The morning mist clung to the earth like a secret, dampening the air and softening every sound. Aaron walked the worn dirt path that led away from the village, his steps slow but sure, the sword strapped across his back a weight that felt heavier than it should have. The sun had not yet risen, but a pale grey light stretched across the sky, hinting at the day to come.
His back was to Evelyn.
He hadn't looked back.
He couldn't.
She had stood by the riverbank last night, her black hair catching the moonlight, her small hands balled into fists as she tried not to cry. He'd held her close, a long moment of silence and trembling. He remembered how she buried her face in his shoulder, whispering, "Come back."
And all he could manage was a nod. He had promised. But promises made before war were brittle things.
Now, as he walked away from her, his chest ached with a strange hollowness. He had thought, perhaps, he would glance back—just once—to see her one last time. But that would've broken him.
He thought of Aldric too.
The old knight had fallen into a deep sleep last night after coughing long into the evening. Aaron hadn't had the heart to wake him. There were too many things he wanted to say and none of them seemed right for a farewell. So he had left a note. A few words scratched onto a piece of parchment, left beside Aldric's teacup.
Aldric, I'll return. I promise. Don't be too angry with me.
He hoped the old fellow would understand.
The road curved, and ahead lay the world beyond the village—bigger, crueler, and pulsing with the drums of war.
---
The army camp sprawled across a flat field just beyond the northern woods. Dozens of tents lined the hilltop like a makeshift city. Smoke curled from campfires. The clang of metal against metal echoed through the air as soldiers trained in the distance. Men in armor walked past with swords at their hips, voices low and eyes watchful.
Aaron arrived, weary but alert. The guards at the gate looked him over. A boy, yes—but with the eyes of someone older, someone who had seen enough hardship to understand silence.
"You're a little young, aren't you?" one of them asked, squinting.
Aaron stood taller. "I was sent. My name's Aaron Blackthorn. I've trained under Sir Aldric for years."
That name earned a raised brow. "Blackthorn? Of the capital?"
"No, of the river valley," Aaron answered carefully, truth wrapped in simplicity. "My guardian was a knight. I know my way around a blade."
They let him through.
Inside, the world of war unfolded like a living machine. Recruits barked drills, horses stamped their hooves in the distance, and commanders shouted orders sharp enough to slice the air. Aaron was assigned a tent with five other boys—most of them older, taller, already hardened. He said little, watched much.
He trained fiercely. Swordplay, archery, riding. He ran drills at dawn and fetched water till his hands blistered. They gave him the worst jobs—the ones no one wanted—but he did them without complaint.
Soon, people began to notice.
His movements were precise. His reflexes sharp. He didn't boast or falter. When the barracks captain put him to spar with a boy nearly twice his weight, Aaron stood his ground. Bloodied lip, bruised cheek—but he didn't back down.
"He's got fight in him," one soldier murmured. "Too young to carry rank, but not too young to carry purpose.
---
The kingdom itself was fraying.
Tensions at the borders had ignited into full battle. Lords who had once stood united were now arguing over land and power. The royal court was a nest of whispers, and the king—aging and weary—struggled to hold the realm together. Troops were needed. Every blade, every able hand.
Aaron fought his first skirmish weeks after his arrival. A border patrol gone wrong. He rode with seasoned men, his heart thundering in his chest, and when the enemy charged, he held his sword steady.
He did not falter.
And when the dust cleared, he was still standing.
The captain took notice.
---
Back in the village, the days passed slower.
Evelyn woke early, as always, to fetch water and sweep the yard. Her aunt barely spoke to her since the day she caught her slipping food to Aaron. Evelyn bore the silence like she did everything else—with quiet resilience. Isolade still made jabs, sharp as ever, but Evelyn had learned to swallow them down.
Aaron's absence was a gap in the world.
She missed his voice, his teasing, the way he'd slip her half a plum when Beaterese wasn't looking. She missed their reading lessons, the way he'd grin whenever she stumbled over a word.
She had cried the night he left.
Not loud. Not in front of anyone. But alone, curled under the blanket on the floor beside her cousin's bed, her tears soaking into the straw.
Now, she kept her head down. She did her chores. She listened for news—any word about the war, about the soldiers, about him.
Sometimes, she'd go down to the river and sit on the stone where they used to talk. The wind whispered through the trees, and she'd imagine his voice.
She whispered things to it.
"Be safe, Aaron."
And when the wind rustled back, she liked to pretend it was him.
---
In the army camp, on a rare quiet evening, Aaron sat by the fire, sharpening his blade. The others were laughing, drinking, telling stories. He listened but said little.
His thoughts were far away.
With Aldric, who he hadn't heard from since he left.
With Evelyn.
He remembered the way her hand had felt in his. How small it was, how tightly she had held on.
He still felt it, even now.
He took out a scrap of parchment. It wasn't much. But he began to write.
Evelyn,
I hope you're well. I miss you. I miss home. Things are loud here. Busy. But I'm trying my best. I'll come back—when it's over. Tell Aldric I'm keeping my blade sharp. And tell him not to worry. I'll make him proud.
And you too.
—Aaron
He smiled faintly, sealing the letter. He didn't know if it would reach her. But he had to try.
He would return.
He had promised.