His smile began before she finished. That alone was her answer.
She recognized the routine: the glint at the corner of his mouth, the slow lift of the white-laced cloth as he dabbed the gleam from his lips. It wasn't the first time.
Her composure cracked. A faint smile betrayed her effort to remain unreadable. It reached her eyes before her lips, and the more she fought it, the more it bloomed.
As they walked, she instinctively clasped her hands in front of her legs, subtly covering the parts of her thigh her skirt left bare. The gesture was modest, yes—but more than that, it was intimate. She was aware of his gaze. Not afraid of it, but deeply, privately conscious of it.
She wore the dress she earned as a teenager—her most beloved possession. It clung tightly to her body, leaving very little to imagination. But to him, it was no spectacle. He had seen women bare their bodies far beyond her modest rebellion. This… was mere memory.
Ahead, the trees shifted—growing shorter, trimmed, shaped. They no longer loomed. They stood at attention, like guards bowing to royalty.
She extended her hand into the descending light, and leaves fluttered gently against her skin. The trees—barely taller than their waists now—whispered in the breeze. The touch of the leaves was soft, almost intimate. They clung to her like affectionate spirits.
But as she wandered in that reverie, her foot struck a jagged stone hidden beneath the path. A soft tud echoed in the quiet air.
Her body lurched forward, breast shifting sharply under the taut fabric of her top. She pitched dangerously toward the shallow pool encircling the statue ahead. Her arms flailed, leg lifting behind her with a balletic grace—poised between disaster and dance.
Then—his arm swept around her.
His hand landed directly upon her breast in the catch—an instinctive grip, firm and anchoring. A spark jumped through her skin. It wasn't the touch of a lover or a predator. It was raw necessity. Real. And it stole her breath.
He adjusted his grip immediately, steadying her, returning her upright.
"Thank you, Sir…" she whispered, breathless.
Her hands curled over her chest, shielding the memory of the moment. Her smile was soft. Respectful. Not shy—grateful. Grateful to be rescued from danger… and something far more delicate.
As he stepped toward the statue, something stopped him. A pressure in the air. Ancient. Unnamed.
He stood still, breath shallow, caught in the gravity of its silence. Every groove of the statue seemed to hum with ancestral memory. It tugged at something buried in him—unspoken, long locked away.
Then came the voice. Disruptive. Gentle. But slicing.
"Sir, please… I have to visit my parents. Today is the grand event for my brother."
He didn't answer immediately.
"Oh? I see… But can you elaborate?"
He turned slowly. Something shifted in his eyes. Not anger—but unease. His fingers twitched. His posture wavered, though just slightly.
Why would she want to return to them? The thought struck him like a thorn to the spine. Why give gifts to those who once denied her?
He considered denying her. But something inside—pride, perhaps, or curiosity—pulled him back.
"There's no need to elaborate… your request has been granted."
His voice held weight. Commanding, but calm. It released her from tension. She bowed gently, turned, and made her way past the statue.
But something caught his eye: a single bag. No box. No trinket.
"Wait." His voice cracked the air. She froze.
"What gift are you sending?"
She turned, bag in hand.
"Sir, I will give them my precious golden coins… the ones I've saved for them."
She held it forward—a modest brown pouch, tied with a black ribbon. Its weight dragged at her wrist.
He took it. Felt the metallic jingle. Opened it.
Gold. Only gold.
His jaw tightened. No words—just the crush of staff against stone.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Dust rose. The ground trembled.
She clutched the pouch. Eyes wide. Silent.
The air had changed.
Not with anger.
But with something older.
A storm he refused to name.
"I will add some more when we get there…"
The words left his mouth like a slow-moving blade—gentle, but sharp enough to wound.
Her expression shifted.
"We?"
The single word dropped like a rock into still water. The ripples refused to fade.
She turned her gaze toward the road ahead—once a symbol of quiet resolve—and then back at him. His eyes, unblinking, confirmed the worst.
This was no longer her path alone. The journey she had planned in secret, in silence, had just been invaded. Her breath caught in her throat.
She had only meant to deliver the gift, quietly, like a whisper passed through time. Perhaps a trusted market woman could've carried the pouch. Or maybe she'd leave it by the tree at the village gate. Anything but this. Anything but him—walking beside her, eyes open, questions sharpened.
But now, there was no turning back. Only forward.
She tried anyway.
"My body... it's aching," she whispered, slowing her pace, curling slightly like a withering leaf.
He didn't stop.
"If you're unable to go," he said, his voice stripped of warmth, "then let me present the gift on your behalf."
The silence that followed was more violent than any scream. It buried her breath and smothered her thoughts. Her lips parted to object, but no words came.
She was no longer just a girl delivering coins to a broken family. She was now a symbol—his symbol—carried into a past that should've stayed buried.
The village came into view like a memory laced with rot. The moment they stepped through the old stone arch, the air itself seemed to lean closer. Murmurs slithered through alleys. Curtains twitched. Faces peered and vanished like ghosts.
And then… the pointing began.
Not at him. At her.
Their eyes clawed into her, branding her again with names they never dared say aloud: curse-bearer… disgrace… witch's child…
But when they saw the man beside her—when they saw him—the world tilted.
The bravest ones fell mute. The boldest ones dropped their gazes like stones.
He didn't need to speak. His reputation walked ahead of him—sharp, unforgiving, veiled in the fear of rumor and myth. The devil cloaked in nobility. The punisher of fools. The collector of unpaid debts.
Some said he carved hearts with words. Others said he never needed to.
Their silence confirmed everything. He was real. And he was here.
To the women, though—especially the unmarried, the untouched—he was more than fear. He was fire and salvation. A man shaped by darkness, but carved with the elegance of something sacred. Their hearts betrayed them; some clutched their chests, others licked dry lips. The hunger in their eyes was so palpable, it cast shadows.
Even he noticed.