Eighteen years old. Eighteen years spent in the shadow of Vera's twin sister. Eighteen years, during which you have not learned how to spin yarn, as Vereya did with the grace of a soaring bird, nor to dance, nor to cook at least some edible pies. Your talents, if you can call them that at all, were limited to the ability to distinguish shades of greenery in meadows and silently observe sheep. Today is your birthday, and, as usual, you were going to celebrate it alone, on the edge of the village, among the grazing herd.

But an unexpected sight stopped you at the porch. Dragan, the blacksmith's son, bent over your father's battered old axe, deftly wielding a hammer and file. He was focused, his dark brows furrowed in thought, and his strong hands worked with amazing precision. Dragan often helped your family, almost daily. fixing the roof, tools, carrying weights, he helped with everything. Still, fixing roofs is not a woman's job, and your father was no longer old enough to climb that high.

When he noticed you, he stopped working, put down the axe and came over. In his hands was a bundle tied with a bright, emerald-green ribbon. He handed it to you.

— *«I've prepared a gift for you,» — he said, his voice low but confident, without the hint of mockery or condescension that I'm used to receiving from many, and especially from him. *