Chapter 3

"I have too much work. I hate work."

Duke Hace strode down the halls of his mansion with a scowl. 

"…"

The only sounds were his rushed steps stomping against the wooden floor, clicking sounds echoing throughout halls that resembled those of old cathedrals. 

"I want ice cream."

"No, Young Master. You've already had ice cream today," his butler, Alten, remarked. "Please get back to the study and finish your remaining documents. Some of them are weeks overdue."

Duke Hace abruptly spun around with a stoic pout. 

"But I want ice cream," he blinked dryly.

Alten shook his head in defeat. His gray mustache seemed to turn white, withering away to age. His stubborn master was a playful child in the body of a harsh-faced handsome man, who did not attend socials often unless required. He spent most of his time in the Wicked Woods picking flowers and taking naps, lazing away. He also spent minimal time on his work. Alten, the proud butler of the prestigious Hace family, who had been serving for decades, felt reduced to a mere babysitter.

Such a mature face yet such an immature act, Alten sighed, clicking his tongue. The stress was getting to him and he was starting to think that babysitting a fully-grown man was making him age faster.

"Young Master, if you finish the workload for at least last week then I will get you the finest ice cream in the estate."

Duke Hace's face lit up like a boisterous and frisky child with a carefree exterior. He hurriedly strode to the study and plopped down in his silky chair. He began to examine documents. He appeared hyperfocused.

The smell of old books, leather, and ink. Light taps of a metallic pen scratching against weak paper and the occasional clack from when he would tap his shoe on the wooden floor. 

He wrote furiously. 

His desk was isolated like a boat in an endless ocean and the walls, several feet away, were shielded by bookshelves of odd trinkets and clicking objects. 

He scribbled furiously. 

Duke Hace's desk was an array of messy papers with notes and lists. Cluttered pens, trinkets, and empty ink jars were blanketed with dust. A crystal jar stood on the corner of his desk, beaming proudly where a snowdrop rested inside. The flower illuminated his desk and held a pure look; a priceless possession and his treasure. 

He scribbled even more furiously. 

It hadn't withered away despite being picked seven years ago, as fresh as ever the day he ventured into the Wicked Woods and met his savior. 

The girl, the healer who saved his life and turned the snowdrop divine. The snowdrop, the only remnant left to remind him of the girl.

He dropped his pen and stopped writing. 

***

Chryst De Hace. That was his full name. The boy's mother had died during birth and his father had fallen ill. His father decided to send him away to a small commoner village in the countryside, where he would receive proper etiquette and training to become the next Duke—predictably at an early age.

Chryst knew his father was terminally ill; it was evident from how his father was so weak and frail despite his age. He tried his best to act mature, to act ignorant. Spending his early childhood in a flourishing forest filled with thriving blume, jubilant herbs, and ethereal scenes. It became his coping mechanism when he finally received the news of his father's death.

Unknownst to all, the forest was a ticking time bomb with dark blume slowly growing in an expanding core. Running away from other eyes, he hid his tears until he was completely isolated far away. 

Alone in the dense forest, he cried and cried, sullen with silent tears watering the flattened plants on the floor around him. The dark blume started to fester, sneaking closer, but he didn't notice. He was at his breaking point because his one and only father figure had forever left the world after Chryst had not seen him for years and could not even remember the details of his face, his happy fatherly grin. 

He'd been pushed out of his limits to act mature until he couldn't. 

Suddenly, the dark blume erupted in a deafening explosion. Wildflowers wilted, the sky darkened, and the sun disappeared. Chryst had been internally injured, the dark blume eating away at his body. It started to taint him along with the forest. He clutched his chest and fought to stay conscious as his panicked nanny carried him out of the now-tainted woods to the nearest hospice.

The abyss was dragging him down, tugging him away to darker places. 

Suddenly, he felt a snowdrop rustle in his pocket. It gave off a warmth. That was when he met his savior, the two suns who cleared his clouded skies.

~