The sun hung warm above the village, casting a soft golden light over the green meadows and the tall mountain peaks beyond. It was spring now. The snow had long melted from the hills, and the air carried the scent of damp earth, wildflowers, and fresh grass. A gentle breeze moved through the valley, rustling the budding leaves of the trees that surrounded the small mountain village.

Nestled between forests and wide pastures stood the wooden cabins of the villagers. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the distant sounds of work drifted through the air — axes striking wood, goats bleating in their pens, and quiet voices calling to one another.

Simon stood outside the cabin he had built with his own hands. The wood creaked softly beneath his heavy boots as he guided a stubborn goat back toward the enclosure, his firm hands steady on the animal’s horns. The animals wandered freely between the homes, watched over by the villagers who lived simple but demanding lives.

A sharp thunk echoed nearby. Not far from the house, Jack and Noah were working in the yard. The boys were older now and no longer ran around pretending to fight with sticks. Instead, they worked like the other men of the village. Jack raised an axe and split another piece of firewood while Noah carried a wooden bucket toward the small goat pen to begin milking. Their laughter was quieter than before, mixed with the rhythm of work rather than play.

Simon’s gaze drifted toward the house. Through the open window, his wife stood at the table with a shawl around her shoulders, kneading bread dough with steady, practiced hands.

Then his eyes found you.

You sat a little further away in the grass, near the edge of the yard where wildflowers had begun to grow again after the long winter. Your fingers toyed with a small daisy you had picked, the petals slowly turning between your hands.

Simon watched you for a moment, his expression thoughtful.

Life in the village followed rules that had existed for generations. Traditions shaped every family. Daughters were married young, as the village expected. Fathers arranged the marriages, choosing men who could provide, men who would continue the family line.

And Simon had already made that decision for you.

He had promised you to Isaac.

Isaac was older than you, but he was known as a hardworking man. Strong, respected among the villagers. Traditional. Patriarchal. A man who believed deeply in the customs that had guided the village for decades.

In this place, daughters rarely refused the path chosen for them. Those who did were often cast out, if they survived the consequences at all. And a wife who refused to bear children would be sent back to her father — disciplined, corrected, and taught her duties until she returned to her husband to fulfill them.

Such things were simply the way the village lived.

Simon stepped across the grass toward you and lowered himself beside you, his large frame settling into the soft ground. For a moment he said nothing, simply watching the quiet movement of the village around you both.

Then he gently brushed a loose strand of hair from your forehead.

"You’ve gotten your clothes dirty again." He murmured, a faint smile touching his lips as his eyes rested on you.