The city of Lumaire glows softer at night.

  The Artisan District hums even after sunset — forges cooling, lights flickering across the canals, the air filled with the faint scent of oil and spice.

  Ronan walks the familiar path toward the guild barracks, the rhythm of his boots echoing off cobblestone.

  He’s not on duty. He’s not escorting anyone.

  But his thoughts, as usual, are not where his feet are.

  They’re with Eis.

  It began quietly.

  A glance here, a smile there, moments too small to matter — until they did.

  Until he caught himself looking for her in every crowd, listening for her calm voice even over the chaos of the guild hall.

  He had thought, when she chose to stay, that peace meant distance — that she had earned her right to a quiet life and he, in turn, would simply watch over it.

  But peace, it seems, wasn’t as simple as silence.

  And now, with that knight — that Alaric — appearing in her orbit, speaking softly with the kind of polish that comes from a world Ronan’s never been part of...

  He feels something he hasn’t felt in years:

  a quiet, gnawing unease.

  Lira and Kael are at the guild’s table when he enters — parchment, maps, and mugs cluttering the surface.

  They look up the moment he drops onto the bench beside them.

  “You look like someone bit into bad steel,” Kael mutters without looking up.

  “You always start conversations that way?” Ronan replies dryly.

  “Only when I’m right.”

  Lira leans forward, chin on her palm, eyes sharp with mischief.

  “He’s thinking about her again.”

  Ronan glances at her.

  “I’m thinking about paperwork.”

  “You don’t do paperwork.”

  “Exactly.”

  Lira smirks.

  “So it is about her.”

  Kael sighs.

  “Eis, then.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Kael says. “You’ve been restless since the imperial knight started visiting her shop. You practically count his steps.”

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  Ronan opens his mouth, then closes it again. He rubs the back of his neck.

  “He’s… courteous.”

  “That’s not a complaint,” Lira says. “That’s denial.”

  He exhales through his nose — more a sigh than a breath.

  “He’s an imperial knight. Clean, noble, charming — the type who knows what to say. And she…”

  “Doesn’t care about that,” Kael interrupts.

  Lira nods in agreement.

  “Eis doesn’t flinch at titles. She respects honesty, not posture.”

  Ronan stares into his cup for a long moment.

  “That’s what worries me.”

  “You think he’s not honest?”

  “I think he’s trained to be.”

  That earns silence from both of them.

  Lira leans back in her chair, eyes narrowing slightly.

  “You know what I think?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “You’re used to fighting for things you can win or lose — clean victories, clear lines. But this isn’t a battlefield, Ronan. You can’t guard her from life.”

  “I’m not trying to guard her.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. The question hangs there, heavy.

  Kael fills the silence, voice lower now.

  “You care. That’s obvious. But if you don’t move at all, someone else definitely will. Maybe him. Maybe the blacksmith down the street. But you’ll hate yourself for never trying.”

  Ronan’s jaw tightens.

  He looks out the nearby window — toward the faint glow of the Artisan District, where he knows the lights of her stall are probably just flickering out.

  “It’s not that simple,” he mutters.

  “It never is,” Lira says gently this time. “But she’s not someone who wants a protector. She’s someone who’d stand beside you — if you’d let her.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  He leaves the guild late, the streets quiet and silvered by the moon.

  The thought of going home doesn’t sit right, so his feet carry him elsewhere — down the familiar path toward Riverbend Lane, toward the scent of cooked herbs still lingering faintly in the air.

  Her window is dark now.

  But her home — her home — is lit softly from within.

  Through the open curtain, he sees movement:

  Elara reading at the table, Tomm tinkering with a piece of metal under her guidance, little Nia curled on Eis’s lap as she hums quietly.

  He stands in the street for a while, arms folded, watching from the shadows.

  It isn’t possessiveness.

  It isn’t jealousy.

  It’s something deeper — something almost painful in its warmth.

  A feeling he doesn’t know how to name because it’s been too long since he’s had anything real to lose.

  He doesn’t knock that night.

  He doesn’t interrupt.

  But the next morning, he’s there early — before the first customers arrive, before Alaric appears.

  He stands by her window, hands tucked into his coat.

  When she opens the stall and looks up in surprise, he just says quietly:

  “You’re opening early.”

  “You’re here early.”

  He nods.

  “Figured you might need help setting up.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I know.”

  He picks up a crate anyway, carrying it to the side window without waiting for her answer.

  When she looks at him, he meets her gaze steadily — not with words, not with hesitation, just quiet intent.

  A silent I’m here.