Days passed, and the last hints of summer faded into the crisp edge of autumn. The children still played in the woods and by the riverbank, but their games now ended earlier, and their hands were often wrapped in wool mittens to keep out the growing chill. Leaves rustled in shades of gold and copper, and the scent of burning firewood drifted from chimneys in the small cottage cluster near the capital.
In the village, life moved with a rhythm that felt both eternal and fleeting. Market stalls bustled every third day, where old women sold knitted scarves, and farmers bartered for tools and livestock. Children fetched water from the river in tin pails, and old men sat on wooden benches whittling stories into the wind. The blacksmith's hammer rang like a steady heartbeat, and the baker's chimney never stopped smoking.
Aaron and Evelyn fell into a rhythm too, an unspoken companionship that grew stronger with each passing day. Though Evelyn remained shy and soft-spoken in company, with Aaron, she had begun to smile more often and even laugh sometimes—quiet, like wind through the trees, but full of warmth.
Aldric noticed. The girl who once lowered her gaze now met his with polite curiosity, and though she still spoke little, she helped sweep his porch when she thought no one saw. He offered her a smile each time, but said nothing. He had learned long ago that trust, like fire, needed space and patience to grow.
One morning, Aaron knocked on Evelyn's door to walk her to the river path. Beatrice opened it with a scowl, brushing flour off her apron.
"She's not ready," she snapped. "Too slow and dreamy, that one. Comes from not having proper parents."
Aaron's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He waited in the yard until Evelyn stepped out, her black hair braided down her back, cheeks pink from Beatrice's rough handling.
"Sorry," she murmured.
He shook his head. "Don't be. Let's go."
They wandered toward the hillside where a few of the other village children had gathered. Matty and Thom were playing sticksword with another boy, Willas—a freckle-faced, lanky boy who was kinder than most but still too eager to impress.
"Oi, Aaron!" Willas waved. "You bringing your shadow again?"
Aaron frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Willas shrugged. "Just that she's always right behind you. Like a little ghost."
Evelyn flinched. Thom snorted with laughter.
"She's not a ghost," Aaron snapped. "She's Evelyn. And she's better company than you lot."
Willas raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. No need to bite my head off."
Aaron turned away, gently tugging Evelyn toward the quieter path by the river. The trees thinned there, and the water ran faster, bubbling over stones.
"Sorry," she said again, as they sat on a large rock.
"You keep saying that," Aaron said. "You don't have to."
"I don't want them to not like me."
Aaron looked over at her, then pulled a thin stick from the ground and traced lines in the dirt. "You don't need them to. You've got me."
Evelyn glanced at him, her dark eyes wide. "Why?"
He paused, thinking. "Because you see things. Like I do. You listen, even when people don't think you do. And you never laugh when I mess up."
"I would never laugh at you," she said softly.
He smiled. "That's why."
They sat there in the fading afternoon light, legs dangling over the water, leaves falling gently around them like scattered memories. Aaron's hand brushed hers for a moment, and neither of them pulled away.
From the window of Aldric's cottage, the old knight watched, his brow furrowed and his heart unexpectedly full. He'd seen many things in his years—wars, betrayal, the fall of lords—but this quiet bond between two children? It was the kind of strength no blade could cut.
And perhaps, he thought, that was the kind of strength the world needed most.
As the sun dipped low, Aldric stepped outside to sit by the fire pit. The scent of burning wood reminded him of another autumn, long ago.
Her name had been Linara. A healer's daughter from the southern coast. Brave, clever, with laughter like wind chimes and a mind as sharp as any soldier's blade. They had met during the border skirmishes, when she tended to the wounded in a camp no one remembered now. She had patched his shoulder, then his ribs, and eventually, his heart.
But Aldric had chosen duty over love. The war ended, and he returned to the capital, while Linara remained in her village, bound to her family. They exchanged letters—fewer and fewer as the years passed. Then none at all.
He often wondered what might've been. Whether she had married, whether she still looked to the sea when the sun rose. Whether she would've liked Aaron.
Later that evening, Aaron came to sit by him, curling his knees up as the flames crackled.
"Aldric," he asked quietly, "was it hard? Being a knight?"
Aldric chuckled softly. "Harder than you'd think. But not for the reasons you'd imagine."
"Why, then?"
"It wasn't the sword fights or the wounds. It was knowing what you were protecting, and wondering if it was enough."
Aaron was quiet for a moment, then said, "I want to protect people too. Evelyn. You."
Aldric looked at him, his eyes softening. "You already do, lad. In ways you don't even know yet."
Aaron smiled faintly, resting his chin on his knees. "You're getting soft, old fellow."
Aldric raised an eyebrow. "Old fellow, is it?"
"Don't worry," Aaron grinned. "It's said with respect."
The two sat in companionable silence, the stars beginning to prick through the sky above them.
There were many kinds of love. Some bloomed quietly, like blackthorn flowers in the snow. Others lived only in memory, as soft and painful as a scar.
And some, he hoped, might yet grow into something that could change everything.