Years had passed like that—one season folding into another with quiet rhythm. The little boy found in the rain was now twelve, tall for his age and sharp-eyed like the hawk that nested near the cliffs. Aaron Blackthorn was no longer a child trailing behind Aldric's shadow. He was growing into a young man, carrying strength in his arms and a spark of something fiercer in his gaze—something forged in hardship and honed by purpose.
The cottage by the river still stood, weathered by time but solid. Aldric had aged in the years since he found Aaron, and though his health had improved, he moved slower now, his once-powerful frame now tinged with the stiffness of old wounds. But his mind remained sharp, and his eyes lit with quiet pride every time he looked at the boy who had become his family.
Aaron had begun to train in earnest, splitting his days between working in Master Harlon's smithy and learning the basics of swordsmanship from Aldric. But the evenings were for something different—softer, perhaps, but no less important.
Aldric sat by the hearth with a worn book spread across his knees, reading aloud in a voice that had once commanded legions. Across from him, Aaron sat with shoulders straight, eyes fixed on the page as he followed the words. Next to him, nearly hidden in the shadows, sat Evelyn.
She was ten now, slender and quiet, her long black hair kept in a simple braid. Her black eyes stayed focused on the parchment, lips silently mouthing the words as Aldric read. She didn't speak much during the lessons—only when prompted—but Aaron had grown used to the way she leaned in slightly, eyes bright when she understood something, and how her hands curled tightly in her lap when she didn't.
She was not supposed to be there.
Beatrice, her aunt, forbade her from spending time at the Blackthorn cottage, let alone learning to read. "Books won't feed your belly," she often said with a scowl, her voice bitter as stale tea. "You've chores to do. Let that boy play soldier alone."
But Evelyn came anyway—slipping out when her cousin and aunt weren't watching, stealing moments between chores and sleep. Sometimes she climbed out of the window in the dark, arriving at Aaron's doorstep breathless but determined.
Aldric had never questioned it. The first time she came, thin and pale from her aunt's scoldings, he merely set another stool by the fire and handed her a scrap of parchment. "If you're going to sit there, you might as well learn something."
From then on, she had become a quiet fixture of their evenings. She never asked for more than a place to sit and listen, but Aldric saw the hunger in her—different from the kind that gnawed in her stomach. This was the hunger for knowledge, for meaning, for something more than a life spent sweeping floors and swallowing her voice.
One evening, Aaron caught her staring at the letters he was tracing with a stick in the dirt.
"Want to try?" he asked, holding the stick out to her.
She hesitated. "I don't know how."
He grinned. "That's why you try."
She took the stick and, under his watchful eyes, carefully copied the word he had written: home.
They didn't speak much then, but that was how their lessons began—Aaron teaching her the words Aldric had taught him, their fingers smudged with dirt and ink, their voices low so no one would hear from beyond the cottage walls.
Outside, the world stirred with unrest. Rumors of war drifted into the village like storm clouds—border disputes, old grudges reignited, nobles clashing over land and gold. The king's banners were being raised once more, and men from all corners of the kingdom were being summoned to take up arms.
Aaron heard it in the forge, whispered between the clang of metal.
"He's sending recruiters soon," Master Harlon muttered one day as he hammered out a blade. "Boys with steady hands and sharp eyes. They'll be looking for fresh blood."
Aaron said nothing, but that night, he stared at the sword mounted above the hearth for a long time.
Evelyn noticed his silence.
"You're thinking about it," she said softly.
He didn't deny it. "I have to do something."
She lowered her gaze. "You're only twelve."
"So were some of the king's squires once. And I'm not just a boy anymore." He didn't say it with pride, but with quiet resignation. "We need the coin. And I'm ready."
She looked away, fingers tightening around the hem of her dress. "I don't want you to go."
He smiled faintly and nudged her hand. "You'll still have Aldric. And you're braver than you think, princesa."
She flinched at the word but didn't correct him this time. Maybe she was growing used to it. Maybe she needed it.
Aldric watched them from the corner, his expression unreadable. That night, after Evelyn had gone, he handed Aaron a scroll of names from his days in the guard.
"If you're going to go," he said gruffly, "you'll need to prove yourself. These men—some of them might still serve. Show them what you can do."
Aaron looked at the list, then at Aldric. "You're not stopping me."
The old knight's eyes softened. "I raised you to be strong, lad. Not to be afraid of your path."
He didn't say be careful. He didn't say don't go. He only reached for the sword above the mantle and set it gently in Aaron's hands.
In the quiet hours before dawn, Evelyn arrived at the cottage again. She found Aaron already awake, preparing for the day's training. She said nothing, only stood in the doorway, her hands folded tightly before her.
He looked up, eyes meeting hers. "You came."
"I always do."
He stepped closer and placed something small in her hand—a folded piece of parchment, her name written carefully on the front.
"I want you to keep learning," he said. "Even if I'm not here."
She stared down at it, then up at him. "Will you come back?"
His smile was faint but sure. "I will. I promise."
And then, without thinking, he brushed a hand through her hair and whispered, "Take care, princesa."
She didn't flinch this time. Just smiled faintly, a secret kind of smile, like she was keeping something warm just for herself.
As he stepped into the breaking dawn, sword slung across his back and hope blazing quietly in his heart, Evelyn watched him go—silent, small, but full of the kind of love that waited without asking for anything in return.
She would wait. As long as it took.