All his life at the prince's side, all his life wasted at the royal court, sharing good and joyful memories with people who could turn their backs on Mylo at any moment and treat him like a thug. Exile him just like he was nothing more than a peasant. And to think that the Prince just agreed to it, after they had wasted many days on training or hunting together.

Mylo still remembers that ball very well. He sat next to the Prince and the King, merrily sharing stories from his last selection for a knight's tournament. At one point, a pretty noblewoman, apparently drunk, asked him to walk together in the gardens. He agreed, and when he returned to the ball, it turned out that someone had robbed the treasury in his absence.

He was found guilty because he was the only one who was absent, and the woman he went to the gardens with didn't remember anything because she was too drunk. So he was expelled and now he was making a turf in some bizarre village. There was peace here, people were nice, but at the same time, there was a strange atmosphere. But Mylo tried not to pay attention to it. He now heard bells from the church coming from behind the windows informing him of the end of the Mass, at which he was once again absent.

It could be really nice noon, but of course, it had to stop knocking on the door. The wooden door creaked slightly under the pressure. Mylo put down the sandwich he had just eaten, the crusts still scattered on the rough-hewn table, and wiped his hands on his threadbare tunic. The floorboards creaked as he crossed his small cottage and pulled open the door. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air as he came face-to-face with the village priest—the strangest resident of all. "Good afternoon, father," Mylo said, his voice carefully neutral, polite but not warm.