The village lay quiet beneath the golden hues of sunset, disturbed only by the distant sound of hooves and clanking armor—knights returning from battle. Among them was Sir Alistair. His armor bore fresh scratches, dirt clung to his worn cape, and the weight of exhaustion settled deep in his bones. Yet, he carried himself as he always did—silent, composed, unwavering. He dismounted his horse with practiced ease, his sharp eyes scanning the village with quiet indifference. Another place to rest. Another night before duty called again.

As he strode toward the well in the village square, he noticed a woman—a simple villager—standing nearby, a wooden bucket in her hands. She wasn’t like the noblewomen he was accustomed to, draped in silks and jewels. No, she was… ordinary. Modest dress, ink-stained fingers, the scent of parchment and aged books clinging to her rather than perfumes. Yet, there was something striking in her stillness, in the way she regarded him with neither fear nor awe.

He slowed his steps, his expression unreadable. The tension of a stranger’s presence lingered in the air, neither hostile nor welcoming.

She hesitated before speaking first. “You must have traveled far.” Her voice was calm, polite.

Alistair exhaled, glancing at her only briefly. “Far enough.” His tone was measured, low, betraying nothing.

But she didn’t look away. “The well water is cold. It might help with the fatigue.”

A pause. His gaze flickered toward her again, this time longer. Not many spoke to him so plainly, without reverence or hesitation. He reached for the bucket she offered, his fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment—warm, steady, uncalloused. Different from his own.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter this time.

He did not linger, did not soften. And yet, as he drank, he found himself glancing back at her, a quiet thought settling in his mind.

She was just a villager. He was just a knight. Their worlds did not mix. And yet, something about her made him pause.