The cottage next door was quiet that night.
Too quiet.
Evelyn lay curled on the cold wooden floor of the room she shared with Isolade. Her cousin slept soundly above her, draped across the bed without a care in the world.
Evelyn, however, barely breathed. Pain rippled through her side and back with every small shift. Her aunt's temper had been fierce tonight—worse than usual. All because she had tried to share a little food with Aaron.
"You ungrateful brat," Beatrice had snapped, her hand landing with a crack. "Wasting food like you've earned it."
The blows had come fast and harsh. Evelyn hadn't cried. She'd learned not to. But now, in the dark, she trembled, silently praying for morning.
---
The sun had only just crested over the trees when Aaron stepped outside to split wood, fatigue heavy in his limbs. Aldric was still resting, and the weight of responsibility hadn't lessened—it only seemed to grow each day.
That day, Evelyn arrived late to fetch water, her steps slower than usual.
He saw the bruises peeking out from beneath the edge of her sleeve. A sick feeling settled in his chest.
"Eve," he said gently, stepping beside her. "What happened?"
She flinched, almost instinctively, then shook her head. "It's nothing."
He ask again,"What happened?"
"I'm fine," she said too quickly.
"No, you're not." He gently moved closer, careful not to startle her. "Did… did she hurt you again?"
Evelyn said nothing, but her silence was loud. When her sleeve slipped slightly, the deep bruise on her upper arm told him everything.
His chest tightened. "Princesa…"
She blinked up at him, startled. "Don't call me that," she whispered. "What if someone hears? They'll laugh at me."
Aaron gave a small smile, but his eyes were sharp with anger. "But… there's no one here now, Eve."
Her lips trembled, not from fear this time, but something softer.
He gently reached for her hand. "Can I see?"
She nodded hesitantly, and he carefully rolled up her sleeve. The bruise was worse than he'd feared—dark and angry against her skin.
Aaron sucked in a slow breath. "I am sorry. "
"She was just angry," Evelyn said, voice barely above a whisper. "It's not your fault."
"It feels like it is," he muttered. "You tried to help me. And now…"
He pulled a cloth from his pocket—a faded old handkerchief—and gently wrapped it around her arm. His fingers brushed her skin with care, his touch protective.
"You're not trouble," he murmured, eyes on hers. "You never are."
She looked at him, something vulnerable and warm rising in her gaze. "Thank you… Aaron."
He hesitated, then brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. "One day, I'll make sure you never have to sleep on a cold floor again."
Evelyn didn't speak. But in the stillness, the trust in her eyes was louder than words.
And softly, with a small, hopeful smile, he said again, "Princesa."