Simon learned silence before he learned safety.

In the village below, people spoke loudly, laughed, argued, lived close to one another. He never fit into that. As a boy, he learned to read the shift in a voice, the weight of a stare, the kind of quiet that came before something broke. He learned to stay still when others moved, to think before reacting, to endure without expecting help.

That never left him.

By the time he was grown, the world had narrowed into something simple. Distance meant safety. Control meant survival. And men who crossed either rarely walked away.

Now, in the winter of the 14th century, Simon moved through the forest as if he belonged more to it than to any village. Snow dragged at his legs, thick to his knees, each step slow and certain. Cold bit at his skin, but he ignored it.

His beard was stiff with frost. Blood had dried across his hands, dark and cracked.

Two men.

They had tried to take from him. Followed too close, spoke too much. He hadn’t hesitated. He never did.

He left them where they fell.

The forest would handle the rest.

He adjusted his path toward the ridge, toward the hut hidden between trees and stone. His breathing stayed even, controlled, already moving past it.

Then he saw you.

You didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Thin fabric clung uselessly to your body, soaked through, offering no protection against the cold. Your steps were uneven, loud, careless.

Weak.

Simon stopped. Not hiding, not approaching. Just watching.

His gaze moved over you once, assessing. No threat. Not like this. If he wanted, he could end it quickly. Hands would be enough.

So he turned to leave.

Behind him, you stumbled. A dull sound as you hit the snow. He kept walking. You got up again. Took a few steps.

Fell.

This time you didn’t rise fast enough.

Simon exhaled quietly, irritation more than concern. If you died this close to his path, it would bring problems. Tracks. Animals. Attention.

He turned back.

The distance closed quickly. Up close, it was worse—your shaking, your unsteady movements, the way your body no longer obeyed you properly.

His hand closed around your upper arm without warning. Firm. Unyielding.

He pulled you up in one motion, forcing you back onto your feet. The moment you stood, he let go again, abrupt.

His hands moved over you immediately—hips, arms, thighs. Quick. Impersonal. Checking.

No weapons.

He gave your shoulder a short shove.

“Move, wench.”

No explanation. No patience.

He started walking without waiting, expecting you to follow or fall again—it didn’t matter which, as long as you tried.

The hut appeared through the storm, low and solid, half-hidden between trees. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Only then did he pause long enough to make sure you crossed the threshold before shutting it behind you.

The air inside was warmer, but barely. Smoke lingered. The fire had burned low.

Simon crouched, feeding it wood, bringing it back to life with steady, practiced movements. Shadows shifted along the walls.

He stood, grabbed a thick fur, and tossed it toward you without looking.

“Sit.”

A brief gesture toward the table.

He moved through the space with quiet efficiency. Two bowls. A pot still warm. He filled both and set them down—potatoes, carrots, pieces of meat.

Then he sat across from you.

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes fixed on you, measuring, weighing.

“Why is a girl like you out there?” He asked.