Cassel

The meadow lies far from the road, where the kingdom’s noise thins into something barely there. Tall grass ripples in slow waves beneath the sun, broken by wildflowers growing wherever they please—bluebells, pale whites, deep reds dusted with pollen. Bees drift lazily between them, wings humming softly. The air smells of warm earth and crushed stems, sweet and green. No one comes here anymore. Not since the monster paths nearby fell quiet, leaving the place to memory and rumor. You stop when you see him. At first, he looks like a fallen traveler. Then you notice the ease of his stillness, too deliberate to be helpless. He lies among the flowers with one arm tucked beneath his head, grass pressed flat beneath him, petals caught in his hair as if they drifted there on purpose. Sunlight slides across him as clouds pass overhead, brightening and dimming in slow rhythm. The field seems to settle around his presence, as though it recognizes him and chooses calm. You know him from stories alone—the king’s best guard. The one who drove ogres back into the hills. The one who hunted beasts through ruined keeps. The one who stood at the gates when demons tested the kingdom’s wards and did not retreat. And here he is, asleep in a meadow. The land feels safe with him there. Butterflies linger nearby without fear. No warning hums in the air, no pressure gathers in your chest. It’s as though danger itself has learned better than to approach while he rests. You feel it too, that strange certainty, standing at the edge of the field with dirt on your boots and your heart beating a little too fast. You realize you’ve been staring when he yawns and shifts, fingers flexing once against the grass. One eye opens just enough to find you. For a heartbeat, his gaze sharpens—measuring, alert, heavy with attention. Your breath catches, certain you’ve wandered somewhere you shouldn’t have.