CHAPTER THREE
WILLIAM
No one ever came here. Not this late, not in weather like this. My home was far from the village, surrounded by open fields and the dark line of the forest. Even traders rarely passed by. So when someone began pounding on my door, hard and desperate, I froze.
The sound came again, sharper this time. Whoever it was wanted in.
I reached for the sword on the wall. My father’s sword.
The leather grip was worn smooth where his hands had held it for years.
He had taught me how to use it, taught me to defend what was mine, taught me never to strike a woman no matter the cause.
I remembered that as I lifted the blade and went to the door.
The rain hit the walls in sheets, the wind howling across the open field. I pulled the latch and opened the door.
I expected a beast, or a thief, or maybe some poor soul from the village who had lost their way. But what stood there made me pause.
A small figure, head lowered, hands raised slightly in front of her. The hood of her cloak dripped with rain, the fabric clinging to her frame. For a moment, she said nothing, only breathed hard, trembling from the cold.
Then I saw she was a woman.
I lowered the sword at once. “Who are you?” I asked.
Her voice came soft, shaky. “I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you. I lost my way in the storm. I saw your light and thought…” She hesitated, then swallowed. “I thought I might ask for shelter, just until the rain passes.”
I studied her in the dim light. Her voice sounded young but careful, her words too smooth for a common traveler. I was about to speak when she lifted her head.
Our eyes met. Blue, clear even in the dark.
For an instant, the world narrowed to that single color. My breath caught. The memory came rushing back to the theatre, the torchlight on her hair, the way she had vanished into the rain.
It was her.
The sword slipped from my hand and struck the floor with a dull sound. I took a step back, half in disbelief, half in relief.
“You,” I breathed. Then, quickly, “Yes, of course. Come in.”
She hesitated with an uncertain look. Her eyes flickered past me toward the light within. Her hand gripped the edge of her cloak as if she might turn and flee.
“It is alright,” I said quietly. I made myself soften my tone. “You’ll catch your death if you stay out there. Please, come inside.”
For a moment longer she waited, then stepped across the threshold.
I closed the door behind her. The latch clicked, and the storm fell away to a muffled roar against the roof. The air inside seemed to shift, warmer, filled with the faint scent of rain and earth. For the first time in a long while, the house felt different. Alive somehow.
I turned to face her. “You are soaked through. Sit by the fire.”
She looked around the room as though uncertain whether she belonged here. Her eyes moved slowly over the shelves, the wooden table, the sword rack on the wall. When they came back to me, my chest tightened. My heart was beating too fast, and I wasn’t sure why.
I had imagined her face a hundred times on the ride home, and yet seeing her here, standing in my doorway, felt unreal. The same girl from the theatre. The same eyes that had caught mine before disappearing into the night.
I forced myself to look away. My hands moved automatically, gathering bits of kindling from beside the hearth. I knelt, struck the flint, and coaxed a flame from the dry twigs. The fire caught, spreading slow and steady until the room began to glow with a soft orange light.
“Sit,” I said quietly, glancing up at her. “Warm yourself.”
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. The cloak clung to her shoulders as she crossed the floor, her steps light but uncertain. She sat near the hearth, holding her hands toward the flame. Her fingers were pale, trembling slightly as the warmth reached them.
“Thank you,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper.
I leaned against the wall, watching her. The firelight danced across her face, turning her hair to gold and casting long shadows behind her. She kept her eyes on the flames, silent, her cloak slowly drying against her shoulders.
I wondered how she had come to be here. How she had made it all the way from the village in this weather. The forest roads were rough even in daylight. At night, in a storm like this, they were dangerous.
Neither of us spoke for a while. The rain pressed softly against the roof, steady and low. The sound filled the space between us, unbroken but not uncomfortable.
At last I said, “Are you alright?”
She looked up at me, startled, then nodded quickly. “I’m fine.”
I studied her face for a moment, unsure if I believed it. “Even after the theatre today?”
Her eyes widened. For a heartbeat she looked as though she might deny it, then her shoulders dropped. “Oh,” she said softly. “You recognized me.”
“I did,” I said.
Color rose faintly in her cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For what you did. I didn’t get to say it earlier.”
I shook my head. “You owe me no thanks. Those men were drunk and cruel. Anyone would have stepped in.”
Her gaze dropped to the fire again. The light flickered over her hands, pale against the dark cloth. “Not everyone would have,” she said softly.
The words stilled me. For a heartbeat, I only watched her, uncertain how to answer. She said it like someone who had learned the truth of it too many times.
Something inside me shifted. The ease I had felt began to fade, replaced by the slow ache I could not name. I had thought of all the times I had turned away from another’s pain, or stood silent when I should have spoken. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps not everyone would have. So I was glad I did.
The rain whispered against the walls, filling the silence between us.
When she looked up again, our eyes met. There was something steady in her gaze, something that made it hard to look away. She looked serious.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asked.
“My father taught me first,” I said. “Then others, after he passed. I’ve had many lessons since.” I hesitated before adding. “I am to be knighted tomorrow.”
She didn’t answer at once. Her eyes flickered toward the fire, and something unreadable passed across her face. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “Congratulations.”
A smile tugged at my mouth before I could stop it. “Thank you.”
She smiled faintly in return, then brushed a strand of wet hair behind her ear.
“What about you?” I asked. “What is it you do?”
She hesitated, just for a moment, then said, “Oh, me,” She began, catching herself, then gave a quick nod. “I am a healer.”
“A healer,” I repeated, watching her closely. The word did not seem to fit. There was something too measured in her voice, too practiced. Her posture was straight, her hands still and careful in her lap. She looked nothing like the village medics I had known, worn and weary from their work.
But I said nothing.
Instead, I nodded and looked toward the fire. “Then we share a bit of the same trade. We both try to keep people alive.”
For a while, neither of us spoke. The fire continued to crackle, filling the quiet. The warmth had begun to chase the chill from the room, and the air between us felt easier now, though I still could not quite read her.
She looked peaceful in the firelight. Her expression was calm and her eyes were half-lidded, yet something in her seemed guard.
The way she sat: straight-backed, graceful and deliberate.
It belonged to someone accustomed to courts and cloisters, not forest paths.
It was as if she had spent her whole life learning how to hide in plain sight.
After a time I said, “I did not catch your name.”
Her eyes flicked toward me, the faintest pause before she answered. “Elara.”
The name lingered in the air. It was the same name as the queen from the theatre. It suited her, though it sounded like one chosen carefully, not given.
“Elara,” I repeated, nodding. “That’s a good name.”
She looked up from the fire, her expression softer now. “And what about you?”
“William,” I said. “William Alaricson.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Alaricson,” she echoed. “That means son of Alaric, does it not?”
“It does,” I said. “My father’s name was Alaric. He built this house long ago.”
She nodded slowly, her gaze moving around the room again. “It’s strong,” she said. “You can tell it was built with care.”
A small smile touched my lips. “He believed things should last. He taught me the same.”
Elara smiled faintly in return, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. I noticed, but said nothing.
Instead, I turned my gaze toward the window. The rain had not stopped. It drummed against the roof, heavy and constant, a rhythm that filled the quiet between us. Now and then, a low rumble of thunder rolled through the fields, soft at first, then growing until the walls seemed to hum with it.
She turned her gaze from the fire, her gaze finding me again. “William suits you,” she said softly.
I looked up from the window, surprised. “Does it?”
She nodded, the faintest smile curving her lips. “It does.”
For a while we said nothing. The fire crackled. The rain kept its steady song, and the wind pressed against the windows like a restless spirit. The quiet felt almost peaceful, suspended between us.
Then a flash of lightning split the sky, flooding the room with white for a heartbeat. The thunder came close behind, deep enough to make the floor tremble.
She flinched slightly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cloak.
I straightened from the wall as the decision formed before I could think to weigh it. “You should stay here tonight,” I said quietly. “It is far too dangerous for a lady to be wandering alone in weather like this.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, the firelight caught in them. For a moment she did not speak. The storm groaned around the walls. Then she nodded once, slow and grateful. “If you are sure I will not be a bother.”
“You won’t,” I said. “The storm will pass by morning. You’ll be safe here until then.”
Her shoulders relaxed, and she turned back toward the fire. For a
long moment, she didn’t move. Her gaze stayed fixed on the flames, lost somewhere far beyond them.
I found myself watching her again. Something about the way she sat: straight-backed, quiet, perfectly still.
It felt almost unearthly. Too composed for someone soaked and cold, too calm for the storm that battered the walls.
The world outside raged, yet she seemed untouched by it, as if chaos itself could not reach her.
She was too beautiful to belong to anything as small as this place.
The thought unsettled me. I looked away and pushed from the wall. The floor creaked beneath my boots as I walked toward the back of the house. One of the doors stood half open, its hinges old but strong. I stepped inside.
The room was small, with low ceilings and walls of dark wood.
It had once belonged to my parents. My father built the bed himself, solid oak with carvings along the frame.
My mother had sewn the curtains that hung at the window, though they had faded with time.
The air carried a faint scent of lavender and pine, something that always reminded me of her.
I pulled an old blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed and shook the dust from it. Then I straightened the sheets, smoothing them until they lay neat. I fluffed the pillows, letting the air fill them again. For the first time in years, the room felt lived in.
A small wardrobe stood beside the wall. I hesitated before opening it.
Inside hung a few of my mother’s things.
Among them was a simple kirtle, pale pink, the color softened by age but still gentle to the touch.
She had worn it often, back when the fields outside were full of wildflowers and laughter still filled these walls.
I lifted it carefully, folding it over my arm. It was the only thing I had that might suit the girl sitting by my fire.
When I stepped back into the main room, she was still there, her gaze still fixed on the flames. The firelight painted her face in shades of gold and amber. Her cloak had stopped dripping, but her hair was still damp, clinging to her shoulders in damp curls.
“I found something that might be more comfortable,” I said,
holding out the kirtle. “It belonged to my mother.”
She turned, her eyes softening as she looked at the fabric. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she reached out and brushed her fingers across it, careful, almost reverent. “Thank you. It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“It’s dry,” I said with a faint smile. “That’s what matters.”
A small yawn escaped her lips before she could stop it. She covered her mouth quickly, embarrassed, and I could not help the quiet laugh that slipped from me.
“You must be exhausted,” I said. “Take the room at the end of the hall. It is warm now. You’ll rest better there than by the fire.”
She hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around the kirtle. “I would not want to take your bed.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “There’s more space there, and I’m used to sleeping by the hearth when the storms come. Go on.”
For a moment, she seemed ready to argue, but then her shoulders eased, and she nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly.
She rose, the firelight catching in her hair as she turned toward the hall. I watched her take a few slow steps, the fabric of her cloak whispering against the floorboards.
Before she disappeared from view, I said. “Do you need anything to eat or drink?”
She looked back over her shoulder, offering a small, tired smile.
“No, thank you. You’ve already done more than enough.”
I nodded, though part of me wished she had said yes. “Rest well then, Elara.”
Her smile lingered for a heartbeat before she vanished into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.
For a time I stood there, listening to the rain tapping against the roof. The sound mixed with the steady crackle of the fire until it seemed to fill every corner of the house. The air smelled of wet wood and warmth.
The house felt strangely full now, as though her presence had woken something long asleep. I let out a slow breath and turned toward the hearth.
The fire had burned lower, its glow softer, shadows stretching across the floor. I reached for another log, meaning to add it to the
flames.
Before I could, the door behind me creaked open.
I turned, and there she was.
She had changed into the pale kirtle, the fabric falling neatly to her ankles. It was a little loose on her shoulders, yet somehow it suited her. The color caught the firelight and turned warm against her skin. Her hair was still damp, curling where it brushed her neck.
For a moment I could only look at her, struck by the quiet simplicity of the scene. She seemed almost unreal in the dim light, like a figure drawn from a fairytale or a dream.
She noticed me watching and looked down quickly. “I am sorry,” she said quietly. “I did not mean to disturb you.”
“What is it?” I asked.
She stepped closer, holding something against her chest. It took me a moment to recognize the worn leather cover of the book in her hands.
“I found this in your room,” she said. “It caught my eye.” She
hesitated, then looked up. “ The Song of the Willow Bride. It’s my favorite tale.”
I blinked, taken off guard. “Mine too,” I said softly.
Her fingers brushed the book’s spine. “I was wondering,” she said, “if I might read it before bed. It’s been years since I last held a copy.”
“Of course,” I said. “You can read anything you find here.”
Her eyes brightened, the faintest smile curving her lips. “There is a line from it I always loved,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “When the farmer’s son says to the queen, ‘If exile is the price of loving you, then I will pay it gladly.’ ”
Without thinking, I finished the line for her. “And the queen answers, ‘Then I will spend every breath mourning the debt I cannot repay.’ ”
Her gaze lifted to mine, startled at first, then soft. For a heartbeat, neither of us spoke. The firelight flickered between us, and it felt as though the whole house had gone still.
She held the book closer, her voice barely more than a breath. “It’s always the same,” she said. “No matter how many times I read it, that part never loses its ache.”
“No,” I said quietly. “It does not.”
For a moment, she simply looked at me, as though the silence itself carried the rest of what she wanted to say. Then she smiled again, gentle and fleeting. “Goodnight, William.”
“Goodnight, Elara,” I said back.
She turned back toward the bedroom, the book cradled carefully in her hands. The door closed softly behind her once more.
I stood there for a long while, listening to the quiet. The storm was still moving across the fields, its voice low and distant now. The fire had burned down to embers, glowing like small, steady
hearts in the dark.
It had been years since anyone else had slept under this roof. Yet the house no longer felt empty