Her voice carried a teasing edge, but there was something fragile in it too—like she half-expected him to shrug it off as childish bravado.
Damien didn't falter for a moment. He leaned back slightly, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Ohh," he said casually, almost too casually, "I already lost that job."
Nora blinked. The words hit her like a slap of cold water, knocking her out of her momentary daze.
She leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing, her brows furrowing in confusion.
"What?!" she blurted, her voice rising before softening into a mutter. "How?"
She hadn't been around when he returned the day before, so she knew nothing about what had gone down between Damien and the chief's son.
To her, it was incomprehensible. He had lost the one job that at least brought them a little money—and yet he spoke as though it were nothing.
Damien's smirk didn't falter. If anything, it deepened, his expression brimming with self-assurance.
"It's a… long story," he replied smoothly, brushing off her question like it was unimportant.
He waved a hand faintly, then leaned forward again, his eyes locking onto hers. "But that doesn't change anything about what I said."
The way he said it—firm, unwavering—left no cracks for doubt.
Nora opened her mouth, ready to push, to demand more explanation, but the words caught in her throat.
She stared at him, then closed her mouth again, lips pressing into a thin line. Something about the certainty radiating from him made her falter.
She didn't know how he planned on doing what he promised.
For all she knew, it was reckless confidence born from losing his job. But the way he carried himself, the unshakable belief that poured from his tone, made it strangely difficult not to believe him.
For a fleeting second, she wanted to tease him further, to let a smirk crawl over her own lips and call him a "little boy" playing at being a man.
But the thought withered in her chest almost instantly. Because the person sitting before her… didn't feel like the same Damien from just a few days ago.
Something about him had changed. No—everything about him had changed.
From the sharpness in his eyes to the confidence in his smile, to the way he sat and spoke—it was all different. Even his very presence felt heavier, stronger, as though he had shed an old skin overnight.
Her gaze flickered downward for the briefest moment, her ears reddening as her mind betrayed her with an image she had tried so hard to bury.
And besides… a 'little boy' wouldn't be… packing such down there…
The heat rushed back into her face, and she snapped her eyes away, ears burning crimson.
Before her thoughts could tumble any further into dangerous territory, Claire's soft voice broke the silence.
"You've grown… so much son."
Her words came out almost like a whisper, her lips curving into a gentle smile as her eyes rested on Damien.
There was warmth in her expression, the kind that carried both affection and disbelief.
She hadn't missed the confidence in his voice either, but unlike Nora, she didn't question it directly.
Still, deep down, she didn't fully believe his words about making sure they would never eat without meat again.
She assumed—hoped, even—that he meant to find another job to help them.
To her, that was admirable enough. It meant he was taking responsibility, that he had matured past the old version of him who would still be crying over his lost job.
And that alone was enough to move her.
Besides, there was no way she would allow Damien go back to the chief's house to work. Not after what his useless brat of a son did to him.
Her thoughts betrayed her, however, and flashes of last night tore through her mind.
His body pressed against hers, the heat of him inside her, the way he had taken her again and again until she collapsed in exhaustion.
Her heart skipped a beat, and she swallowed nervously, her cheeks warming.
'Son… you really have matured… so much.' she thought.
Damien simply nodded, his gaze lowering briefly to the empty bowl before him.
He could still feel the dull taste of rice lingering on his tongue.
He had eaten it countless times before—bland, flavorless, unsatisfying. And now, as the silence hung in the room, it hit him harder than ever.
He couldn't stomach this kind of life anymore.
His jaw tightened, and though his face remained composed, there was a glint in his eyes—sharp, resolute.
His lips curled upward faintly, the beginnings of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
'And I already have a plan… a very good one.' he thought.
Pushing himself up from the floor, Damien picked up his plate and quietly carried it back to the kitchen.
Without another word, he walked back to the sitting room, ignoring the gaze of Claire and Nora as he went to the door.
The wooden frame creaked faintly as he pulled it open, the morning light spilling over his figure.
Then, without looking back, Damien stepped outside and left the house behind.
He moved through the narrow paths of the village, heading straight for the outskirts.
The familiar houses and weathered fences gave way to less-trodden ground, the chatter of villagers slowly fading behind him. His destination was clear.
After a few minutes, he arrived at the village gate, guarded by two men clad in leather armor.
Spears rested against their shoulders, and their bored expressions lifted slightly when they noticed Damien approaching.
One of them raised a brow, leaning toward the other. "Where's that kid going?" he muttered under his breath.
The second guard squinted, his gaze tracking Damien as he closed in on the gate. "Looks like he's heading out… but why?"
Their confusion was written plainly on their faces.
Most villagers rarely stepped beyond the gate unless it was for farm work or to gather supplies in the safer outskirts of the forest.
Nonetheless, Damien didn't spare them even a glance.
Passing between them, Damien walked through the gate as though it was nothing more than a line in the dirt.
Minutes bled into more minutes, and Damien soon arrived before a massive tree.
Its trunk was wide enough to take several men holding hands to encircle it, and its bark was scarred, rough, marked by age and weather.
Nailed against its trunk was a wooden sign, the letters painted in bold red strokes:
"Danger Ahead! Don't Proceed Further."