Venla’s steps slowed just a little as she listened, her eyes on the road ahead.

The thought struck her hard. That someone could be given away so young. He had been seven, and someone had made a choice on his behalf. A choice that shaped the rest of his life. She thought of him, not the man beside her now, tall and tempered and stoic, but the small boy, confused and crying and still trying to understand why his world had cracked open and no one stopped it from happening. It stirred something tender in her, something that ached in sympathy. She looked as though she might speak, then didn’t. Her hand had drifted slightly outward, her fingers hovered for a moment beside his sleeve, a breath away. She wanted to give something back. A word, a touch, a promise, a comfort. She might’ve touched him, but something held her back. What good would it do? He had long since made peace with it. He had lived with his loss for years and made it part of himself.

“I don’t know what kind of boy you were,” she said softly. “But I know the man that came of it. And he’s good. He’s steady. And kind. You’ve done right by me, even when you didn’t have to." She swallowed, eyes fixed on the road. She was sure she would have come apart without him. "I hope I can… repay it someday.” Somehow.

She exhaled slowly. “I could’ve,” she murmured. “Maybe I should’ve.” But she didn’t. And she hadn’t. She had watched them all go on loving her, unaware, untouched by what now lived beneath her skin. And it had felt, in some twisted way, like a mercy. Let them remember her that way. “They got a goodbye that didn’t have fear in it." she said softly. To spare them the burden of knowing.

Because what was waiting for her now, it wasn’t peace. It wasn’t safety. It was more unraveling.

She looked down at her hands. Calloused after many years of working in a kitchen, ringless, unremarkable. No glow. No crackle of power. Just hands. They had been good hands. For cutting roots. Kneading dough. Holding back a wound and praying the bleeding would stop. But now? Now they could take. It was in her. Always humming now, like a pressure behind the eyes. A weight in her blood. Sometimes it came as heat, a flash behind the ribs, like a heartbeat out of sync. Other times it was colder, like a whisper at the base of her skull, as if something was leaning too close.

It did not feel holy. Or beautiful. Or marvelous. Or miraculous. Or like a gift.
 
Willard shook his head. 'You owe me nothing,' he said. 'Whatever debt remains between us is mine to repay. You did save my life, after all,' the knight smiled reassuringly. His memories of that eventful evening were blurry, half-formed things, and divining any sense from them took a great deal of effort on his part. But he knew. How could he not? Venla had saved his life and demanded nothing in return. Not a goddamned thing.

What kind of person did that, if not a good one?

'As to your comments about my character, well, I suppose I should accept them with the same grace they were intended,' he nodded, not taking his eyes from the road. His face felt warm, and he was fairly certain as to why.

Damn you, woman! You've made me blush. Smiling to himself, Willard diverted his focus to the fields lining the road. Thick with hedges and irrigation ditches and clumps of trees, the land surrounding Arrowdale had a peaceful quality to it. Nothing like the ordered chaos awaiting them in Drachenberg. Or rather, Venla, he mused, expression falling as he glanced sidelong at the redhead.

Downcast, she examined her hands as if they were those of a stranger. Bloodstained. Tarnished. Only in her mind could such a falsehood be considered real, thought Willard, brushing her elbow with his fingers.

'Hey, Venla,' he spoke, almost casually. He waited until her gaze found his. 'Ever ridden a horse before?'
 
“Whatever debt remains between us is mine to repay. You did save my life, after all.”

Venla held to silence for a few paces. He was blushing. She caught it, of course. Her lips parted slightly, but not to tease him, she did not want to startle anything too delicate. “I meant what I said, you know. I am grateful. I’m just not sure how to say thank you properly.”

Spring had only just begun to take hold, and the trees lining the path were dusted in pale buds, new and trembling. Wildflowers freckled the ditches, blues and whites, the occasional flicker of yellow. A lark trilled somewhere in the distance, spring's melody of young things.

She felt his fingers brush her elbow, a fleeting touch, like the wing of a moth in the dark. The contact was small, casual enough that it could be mistaken for nothing. But her skin tingled beneath the wool of her sleeve where his fingers had passed. The ginger didn’t pull away. If anything, she stepped just a little closer. At the sound of her name, she turned her head, meeting his brown eyes.

When Willard asked 'ever ridden a horse before?' she tilted her head slightly and looked toward his mount.

“Aye,” she said. “Once.” How old had she been when her father lifted her up on their old drafthorse? Five maybe? Brute, they had named him because he had broken his stall door twice, but he was a gentle thing with people. Big as a barn. “But that was an long time ago.” she said.
 
Pretty sure you just did, Willard thought quietly to himself, giving a slight shake of his head. 'No need to thank me, Venla,' he replied, drawing to a halt by the wayside. 'Really. I did what any knight would do, and that's the end of it.' A soft whickering sound pulled Will's attention away for a moment. His horse, a big bay with white markings upon her face and fetlocks, bowed her head, as if to hurry him along his chosen path.

'Yes, yes, I'll ask her,' he spoke softly, amused by the way the rouncey's ears twitched at the sound of his voice. Turning to Venla, the dawnling smiled, invited her closer with a sweep of his arm.

'I call her Hellion,' he told the maid, 'but don't let the name fool you. She's perhaps the most well-behaved horse I've ever had the pleasure of riding. Say hello, Hellion.' There was another whicker as the horse dipped its head, the reins in Willard's hands flicking about as she straightened, eclipsing her rider and the woman stood beside him.

'If I understand correctly, she's pleased to meet you, Venla,' the dawn-knight grinned, gaze flitting to the redhead as she ran a hand down Hellion's neck. He gave her a second or two to appreciate the creature, before asking, 'Would you like to ride her?'
 
Venla’s lips curved into a genuine smile as she watched the big horse nuzzle Willard’s shoulder like an old friend. The gentle way he spoke to the horse, the fondness in his voice. “You’ve a good hand with animals, you know.” she said, stepping forward. Bramble trusted Willard fast enough. That says something. She moved closer, careful not to spook the horse, though Hellion seemed calm as a cloudbank.

“Or do they just like you because you’re tall and smell like oats?” The tease slipped out, it was soft-edged and bright as sun through apple leaves. There was a smile on her lips again, more impish this time. She didn’t mind the smell of oats, truth be told. It reminded her of barns and dry summers, composed by the creak of wooden gates and chirping of swallows. But Willard didn’t smell like oats now. Not exactly. He smelled like leather and something faintly metallic. But she liked that too. Maybe too much.

Venla reached out a hand slowly, fingers open and relaxed, letting the mare sniff her skin. The mare’s breath huffed warmly against her hand, and the redhead gave a quiet, delighted chuckle before laying her palm along the strong curve of her neck. Warm. Silky. “Good day, Hellion, nice to meet you too.” she murmured, rubbing just beneath the mane where the hair thickened. “She’s lovely.”

She glanced down at her skirts, the thick, practical wool of her green dress falling in heavy folds around her boots. It had plenty of room, she could ride without scandalizing half the road. But the idea of swinging up into the saddle with grace was another thing entirely. Venla leaned in to stroke the mare’s neck. “Yes.” she said at last, with a small, eager nod. “I’d like a ride.”
 
'There are worse things to smell of,' replied Willard, stifling a chuckle. The Road was awash with scents, and not all of them bad. A beastkin had described the sensation to him once, but the dawnling had lost interest after awhile. There were only so many times one could hear about the bitter-sweet smell of marigolds before the subject grew dull and the mind turned to other, more interesting things.

Venla, he discovered, smelt faintly of lilacs. A rare sight around these parts, but nevertheless welcome for their arrival marked the turn of the season. From Spring to Summer. A good choice, Willard mused, allowing Hellion to nuzzle his chest as Venla showered her with love.

'She is,' he smiled joyfully. A scout wasn't much use without a horse, and only a fool would neglect to look after them. 'Right. Well. How do you want to go about this?' Brushing a hand down Hellion's muzzle, the knight looked to Venla, her attire. How the skirts flared outwards slightly from her slender waist, green as the glades of his homeland. A sharp contrast to the yellow of his brigandine and the cold glint of mail beneath. 'I can lift you up, if you'd prefer,' he offered, catching onto her hesitance.

'It's not as difficult as it may seem at first. Trust me.'
 
Venla gave Hellion one last fond stroke, then stepped back with a small huff. Not one of frustration, but amusement. “If I fall,” she said, glancing at Willard with a smile “you’ll catch me, won’t you?”

Her skirts, full and hemmed just low enough to trip over if she wasn’t paying attention. Her fingers moved quickly, tugging up the green wool in practiced folds and knotting the gathered fabric into the leather belt at her waist. It left her boots visible beneath the hem and gave her the freedom of movement she needed.

“Now... Let’s try.”

Venla set one hand to the saddle horn, the other to Hellion’s side. The mare stood still beneath her touch, patient and solid as a wall. Venla gave her a grateful pat, then turned her body slightly, lifting one booted foot to find the stirrup. It took a moment. She hadn’t done this before, and it was not easy in a dress. The mare stood steady, unbothered by the human fussing at her side, wobbling on one leg. “Oh..wait...no, stay still, love,” she muttered, half to Hellion, half to her own awkward balance.

With a small grunt, Venla hauled herself up, not graceful in the least. Her other leg flailed behind her a moment before she managed to swing it over. Her backside landed in the saddle with a soft whump. Venla blinked, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a laugh. She brushed a loose wisp of hair back from her cheek, looking down at Willard, her cheeks flushed.

Her fingers hovered near the reins, uncertain. “So,” she said, “how do I… hold these?” She shifted in the saddle, adjusting her skirts.
 
'You talking to me?' Willard smirked, standing dutifully by Hellion's side as Venla's foot found the stirrup. For someone who had only does this the once, and a "long time ago" at that, she managed not to go ass over tit, her hands and feet finding the way whilst the rest of her followed. The dawnling assisted her as best he could, ready to catch her if she fell.

Hellion didn't seem to care about their clumsy fumblings. After three years, she had grown accustomed to him, if not the stranger straddling her back.

'Why, Venla, it almost sounds like you plan on riding off to Drachenberg without me,' Willard replied, checking to make sure she was seated correctly before following suit. 'I'll show you, if you wouldn't mind sitting back. Yep. Just so.' Clambering up into the saddle in front of Venla, Willard kept a loose hold on the reins as Hellion adjusted to the weight. A step. Two. She threw her head back, then settled. That's better, thought the knight, patting her neck.

'Alright. We're good. You good?' Glancing over his shoulder, Willard smiled, armour and tack rattling as his mount quested slowly towards the verge. 'You can hold onto me,' he said, noting how red in the face Venla had gotten. No doubt he was the same. 'I won't bite.'
 
'You talking to me?'
The mare gave a tolerant flick of her tail. Venla huffed softly through her nose, but the smile playing at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Mmh” The horse flicked an ear.

"Aye, I've decided to become a highwaywoman instead of studying magic. Syr, stand and deliver!" she said while leaning forward slightly. Hellion shifted, and Venla’s hands fluttered awkwardly over the saddle, unsure where to put them.

She scooted back at his instruction, careful not to tip backward like a sack of potatoes. But she had thought he meant to lead the horse. Walk beside her and hold the reins like a gentleman escorting a lady. No, she hadn't expected him to mount in front of her. She blinked. Then laughed under her breath, quiet and breathy, more out of surprise than anything. Everything felt oddly wonderful and wrong-footed, like the first dance at a spring fair.

Venla settled behind him, her skirts rustling softly as she shifted, finding her seat. Her hands, slowly, came around him. A cautious circle at first. Uncertain and polite. Her fingers brushed the edge of his belt where the leather had worn smooth from years of use. She leaned forward, the gentle sway of Hellion's steps pressing her close to his back. Her cheek brushed his shoulder, then came to rest there. The armor was cool beneath the yellow fabric of his tabbard, but the man beneath it radiated a steadfast heat.

“Won’t bite, huh?” she said, lips curling. “What a shame.”

Then she lifted her gaze, trying, mostly in vain, to keep her attention on the road ahead. She meant to keep her eyes on the road, truly she did. But her eyes strayed, again and again, to the curve of his jaw, to the tilt of his head as he listened to the world around them. To the slope of his shoulders. The line of his neck, strong and corded, where the collar of his mail coif sat slightly askew. How the sunlight picked out strands of gold in his hair.

“Did you always want this?” she asked, her chin still resting against the back of his shoulder. “Did you ever think about leaving it?” she asked softly. “The Order, I mean.”
 
What a shame, indeed. Averting his gaze, the knight shook his head slightly at Venla's jest, the smile tugging at his lips threatening to break free. 'I think we've got this backwards, Venla,' he said, her weight against his back mooring him to the moment. 'You are the one who's supposed to be bewitching me, not the other way around.' He used the word lightly, as if running into magi was a common, everyday occurrence. Depending on where you lived, it kind of was.

Watching the road ahead, Willard's eyes flitted to the woods, then to the skies, always mindful of even the smallest changes.

He could sense Venla watching him, like a hawk might her prey. Her attention wasn't an unwelcome element to their journey, by any means, but it was somewhat distracting. Not that he was against such a distraction, especially one so beautiful.

'In the beginning, perhaps.' Riding in silence, Willard pondered her question some more, opted for the truth. 'I was angry, back then. Hurt and confused as to why my parents gave me away to these strangers so readily. It must've been half a year, at least, before I finally started to settle into my new life, and even then I still found myself questioning my parents' decision.' Aye, he had been a rebellious little shit during those first few months. His awe at seeing the monastery for the first time tempered only by the fact that his family wasn't there to see it with him.

'I find it is... hard to hate those whom show you nothing but kindness, particularly when they care for you as if you were their own flesh and blood,' he paused a moment. Somewhere in between the asking and the answering, his hand had found its way to Venla's where they met against his stomach. His thumb lightly explored the bridge they formed.

He found himself oddly comforted, though he wasn't sure why.

'Maybe you really have cast a spell over me,' he spoke quietly, his words captured and kept by the sudden gust of wind that rolled through. Hellion's ears flicked. Willard lowered his eyes. 'What about you?' He asked in turn. 'Never thought about striking out on your own and heading for one of the big cities?'
 
She thought of what he’d said. Of kindness, of being taken in and shaped by it. He was young. Younger than her, in more ways than just the years. There was a restlessness in him, a reaching. Bright and unburned. The world hadn't carved its shape into him yet, not fully. He rode like he meant to greet every corner of it with open arms... and perhaps he would. He would keep riding, she thought. He would see the breadth of the world. She hoped he would see it all. The cities with their spires and stained-glass windows, the wild places where the trees grew taller than towers, the far coasts where the sea sang. He deserved that much. More, even.

'Never thought about striking out on your own and heading for one of the big cities?'

The question landed deeper than expected. For a few heartbeats, she just went quiet. Her fingers, still beneath his hand, flexed gently at the touch of his thumb. But she didn’t pull away.

“I did,” she said softly. “When I was younger.” Her chin shifted slightly where it rested against his shoulder. She watched the road again. Her gaze drifted to the hedgerows and low stone walls lining the road. Her eyes rested where foxglove nodded in the breeze and a rook flapped lazily overhead. The world was so wide here. Open in a way it rarely was back home.

“I used to dream about it. I’d sit on the fencepost and watch the trader carts pass on the road, trying to guess where they were headed. Cities with tall gates and towers. Inns where music played all night. Foreign cheeses.” she went on. She used tp imagine all sorts of things. But dreams like that... they grow smaller and the world presses in. "But one day I looked up and realised I was needed." And she had to tell herself it was enough, because it had to be. Before she had known it, someone called her ‘the responsible one’ and she forgot the girl who wanted to ride riverboats. She fell silent a moment, letting the hoofbeats fill the space between memories.

Her hand shifted slightly beneath his, tilting her palms so that her fingers brushed his gently, giving room for more, to rest more deliberately against his palm. Then, softer: “I was needed at home,” she said. “That’s the long and short of it. And I don’t say that bitterly." There's honour in the quiet things, like staying when you could have run. Life did not wait for anyone. "My father's leg went bad after the fall harvest, and he passed during winter. He had been sick for so long. My mother was not quite the same after that.” The sunlight dappled through the trees above, and she watched it flicker across the road ahead, golden and leaf-laced.

“I don’t regret it,” she added. Maybe those dreams she had to leave behind waited for her somewhere down the road. Not in the grand, thundering way. Just… quietly. Like a patch of sun on a stone wall. Waiting for her to stop long enough to feel it again.

The world had enough heroes, but not nearly enough good travelling companions. Willard may be the knight, but she packed the journeybread and remembered the salve for blisters. That should count for something. "When we reach Drachenberg…” A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “That’ll be the fork, won’t it? You’ll go one way, and I the other.” The words sat for a moment, simple and certain. There was no complaint in them, only the hush of knowing. Of watching a river split and accepting the current.

But gods, she would miss this. Miss him.
 
Willard saw no point in lying. 'Yes,' he replied, the road stretching out before them like life itself. For all its twists and turns, ups and downs, there would come a point where their paths diverged. With any luck, they would lead back to each other. And if they didn't, he would just have to forge his own path back to her. Back to Venla Thiel, his friend and confidant, she who underestimated the breadth of her own bravery.

'She's a strong woman, your mother.' Willard spoke as they rode, on, towards Drachenberg. So many leagues away, it was, and yet still too close. 'Grief breaks many a heart. To persevere for one's family, like you have... it is a thing worthy of respect.'

Nodding, Willard allowed the silence to wrap itself about them. There was a great deal of comfort to be found in the quiet moments, he felt. Perhaps that was what Venla needed now? A chance to consider her own needs and wants for a change, away from her family, away from Arrowdale and its many thirsty throats. No doubt the patrons of her local tavern would miss her before long. Her bright smiles and sharp wit as well as the exaggerated sway of her hips. Willard knew he would, when the time came.

Alright, enough of that.

Straightening up in the saddle, the dawnling cast a glance over his shoulder. 'You awake back there?' He asked, a grin pulling at his lips. 'Only, Hellion's grown tired of listening to me natter and wishes to run free.' A half-truth, that. In reality, he hoped to distract her, to see Venla smile, one more time.

'Hold onto me, okay? Oh, and don't forget to enjoy yourself,' he laughed. 'I know I will.'
 
“Gods...!” she gasped, the word lost in the rush of wind. Barely had time to draw breath before Hellion launched forward like a released arrow. She slammed forward against his back and she buried her face briefly between his shoulder blades.

The force of the movement snapped through her, no slow build-up, just impact. Her body jolted back, almost torn from the horseback, and she instinctively hugged her arms around him in a desperate grip. Her knees clamped tight, but it felt like she balanced on a runaway boulder. She couldn’t sit upright, every stride pitched her forward and then yanked her back, jerking her spine with violent momentum. Her stomach dropped with every bound, like falling off a ledge again and again.

“Shit!” she gasped, but the wind swallowed her voice. Her breath came short and sharp, her hands clinging so hard to him the knuckles ached. The ground flew past too fast. Venla pressed herself closer to the knight. But she laughed, only half startled. Wind tore at her hair. Dirt and grass whipped past in streaks. Trees, fenceposts, the rise of a distant hill... everything blurred, gone before she could register it.

But she was hit with a hard, wild exhilaration. The kind that only comes when you're right on the edge of losing everything.
 
A day later
Overlooking Drachenberg
The light dwindles...

Even from afar, the city was quite something to behold. From atop the rise, Willard could see fully the way the city grew in stages, climbing from one step to the next, up the side of the tor. A fortress, big and dark and foreboding, conquered the hill's summit, its watchtowers and keep dominating the skyline, where the Sun had not yet finished setting. In its shadow lay the noble and merchant qaurters, one step below the fortress. Colourful buildings replete with balconies and walled gardens, this was where Drachenberg's wealthier citizens made their roost.

At the tor's base, the rest of the city sprawled like a canker upon the land, townhouses packed close together, as if to save room. And yet it was to the lone tower Willard's eyes were drawn.

'Well, there it is.'

Sat astride Hellion, his armour dusty from the road, Willard turned to regard Venla, his expression impassive, for the most part. 'The journey went... smoother than I expected,' he frowned. Quicker, too. A day and a night, all told. He had tried to force a leisurely pace, so that Venla might have an easier time saying goodbye to her old life, just as she welcomed the new. It was something no amount of words could prepare her for.

Still, he had tried, fool that was.

Not that it would make a lick of difference in the end. 'How are you feeling?' He asked. 'Nervous?'
 
“There it is,” she murmured, echoing his words without meaning to. “It's ugly...” The words came out before she could temper them, but they weren’t cruel. Just honest. The fortress loomed over the terrain like a dark tooth. Venla sat behind him in the saddle, arms still looped around his waist. The horse stood still beneath them, quiet and patient, tail flicking against the night flies. The woman's eyes swept the sprawl of the city.

She hadn't expected it to be so soon. Not really. One more night, she had thought. One more campfire. One more slow morning with tea and soft conversation. One more stolen glance at Willard's sleeping face. But here it was... and something twisted low in her stomach. But the wind smelled of wild grass, not stone, and she was not ready to trade one for the other. Not yet.

Venla slid down from Hellion’s back, boots hitting earth still warm from the sun. A quick pat to her skirts. The long ride leaving her stiff in the knees and sore in the seat. She winced, stretching a little, then brushed her hands over her dress before she folded her arms against her ribs. The city looked different from up here. Smaller, in a way. Small enough tuck into your pocket like a pebble. Drachenberg was already kindling to life below them. One by one, lanterns bloomed in windows. Smoke curled up from hearths and chimneys, thin and silver.

Nervous? “I’m not nervous,” she quickly said, not turning to look at Willard just yet. “Not really.” A pause. “Maybe a little.” Her heart wasn’t racing. Not much. There was a tightness in her chest, yes, but it had more to do with the man still seated on the horse. “I don’t know what I’ll find there,” she said at last, softly, green eyes on the city. “but I know what I’ll miss.”

She glanced back at him and she drew in a long breath, letting it fill her chest, to steady her. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, searching for something clever, something bright... and found none of it. “Stay a little longer, can we?” Her voice was softer now “Just a little.”
 
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