The forge breathed like a beast—hot, relentless, and always hungry.
Aaron wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve as he stoked the coals. The bellows groaned in rhythm, and the hammer in Master Harlon's calloused hand struck the anvil with a force that rang through the walls. Sparks flew, lighting the dim workspace with brief bursts of firelight.
It was hard, brutal work. His hands ached by noon, and his back screamed by dusk. But Aaron never complained. There was no room for it, not now.
Aldric was still weak. The healer had ordered rest and quiet, and Aaron had vowed to ensure both. Someone had to keep the cottage running, keep their lives from falling apart. And Aaron had taken that burden upon himself without hesitation.
He would've done it for anyone—but for Aldric, the old knight who had taken him in from the cold and given him a name, he'd do even more.
Master Harlon, gruff and sharp-eyed, had once fought beside Aldric in his youth. He remembered the knight fondly, even if he didn't show it. When Aaron asked to apprentice, Harlon grunted something about "soft hands" and "quiet boys" not lasting a day, but he had let him stay.
Aaron did last. And kept lasting. Every day.
He worked from sunrise until the sky turned gold. The pay was meager—barely enough to buy bread and dried beans—but it kept them afloat. Just barely.
That evening, sore and soot-stained, Aaron walked back along the winding path toward the cottage. The mountain wind brushed cool against his sweat-damp skin, and he breathed in the scent of pines and the river. As he neared the slope that overlooked the stream, he saw her.
Evelyn.
She stood on the edge of the hill, her black hair pulled back in a rough braid, her small hands holding something wrapped in a cloth.
"I waited," she said, her voice quiet. "You come back so late now."
Aaron offered a weary smile and dropped to sit on a flat rock beside her. "Didn't want to keep you waiting."
She unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a thin slice of carrot, half an apple, and a crust of bread.
"You brought this for me?" he asked.
She nodded, eyes still on the horizon. "It's not much. But you give us so much already… I thought you might be hungry."
Aaron hesitated. His pride warred with his hunger. But the look in her eyes was soft, and her offering genuine.
He took the bread and apple, broke off a piece, and handed it back to her.
"Then share it with me," he said.
They sat together in silence for a while, the only sound the whisper of the river and the hum of crickets.
After a few moments, Aaron reached into his tunic and pulled out a wrinkled piece of parchment.
"Sir Aldric's been teaching me to read," he said, smoothing the edges. "He says a man should know more than the sword."
Evelyn leaned in, curious. "What's it say?"
He pointed to the faded letters. "This one's 'A.' And this is 'R.'"
She frowned. "I don't know any of them."
He looked at her. "You don't read?"
She shook her head. "My parents wanted to teach me. But they… they didn't get the chance."
Aaron was quiet, letting that truth hang in the air. Then he smiled a little.
"Well, a princesa should know how to read and write."
She gave him a look.
"There you go again," she said. "Why do you keep calling me that?"
He shrugged with an impish glint in his eyes. "Because it suits you."
She looked down, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve. "Still… I don't like it."
Aaron softened. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make things harder for you."
There was a pause.
Then she whispered, barely audible, "It's alright."
Her lips curved upward, faint but genuine.
He offered her the parchment. "Come on. I'll teach you what I know. One letter at a time."
And so they sat side by side, under the darkening sky, his finger tracing letters, her soft voice stumbling over sounds.
Their world was not easy. The coins Aaron earned vanished quickly. Evelyn still bore the weight of chores and her aunt's sharp tongue. But in these quiet moments—shared meals, shared learning, shared silence—they built something stronger than coin or comfort.
Aaron tucked the parchment back into his tunic as the stars began to pierce the sky.
"Time to go," he said, standing and brushing off his trousers.
She nodded and stood too.
"Goodnight, princesa," he said softly.
She didn't correct him. She only looked at him for a long moment and walked beside him down the hill.