Delphine Inland

The wizard reluctantly chases Crisante away from the church.

“...and be grateful that I will not report you. You, cheater!”

Crisante turns around, trying to slip inside, but the wizard slams the door in his face. The sound of a padlock finally closes the door. The little boy pumps his fists.

“But it's true. It's true! I am your Prince! Report me, report me!”

It is all useless. The ruined clothes and the family emblem have torn. Without it, all dirty with earth and blood, no one would believe him to be the lord of those lands. A little noble scoundrel passes, but the Delphine does not enter the fields.

“But it's me! I speak the truth! It is. I… the Prince…”

The boy crouches, his back to the door. He sobs. He did not believe him—a wizard who stopped listening to him when he heard the word demon.

‘Demons feed on gold, not ragged, lying children.’

With those words, the discussion ended. Now sure that the wizard was dealing with a petty thief who had come into possession of once valuable clothes, the wizard kicked him out.

But it is not fair. The wizard will see, he will see.

I'll have his head put on a pike. I'll have his whole family killed. No one treats me like this, wizard or not. I…

Crisante raises his head. A slow rattle catches his attention.

Slow and doom, the long-legged, hairy demon is approaching. Paws are as thin as threads and, when rubbed, produce a grating sound. From the ball of hair that makes up the body, a series of tongues and teeth intertwine, opening and closing.

Crisante jumps up and bangs on the door again.

“Open up! It's here. It's here!!!”

But the infernal noise gets closer. Crisante leaves the door and starts running. In front of him are the few houses in the town. But what could villagers do against a powerful demon?

So, he runs through the harvest wheat fields, heading straight for a hill on which the ruins of Castel di Sotto stand. The ancient fortress has been uninhabited for centuries. But, at least, it is elevated. Ho, well. Crisante stops thinking and runs. He runs. An echo haunts him.

‘Sooner or later, you'll have to stop.’ That is what he says.

The hill is covered by a grove of poplars, oaks, plane trees, pines, weeping willows, and other plants that grow at the palace. There is a pond with some frogs croaking, scared by Crisante's run.

The boy extricates himself from fragments of stone and roots, dragging himself unsteadily. The smell of water and the pain in his spleen are the only two things he can feel. But he is almost there, almost.

The boy drops, leaning against the wall of a stone arch. He is out of breath and dizzy.

I succeeded. I sowed it.

Around there are some masonry remains, some walls still partially standing, some dragonflies, and some midges. In the shade of the plants, Crisante feels good. It is cool.

So, now?

Crisante is aware that he was just stalling for time. One step at a time, those long legs will reach him sooner or later. That powerful demon does not need to rush. He knows he has Crisante.

If only I had a gun. I would show what happens to those who challenge a Prince.

Not that there was not a grain of truth, the princes take lessons in fencing, shooting, tactics, and other disciplines worthy for the life of future Praetors. However, Crisante trembles and is scared. He is just a child. Now, he realizes it perfectly. He has a weapon or not. He is powerless.

And it is my fault.

He wants to cry, looking at his crusty hands. Perhaps returning home, prostrating himself and apologizing…

Which way do I go home?

Getting from Castel di Sotto to the village is not difficult. They are visible from each other. The bush is not thick, and some houses are visible on the horizon between the foliage.

But from the town to the palace?

The problem is the fields. They are all the same covers of wheat or grass. In the first race, he ran away from home. And then, he ran away from the demon.

Crisante does not know the direction.

The town is not far away. But, from there, the former Prince cannot see the palace.

Disheartened, Crisante approaches the pond. He bends to drink water as his throat is parched from falling. Reassured by the recognizable noise that the creature emits, the boy sinks himself in those calm waters. He also tries to wet his clothes without knowing how to wash them properly.

The result is quite pitiful, but at least he cooled off by removing the sweat. Now, he does not tremble. He feels he has run out of tears. His curls have come loose, leaving his hair wavy and falling wet.

How long will I have to wait before he reaches me?

The question is doubly dramatic as it is approaching evening. Crisante looks around and understands. Soon, it will be too dark to wander around in a grove.

Tactical lessons come to mind: escaping is easier in a forest than in a field. This is why bandits hide in forests, mountain passes, and the like.

So, I have to stay here?

Perhaps some rocks could be used, and there is no shortage. Finding a chipped rock the size of his head, Crisante tries to lift it without success. He repeats the operation with other stones but without success. There are small ones, but he doubts they will be precious against a fearsome demon.

“I told you to trust!”

A shrill voice comes from the grove.

“In the old castle, we will surely find treasures. What kind of old castle would it be otherwise?”

Crisante approaches an oak tree, careful to avoid twigs and piles of leaves. Leaning against the trunk and leaning out slightly, he sees four kids climb the hill.

They wear shorts and a blouse with short sleeves. They are of rough materials, rough workmanship, tears, and colors covered in dirt. They have worn sandals and short hair. One is missing three fingers on the left hand, and the other is missing the right ear. The other two appear healthy, although when smiling, one shows a chipped set of teeth that horrifies Crisante.

Commoners.

“Trust me, you will see that we will find some treasure.”

The frail boy turns out to be a little girl. She has a shrill voice and a soft face marred by a scar under her eye. Crisante watches her pass the guy with the broken teeth, who is decidedly more tired.

“And even if there was nothing, it could become our hideout!” She adds the one without an ear.

The word ‘hideout’ alarms Crisante.

Thieves?

His tutors warned him of the ways of the people. The State asks for only one per year Lira, yet some steal to raise it. Gender and age matter little. It is nothing compared to estates and wealth.

But I will change this rotten world. I will bring the wizards back to power and…

Crisante realizes at that moment that he is raving. He saw it, the magician. That is how he saw it. He broke his dreams, a handful of reality.

Let the foxes take them away, cursed the wizards.

I must warn these plebeians of the danger they run.

“Hey!”

Coming out of hiding, Crisante waves his arms. The four kids freeze in their positions, watching him enter the path.

“Castel di Sotto is up here.” Crisante points beyond the oak. “But I must warn you that there are no treasures.”

“Ha, I said so,” moans the one without three fingers.

“Shut up,” the little girl steps forward. “Who are you? Who can guarantee you don't want to keep them all for yourself?”

“Yeah, who tells us.” The one without the ear comes forward. He is big for his apparent age. Crisante takes a step back.

A future gendarme… missed. Without an ear, no Witch would want it.

“Here you are, plebeians. I am Crisante De…” Thinking back to the church, Crisante reformulates his thoughts. “I am Crisante, known as the Prince.”

“Princess, you mean.”

A generalized laugh breaks out. It was the one without three fingers who spoke.

He points at it, laughing.

“What do you mean, plebeian? I am a Prince.”

“But have you seen yourself in the mirror? You look like my aunt at the wedding.”

Crisante understands well and tightens the hems of her skirt in embarrassment. He hates those clothes. They are symbols of power granted to girls and boys who do not have to work or serve the Empire. In three years, with the mandatory enlistment, he would start dressing like his father. But for now…

…He wants to escape. The rank, the power he wields in his imagination, and the reverence that everyone has towards him dissolve in front of four shabby little boys.

Being all in one piece, with long hair and smooth, soft skin, is a source of ridicule for them. For Crisante, it is a source of embarrassment.

He who spoke of the strength and virility of magicians is now the object of ridicule since he lacks both.

Clenching his fists, head down, Crisante charges the fingerless guy who spoke to him. He is afraid. He might run away and let the demon devour them. But that is not what he wants. He wants their respect, and he also wants to save everyone's lives. It would be cowardly to make them eat them just because they are ungrateful, ignorant, and stupid.

And I'm not a coward.

“Ha!”

The war cry is useless. Before Crisante even reaches his target, the toothless one tackles him. The two kids get into a fight.

“Check under your skirt, Cris!”, “Beat him!”

Suddenly, Cris is pushed. The guy with three fingers spits on the ground.

“Are you all stupid!? I have never seen a nobleman, but I have seen gendarmes. You know what they do to people, don't you? Those are the worst.”

“The worst, yeah.” The little girl shakes her head.

“They cut my uncle 'that' because he peed in front of the court.”

“Your uncle is as stupid as you, Cris.” He concludes the one without an ear, causing a new chorus of laughter.

Crisante can taste the blood in her mouth and the twigs pulling in her hair. He observes that quartet, stunned by the proud battle. Looking up, he sees the purple and red sky. Soon, it will be too late to leave the forest. A dirty hand comes into view. The laughter has stopped.

“Hey, Prince, are you okay?”

Crisante raises his head. The little girl's worried face is the first thing he sees, crowned by the perplexed faces of the other three. He nods and reaches out to pull himself up.

“I am not Prince. Not anymore, anyway.”

“See, we could have beaten him to—”

“Jonah shut up.”

The boy, without one ear, Jonah, shrugs.

“So, your name is Crisante? Did you want to impress us, or what?” The little girl has a weird expression as if she were discussing high etiquette or metasophy.

“I'm Crisante. I wanted to warn you.”

“You were angry because we found your secret castle.” Cris holds his arms folded. His lip is bleeding. Crisante checks his fingers. His knuckles are scraped.

“You stink. You would poison my air.”

The immediate response leaves the kids stunned.

“Hey, Matte, that sounds like one of your jokes.” The girl says this with a frown. Matte, the one without three fingers, chuckles, shaking his head.

“So,” the girl continues. “So, you were just coming out to warn us?”

“From the demon.”

“Is there a demon?”, “He's lying”, “He's surely lying”, “Guys, I'm afraid of demons”, “Demons don't exist, they're fairy tales!”, “Lies from you witches!”, “ Hey, we said…”, “Actually, my aunt—”

The argument proceeds indifferent to Crisante's confused expression. It all happened too fast. The thoughts, the emotions, the fight, and now?

“Look, it exists. Cipeci slowly walks on two thin legs. He has a lot of teeth and tongues, and his body is kind of like a hairball."

“This one used some concoction from the wizards' church.” Matte sighs, raising his arms.

“Yeah, they always have some good stuff that makes you see things.” The little girl agrees.

“I assure you it is true. The name is Cipecipopù, and he was a talking mosquito and—ho, never mind. We have to think of a way to survive the night. Now, you're in the middle of it too.”