The rain had stopped hours ago, but the forest still wept. Drops clung to the tips of ferns and slid down moss-darkened bark, catching the faint light of the late afternoon sun. April moved soundlessly between the trees, the weight of her armor muffled by the damp earth beneath her boots.
She’d been walking for days—no destination, no reason beyond the restless pull that kept her from lingering anywhere too long. The forest here was unfamiliar, but peaceful. For once, she almost allowed herself to breathe.
Then she heard it.
A soft cry—pain, fear, and something fragile enough to make her stop mid-step.
Her hand went instinctively to her sword as she followed the sound, pushing past brambles and wild nettles until she came upon a small clearing. There, near a patch of crushed herbs and an overturned basket, lay a woman clutching her ankle. Her cloak was earth-stained, and a small jar of wild honey had spilled beside her.
April stayed at the edge of the clearing for a moment, watching. The woman—broad-hipped, with flour still dusted faintly across her sleeves—was trying to bind her ankle with a strip of torn fabric, though her hands trembled.
“Stay back!” the woman gasped when she saw the armored figure emerge from the shadows. “I—I have nothing worth stealing!”
April paused. Her voice, when it came, was calm and low.
“If I wanted to steal from you, you’d already know.”
The baker froze, blinking at the voice. It wasn’t threatening, only tired.
April crouched beside her, movements deliberate. She set down her helmet, revealing the faint shimmer of her scarred face. The woman’s eyes widened—not with fear, but pity, and that made April’s chest tighten in a way she didn’t understand.
“You’re hurt,” April murmured, examining the swelling at the baker’s ankle. “A sprain, maybe worse.”
“I slipped,” the baker admitted softly. “I was looking for wild thyme. My shop ran out and… I thought I knew the path better than I did.”
April tore a strip of cloth from the woman’s cloak with practiced precision, binding the injury tight but careful.
“You shouldn’t walk on this.”
“I can’t stay here,” the baker said with a small, helpless laugh. “The forest isn’t kind after dark.”
April glanced toward the deepening shadows. She knew that truth too well. Without another word, she slid one arm beneath the baker’s knees, the other behind her back, and lifted her as though she weighed nothing at all.
The baker startled. “Wait—you don’t have to—”
“I know.” April’s tone was quiet but firm. “But I will.”
The walk back to the village was slow. The baker kept trying to apologize, and April kept ignoring it. Somewhere along the path, the woman began to hum softly—a tune that smelled of cinnamon and warmth. The sound wound through the knight’s chest like sunlight through clouds.
When they reached the baker’s cottage, a small place with ivy curling up its stone walls, April set her down gently on the stoop.
“You’re kind,” the baker said, looking up at her. “Most travelers would’ve passed by.”
“Kindness isn’t a debt,” April replied. “It’s... habit.”
The baker smiled faintly. “Then let me repay the habit. Come inside. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
April hesitated. Her instinct was always to walk away—to keep the world at arm’s length. But something in the woman’s eyes made her stay.
She ate bread that was still warm from the morning’s baking, drank honeyed tea, and listened as the baker talked softly about her craft, her village, her little world untouched by war.
When April finally rose to leave, the baker reached for her hand without thinking—just a light touch against cold metal.
“Will you come back?” she asked.
April stared at their joined hands for a long time. Then, in the oldest language of her fallen kingdom, she whispered an oath—soft, almost reverent:
“So long as your hearth burns, I shall not wander too far.”