Aldric was healing—but healing was slow.
The fever had passed, yes, but it left behind a cough that clung to his chest and a weariness that even sunlight couldn't banish. He moved from bed to chair now, sometimes managing a few steps outside, leaning heavily on the walking stick Aaron had carved for him.
But he could no longer train. Could no longer hunt. And the shelves, once stocked with dried meats and herbs, now stood nearly bare.
Aaron had counted their supplies twice. Then a third time, just to be sure. No matter how many times he measured the flour or checked the smoked fish hung from the rafters, it didn't change the truth.
They were running out of food.
He tried not to let Aldric see the weight of it, but it pressed on him constantly—when he fetched water, when he chopped wood, when he stirred watery soup at the hearth.
The cottage couldn't survive on pride.
So Aaron swallowed his and went to the village square.
There, he offered to carry firewood, to patch roofs, to lift crates at the market. He worked with his head down and hands blistered, returning home each day with only a few coins—just enough for bread, sometimes milk. It wasn't enough for both of them to eat well, but he made sure Aldric always had a full bowl.
Aaron learned quickly that hunger made you sharper. Quieter.
---
Meanwhile, Evelyn watched.
She'd seen Aaron come home later and later each day, sometimes limping, sometimes too tired to speak. She watched the way his shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, and the way he gave Aldric a smile before disappearing into silence.
He never asked for anything.
But she saw.
One morning, she tucked two small bread rolls into a cloth. She'd saved them from her own meal—dry and hard by now, but food nonetheless. She waited for her aunt and Isolade to leave for the village well, then slipped out the back.
Aaron was chopping wood behind the cottage when she approached. He looked up, surprised but glad.
"You didn't have to come," he said, wiping his brow.
"I brought something," she said quietly, unwrapping the cloth. "I know it's not much, but…"
Before she could finish, a shrill voice cut through the air.
"EVELYN!"
Evelyn froze, her blood running cold.
Beatrice stood a few feet away, a basket on her hip, her eyes narrowed into fury. Isolade peeked from behind her, face smug.
"I should've known!" Beatrice stormed forward and yanked the cloth from Evelyn's hands, the bread tumbling to the ground. "Sneaking out like a thief! Wasting our food!"
"It was mine," Evelyn whispered, trembling.
"Nothing in this house is yours, girl!" Beatrice's voice rose. "You think you can bribe that boy? Is that it? Trying to earn favors?"
"No! I—he hasn't been eating. I just wanted—"
A sharp slap cut her off.
Aaron dropped his axe. "Enough!"
His voice was sharper than anyone had ever heard it—cold and commanding. Even Beatrice faltered.
"She wasn't stealing. She was trying to help me. You want to punish someone? Punish me."
Beatrice glared at him. "You stay out of this."
"I won't," Aaron said, stepping forward, green eyes bright with fire. "Evelyn's better than most of this village. She sees people hurting and does something. That's more than I can say for you."
Beatrice's mouth opened and shut. Then, with a sneer, she grabbed Evelyn by the arm.
"Come home. Now."
Evelyn gave Aaron one last look—a silent apology in her dark eyes—before being dragged away.
---
That night, Aaron sat beside Aldric's bed, his knuckles still white.
"She tried to feed me," he said quietly.
Aldric, still pale but clear-eyed, looked at him. "That girl has more courage than people three times her size."
"I wanted to stop it. I should've done more."
"You did what you could."
Aaron didn't answer. He just stared at the blackthorn tree outside the window, its bare limbs curled against the wind.
"Why is it," he murmured, "that the kindest people get the harshest lives?"
Aldric reached out, slow but steady, and laid a hand on his arm. "Because their kindness is a light, lad. And the world… the world always tries to snuff out light."
Aaron didn't speak again, but when he lay down that night, he made a silent promise:
He has to grow strong to protect her.