Eis has grown used to Alaric’s presence.
He visits most afternoons now, never overstepping, never pressing.
He speaks of the Empire’s roads, the old ruins near the leyline border, and once — very softly — about a city so polished it has forgotten what dust feels like.
She listens because he’s thoughtful.
She answers because he’s respectful.
Only a quiet appreciation — a fondness growing from understanding.
It’s a strange relief.
He brings the children small gifts — nothing excessive, always with intent.
A compass for Tomm, so he might “always find his way home.”
A small book for Elara, about the lives of explorers who mapped the northern kingdoms.
And a silver pin for Nia, shaped like a bird in flight.
They adore him, of course.
She can’t fault them for that.
But when he looks at her — with that calm, evaluating gaze, that patient warmth that feels both honest and practiced — Eis doesn’t feel pulled.
She feels seen, perhaps, but only in the way one traveler regards another at a crossroads.
He seems to notice that.
And he doesn’t push.
One late afternoon, as Eis packs away trays of cooled bread, Alaric lingers by the counter.
The district glows orange in the sunset, reflecting off his armor.
“You don’t strike me as someone easily impressed,” he says conversationally.
“Because I’m not.”
He chuckles, leaning lightly on the counter.
“Then what does impress you, Miss Eis?”
“People who mean what they say.”
The smile fades just slightly, replaced by something more thoughtful.
“Then I’ll make sure to choose my words carefully.”
Eis nods once.
“Good. I value honesty over polish.”
He inclines his head, the faintest smile returning.
“I’ll remember that.”
He leaves soon after, not offended, not discouraged — simply contemplative.
She watches him go, then returns to cleaning, content with the stillness that follows.
Ronan doesn’t ask about Alaric anymore.
He doesn’t need to.
He still comes by early, still helps around the shop, still sits near the canal after dusk with the children when the lights reflect off the water.
If anything, he’s steadier now — a quiet, grounding presence.
Eis has come to rely on that steadiness without realizing it.
When something breaks, he fixes it.
When she’s busy, he fills in.
When she sighs, he listens without asking why.
And every so often, she catches his gaze lingering just a moment too long — not searching, not questioning, simply staying.
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There’s comfort in that.
Maybe even something she hasn’t named yet.
One evening, as Eis serves stew by the window, Nia tugs on her sleeve.
“Miss Eis?”
“Yes, Nia?”
“Why does Mister Ronan always look at you like that?”
Eis blinks.
“Like what?”
“Like when Tomm sees pie.”
Tomm chokes on his drink.
Elara rolls her eyes.
“Nia, that’s not—”
“It is!” the little one insists, indignant. “He looks happy and scared at the same time.”
Eis pauses, halfway through stirring the pot.
“He’s… just being kind.”
“Uh-huh,” Tomm says, grinning. “That’s what Kael says too.”
“What does Kael say?”
“That Mister Ronan’s bad at feelings but good at fixing hinges.”
Elara snorts into her bowl.
Eis says nothing, though her lips twitch faintly at the edges.
Children notice more than adults ever give them credit for.
Ronan isn’t good with words. He’s better with work.
So he works — quietly, steadily.
He helps the children with their chores, teaches Elara a few sword drills “for defense,” and listens patiently when Tomm rants about rune theories that make no sense to anyone but Tomm.
He doesn’t need gratitude.
Just being there is enough.
And yet, some part of him aches every time he sees Alaric by Eis’s window — tall, elegant, confident.
Not because of jealousy, not exactly.
But because Alaric fits into her life with ease.
He, on the other hand, stands beside it — watchful, cautious, like a guard at the edge of a garden he doesn’t dare step into.
He knows it’s foolish — the way his pulse picks up whenever he hears her voice, the way he measures time by her small smiles instead of missions or guild hours.
He tells himself it’s just habit.
Just friendship.
Just… peace.
But peace, he’s realizing, can be far more dangerous than war.
He finds Lira on the Guild Hall’s roof one evening, drinking from a flask.
She raises it when she sees him.
“You look thoughtful. That’s dangerous.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
He sits beside her, the city lights below reflecting in the canal.
“You still hovering around her shop?”
“Helping.”
“Mmh. Helping. Sure.”
He doesn’t respond.
“You know,” Lira says after a moment, “I think she likes you. Just not the way you think she should — not yet, anyway.”
“I’m not asking for that.”
“Then what are you asking for?”
Ronan exhales, watching the city’s lanterns flicker.
“To make sure she doesn’t lose what she’s built.”
Lira studies him, then smirks softly.
“Maybe that’s exactly why she’ll end up trusting you more than anyone else.”
He doesn’t answer.
But something in him — small and tired and quietly hopeful — shifts just slightly toward belief.
The next morning, he finds Tomm trying to repair one of Nia’s broken bird toys.
He crouches beside him, takes the tool gently from his hand, and says,
“You’re over-forcing the gear. Let it move on its own.”
Tomm looks up.
“Miss Eis said that too.”
Ronan smiles faintly.
“Then she’s right.”
When Eis steps in a few minutes later, she finds both of them hunched over the table, quiet and focused, the broken toy now softly fluttering its glass wings again.
“Good as new,” Ronan says, brushing his hands off.
“Better,” she replies. “You fixed the alignment.”
“Just needed patience.”
Their eyes meet for a moment — brief, wordless, something unspoken flickering between them.
Neither of them breaks it first.
There are no declarations, no arguments, no dramatic gestures — only small, quiet truths building day by day.
A hand offered.
A shared glance.
A soft laugh that lingers longer than it should.
Peace is not the absence of longing.
It’s the space where it finally has room to grow.
