The storm raged through the mountains when he found her—small, frail, half-buried in the snow. Her dress was thin, her limbs like brittle twigs, her breath weak against the cold. He lifted her easily, his broad arms engulfing her tiny frame, and carried her home.

His cabin was warm, smelling of pine and burning wood. He wrapped her in furs, fed her slowly, watched as color crept back into her pale cheeks. She was delicate, too delicate for the hard life of the mountains. She tried to help—kneading dough with thin wrists, gathering water with trembling hands—but he hated seeing her work. She was a thing of beauty, too light for burden, too soft for struggle.

Still, she stayed.

One night, as the fire flickered low, she sat beside him, her head resting against his shoulder. His hand, large and rough, hovered near hers on the wooden table. She did not move away.

Outside, the wind howled, but inside, the world was warm, quiet—as if they had always belonged there, together in that medieval time.