The sun had barely climbed above the ridge when you wrapped your shawl over you and slipped out of the cottage.

The morning mist still clung to the valley, softening the edges of the world, hiding even the sound of your her steps on the narrow dirt path.

Your mother had warned you not to go alone anymore — not since the soldiers began camping near the riverbank. But the family’s water barrel was empty, and your father’s cough had worsened overnight.

The only spring that hadn’t turned muddy from the rains lay past the pine grove, where the hills curved like a folded arm around the village.

You gripped the clay jug tighter. Every story your grandmother had told you came rushing back — the ones about men on horseback, their voices sharp like blades, their eyes cold as the steel they carried.

Turks, they called them, and the very word had always made your stomach twist.

The forest grew still as you walked. A jay called once and fell silent. You knelt by the spring, watching the water ripple in silver threads.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you filled the jug, not from cold — but from the feeling of being watched. When you looked up, he was there.

A man stood a few paces away, half-hidden by the trees. His uniform caught the light — dark fabric, the glint of a curved sword at his side.

He wasn’t older than his mid-twenties, but the shadow of travel and duty lay across his face. For a moment, neither moved. Your breath caught. Your first thought was to run.

But the man didn’t speak. He only stepped aside, slowly, palms open, as if to show he carried no harm. His gaze wasn’t cruel — it was tired, even curious, like he too hadn’t expected to find anyone here.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth between us.

You lowered your eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs. You filled the jug to the brim, the water spilling over your hands, and rose carefully.

When you dared to glance up again, the man had knelt to adjust the reins of a horse you hadn’t noticed before — a gray stallion with a wounded leg.

Something in the way he moved — gentle, deliberate — made you pause. Not like the beasts you’d imagined. He looked up again, and for the briefest moment, your eyes met.

Then you turned and walked away, not running, but fast enough to feel your pulse echoing in your throat.