laugh and throw himself after the boars for his master.

“My teacher was especially good at catching them. Even when I set traps after seeing signs of mice, they often escaped. But he never failed. Hehe... I liked wild mice, you know. Used to eat them when I was a kid...”

Abel paused. His hands stopped working on the trap.

After he and his master traveled far from their village, Abel couldn’t sleep for several nights. Though the journey had been tense and exhausting, he’d always slept soundly, curled next to his master.

But now, in a safe place, with his own room for the first ti in his life... he couldn’t sleep. There was no hunger. No fear of strangers with knives.

Still, sleep wouldn’t co.

And so, without saying anything, his master brought him wild mice every morning. He cooked them silently. There’d only been one ntion of mice during their travels—Abel wasn’t sure if his master had rembered it.

The al his master made tasted different from his mother’s cooking, but strangely, Abel slept soundly that night. His master had always been gruff, never speaking gently—always calling everything “training” while making him suffer. Yet, what ca to Abel’s mind now was that blunt kindness.

“My master hated wild mice... but I later found out he caught them just for . I didn’t even know people here don’t eat wild mice. But he never said a word. He just caught them.”

Abel stared silently into the air, his voice gradually softening.

“When I was young, I never got seriously ill in winter. But once, in spring, I had a terrible fever. My stomach hurt, I burned up, I kept throwing up... My master stayed beside the whole ti. Even as a child, I thought I might die. I was so scared I cried myself to sleep. And when I woke up in the morning...”

He let out a breath of laughter.

“There was a bowl full of mouse stew beside . So many of them. It was like he caught every mouse in the forest just for .”

Abel had been stunned, standing there with his mouth open. Then his master walked in, face as indifferent as ever, and scolded him to get up if he wanted to eat. Said to stop whining and move, because if he did, he could have the whole thing.

Even through the haze of fever, Abel had nodded. He shut his eyes tightly, thinking he had to get up quickly—to eat, just like his master said.

“Because I wanted to eat it... I really did wake up the next day. Haha... and I ate until my stomach nearly burst...”

His voice grew quieter.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

At so point, tears began flowing down Abel’s face. He didn’t sob aloud—just thick tears streaming steadily down his cheeks and falling to the forest floor.

It had been a month since his master died. Until now, he’d been fine.

He hadn’t shed a single tear when his master left. But now, the grief broke free, and he couldn’t stop it. It struck him all at once—he would never see him again.

Never again hear his scolding voice. Never again see those wrinkled hands wrecking the kitchen, declaring himself the best cook in the world. He had beco a true Regas, just as his master wished—he had even entered the Dragon Forest—but he wasn’t happy.

Abel lowered his head, pressing a palm—callused from setting traps—against the earth.

A small sob escaped his lips, barely audible amid the sound of his tears. His shoulders trembled. His throat moved as he swallowed back more sound, the grief rising uncontrollably. The arm holding the prince loosened unconsciously, but Abel didn’t notice.

His entire face was streaked with tears. He didn’t even feel the prince shifting in his arms.

The prince raised his head from Abel’s shoulder. He slowly withdrew his nails from Abel’s skin and slid gently away from his knees.

The boy had completely let go.

But Abel couldn’t raise his head. He was still crying.

The prince, now seated on the ground, quietly looked up at him.

Above, the sky visible between the forest leaves had turned red—as if signaling that it was ti to return.

****

Ashler was the first to notice that sothing was off.

Abel had returned earlier than usual. He still carried the prince in his arms, but his expression was strange. Dazed. His eyes were swollen. Ashler could tell at a glance—he’d been crying.

But before he could say anything, sothing else caught his attention.

“Sir Ashler, I’m back.”

Abel greeted him with a weak voice, as if just now rembering sothing.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t bring a gift today. Hehe... But I found a mushroom, so I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”

“......”

Ashler didn’t reply. He simply stared at Abel with a hard expression. Flustered, Abel took a step back and mumbled,

“Mushrooms are... tasty...”

“What happened to the prince?”

“What?”

Alard by the question, Abel quickly looked down, half-expecting to see bloodstains like last ti. But today, they’d encountered no animals. The prince was clean. Relieved, Abel smiled faintly and exhaled.

“No animals died today. Everything’s fine.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Ashler gestured toward the boy with a look that said, You really don’t know?

“Isn’t the prince... not biting you anymore? That’s a good thing, but...”

Ashler trailed off, frowning. The prince was too quiet. And only then did Abel lower his head again, puzzled. Slowly, realization dawned.

The prince wasn’t biting. He wasn’t clawing at himself. He wasn’t even asleep.

He was simply resting—calmly—against Abel.

Ashler glanced at Abel, whose surprise was gradually giving way to shock.

“Today, you don’t need dical attention. Let’s head to the record keeper first—”

“AH!!!!!!!”

Abel’s sudden scream startled Ashler into reaching for his sword. He quickly scanned the area, expecting an attack—but there were only the guards behind him.

“What is it?!”

“Uh—oh no! The prince isn’t biting ! Why, Prince? Abel won’t die from a little blood! I have thick skin! I’m not weak enough to collapse from this! Sothing felt wrong—now I know what it was! I’m fine, so if you want to bite, you can!”

...Fool.

Ashler turned away, suppressing the urge to actually draw his sword. Which ant—he didn’t see it.

He didn’t see the prince’s lips move.

Just slightly.

Curved ever so faintly... into a smile.