CHAPTER 1: THE ENCHANTING ENCOUNTER
Freesia was not a village one simply stumbled upon.
Tucked deep within the lands of Aster—veiled by rolling meadows and dense woodland—it thrived in serene isolation. Perfumed air drifted thick with the scent of roses and jasmine, curling through cobblestone paths like a slow, deliberate spell.
Here, flowers were not merely admired. They were cultivated, pressed, and bottled into dreams. And of all the perfumers and florists whose names were whispered with quiet reverence, one lingered like the last note of a song—soft, haunting, impossible to forget:
Rosemary Greenwood.
The Lady of the Lake.
Her home stood at the water's edge, where the unnamed lake mirrored sky and moon alike. It was a modest cabin—weathered but warm—wrapped in ivy and flowering vines. The water had no name, though some swore it kept its own counsel, holding every secret whispered to it. Rosemary never gave it one. Some things were safer unnamed.
The lake was her confidant, its still surface a reflection of her own quiet. In it, she had learned that calm could be a shield, and that the depths could hide more than they revealed.
She lived quietly, like the wind skimming over water, and preferred it that way.
At the market, villagers stole glances when they thought she wasn't looking. Her beauty was a thing spoken of in hushed tones, as though uttering it aloud might summon her.
Hair the shade of burnished chestnuts—long, red-brown, kissed by autumn light. Eyes gentle as falling rain. A voice like the hush of reeds stirred by wind. She rarely raised it, but when she did, even the birds seemed to listen.
Yet for all her grace, Rosemary remained out of reach.
Some believed she was guarding an old heartbreak. Others whispered she waited for a love as strange and silent as the lake itself.
No one truly knew.
No one had ever come close enough.
---
The Arrival of a Stranger
That was before he arrived.
On an unremarkable afternoon—too warm for anything important to happen—a stranger passed through Freesia's gates.
Tall, golden-haired, moving with the unhurried stride of someone who had nothing to fear—or at least wanted to appear that way. A sword hung at his side, its scabbard worn smooth with use. He carried himself with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to danger, though his eyes were the sort that measured a room before stepping inside. He smiled easily, spoke gently, and revealed nothing of his origin.
When he asked for water, the villagers directed him to the lake, their voices carrying an undercurrent of mischief.
"Maybe the Lady of the Lake will notice this one," someone murmured.
The traveler followed the winding path toward the shoreline. From the shadow of the forest, he stepped into light—and saw her.
She stood at the water's edge, a basket looped over one arm, bare fingers trailing over the surface. The lake barely rippled beneath her touch. She was turned away from him, yet he stopped as though rooted.
The way she moved…
As if the breeze itself belonged to her.
She lifted a rose to her face, inhaling gently. The flower's crimson seemed richer in her hands, a bloom coaxed into perfection yet still bearing its thorns. Her gaze was faraway, fixed on something no one else could see. There was a stillness about her, the sort carried not by dreamers but by those who have survived being hunted.
Then, she turned.
Their eyes met.
For the space of a heartbeat—something flickered. A spark not made, but remembered. Like two ripples meeting in the same still water.
She blinked once. Then again. He did not look away.
"You're staring," she said coolly.
His mouth curved. "Can you blame me?"
She arched a brow.
"I was admiring the view," he added.
"The lake, or me?"
"Must I choose?"
Her fingers brushed the rose's petals, slow and deliberate, careful not to touch the thorn.
"Are you here to buy flowers?"
"Perhaps," he said, shifting his weight. "But I'm more curious about the florist."
That earned him a glance—neither impressed nor amused, yet not dismissive either.
"Men have said that before," she replied. "They leave with roses. Nothing more."
His smile deepened, though something in his eyes cooled for a fraction of a second—too brief for her to be certain. "Then maybe I should buy two."
A small laugh escaped her—light, unguarded, the kind that made the air pause. It wasn't merely pretty; it was rare, a secret spilling by accident.
She hadn't laughed like that in a long time. She didn't know why she had.
He stepped closer—not enough to crowd her, just enough for her to see the sharpness in his gaze. Curiosity without hunger. Interest without haste.
"And you?" she asked. "Do you make a habit of charming strangers?"
"Only the ones who speak to roses."
Her lips curved again, almost imperceptibly.
---
A Rhythm of Intrigue
He came back the next day.
And the next.
Sometimes with questions about daisies. Sometimes with stories—windswept roads, far-off cities, people who burned too brightly. Each time, he stayed a little longer.
She listened. Never fully trusting, yet never sending him away. Her answers were measured, her silences longer than most would dare. She had learned, long ago, that listening told you more than speaking.
He watched her hands in the soil, the careful way she potted each bloom, the reverence in her touch. Every movement was precise. Guarded. She had been wounded—that much was certain.
But she was not the only one keeping something hidden.
Beneath his easy charm, there was calculation. The way he measured each word before speaking. The way his posture shifted whenever a rider passed too close to the lake road. How his gaze sharpened at the sound of distant hooves before softening again in an instant—like ripples erased by wind.
One morning, as he helped her carry baskets of fresh-cut roses toward her stall, she said without warning:
"You lie very well."
The traveler blinked, then smiled faintly. "I haven't lied to you."
"You just haven't told the truth."
A pause.
He looked at her then—really looked—and smiled. Wry. Unreadable.
"Touché."
They walked on in silence.
Behind them, the lake lay still, reflecting nothing it did not choose to.
And just like that, the game began.
CHAPTER 2: THE ECHOES OF THE PAST
The morning was too beautiful for old ghosts.
Gold spilled slowly across Freesia, painting rooftops and dew-bright petals. The lake mirrored the sky with a silver calm, its surface stirred only by the faintest ripple—like breath caught mid-thought.
Birdsong threaded through the breeze, weaving with the scent of roses in bloom.
Yet beneath the serenity, something inside Rosemary was unravelling.
She knelt in the garden behind her cabin, fingers dusted with soil, the hem of her skirt damp from the morning dew. Her hands moved with habitual care—checking leaves for pests, brushing petals delicately, turning the soil with the patience of someone who had done it a thousand times.
But her mind—
Her mind was far from Freesia.
---
A Memory That Never Faded
It began with a scent.
Not the soft perfume of roses, but the acrid tang of smoke. Burning wood. And blood.
Her breath caught. The memory rose like a tide she could not hold back.
The lake was gone. In its place: fire.
She was small again. Barefoot. Shivering. A child in the heart of a nightmare.
Flames painted the sky orange. Screams tore through the village like wolves. Men shouted—hard, greedy voices. Her father's cry. Her mother's scream.
And her sister's hand—tight around her wrist, dragging her through chaos.
"Don't look back, Rosemary!"
But she had.
She saw the blade that stilled her father's breath. The crimson blooming across her mother's chest. The collapse of their home under the weight of flames.
Too much. She saw too much.
Then—the forest. Hooves pounding. A stolen horse beneath them, its labored breath loud in the dark. Wind whipping her hair. Branches clawing at her arms. Daisy's voice, fierce and shaking:
"Hold on!"
But the river did not care for pleas.
One slip. One rush of water. Rosemary was gone from the saddle—dragged under by the current's cold grip.
She remembered the weight of the water, the crushing silence as she reached for her sister's hand.
She remembered the look on Daisy's face—horror, helplessness—before the river swallowed them apart.
And then—nothing.
Darkness.
When light returned, it was not her sister's face she saw.
It was a boy—mud on his boots, water dripping from his sleeves—kneeling beside her on the riverbank. His eyes were wide with worry, his voice unsteady as he said,
"Breathe. You're safe now."
She didn't know him, but his hands were steady as he helped her sit up, his coat wrapped around her shoulders.
Jonathan Joardain. Jojo.
He would become the anchor she hadn't known she needed.
---
A Touch of the Present
Her hand trembled.
The garden swayed gently in the breeze, as though trying to soothe her. Rosemary blinked hard, pulling herself back into the present. Her fingers found the pendant at her throat—silver, small, worn smooth by years of worry.
The past still lived inside it.
"Miss Rosemary?"
The voice cut softly into her thoughts.
She turned. A man stood at the edge of her stall. Familiar—one of the quiet customers. He had bought roses before, speaking little.
Today, his eyes carried something like concern.
"You seemed far away," he said.
Rosemary brushed dirt from her hands and offered a faint smile. "Just old thoughts. Nothing worth repeating."
He nodded, though his gaze drifted lower—toward her chest.
The pendant had slipped from her collar, catching the sunlight.
"You've had that for a long time, haven't you?"
Her heart skipped, though her smile did not waver.
"Yes."
A moment passed, unbroken except for the soft rustle of petals.
He chose a bouquet of roses, placing coins on the stall with a deliberate touch.
As he turned to leave, he murmured—more to himself than to her:
"If flowers could speak… I wonder what secrets they'd tell."
Then he was gone, swallowed by the hum of the market.
---
A Whisper Left Behind
Rosemary stood still.
The pendant seemed heavier now, cold against her skin. Her hand curled around it, hiding it from the light.
Her gaze drifted toward the lake.
Its surface glittered with morning sun—but her reflection was absent, swallowed by shadow.
Daisy, she thought.
Where are you?
Are you alive?
Have you forgotten me?
She didn't say the words aloud.
The lake heard them anyway.
CHAPTER 3: WHISPERS OF JEALOUSY
Freesia's market was in full bloom.
The sun hung high overhead, spilling through rows of striped canopies and turning fruit skins to glossy jewels. Spices unfurled in the air like invisible banners—basil, lavender, cinnamon—while every few paces came the hiss of oil in iron pans and the bark of vendors hawking roasted chestnuts or caramel pears.
Amid the chatter, Rosemary moved like a swan through a pond—graceful, silent, untouched by the noise. Her basket brimmed with roses and daisies, their colours startling against her soft brown skirts.
People noticed. They always did.
"She looks like she stepped out of a painting," murmured one woman, eyes narrowed.
Another replied, voice sour as unripe fruit, "Beauty doesn't feed your children. It just makes you trouble."
Rosemary heard them. Of course she did. But she didn't flinch, didn't look back. She had long since learned to let admiration dressed in envy drift past her like smoke.
---
The Forge and the Florist
The clang of steel on steel rang from the far end of the square—the forge.
That sound was familiar. Reassuring.
JoJo stood at his anvil, hammer raised, sweat cutting clean paths down the soot on his skin. Sparks burst from the iron in showers of gold, hissing as they died. The air around him was thick with the scent of smoke and scorched metal—sharper now for the trace of rosemary drifting from the flowers she carried.
When she approached, he looked up. And grinned.
"Well, well. If it isn't the Lady of the Lake herself," he called, wiping his brow with a theatrical sweep. "I must've done something right to earn such divine company."
Rosemary tilted her head, lips faintly curved. "Maybe I was just drawn by the noise."
"Ouch. And here I thought it was my winning personality."
"More likely your sarcasm."
JoJo clutched at his chest. "Cruel. But fair."
---
A Rival Unseen
For a moment, it felt simple—her leaning against the stool, him working the forge. The rhythm of their banter. The comfort of shared years.
But the rhythm faltered.
JoJo's hammer paused mid-swing. "So," he said lightly, too lightly, "I hear the mysterious traveller's been hanging around your lake."
She plucked at the hem of her sleeve. "He's curious about flowers."
JoJo snorted. "Most men who ask that many questions aren't after gardening tips."
"He listens," Rosemary said. "That's more than most."
The hammer came down a little too hard, sending a sharp ring through the air.
"Charm. Pretty face. Fancy words. I'd bet my best tongs he's not from around here."
"He doesn't hide it," she replied. "I think he wants people to wonder."
"You trust him?"
"Not especially."
"But you like him."
She met his gaze without blinking.
"I don't know what I feel yet."
JoJo looked away, his jaw tightening. "You know, I could say I told you so. About pretty boys and secrets."
"You could," she said evenly. "But then I might remind you of that time you almost sold a horseshoe to a priest as a door ornament."
JoJo groaned. "One time. One mistake."
She smiled despite herself.
---
A Shadow in the Crowd
The sound of the market shifted.
At first, it was just a thinning of voices, like someone had drawn a curtain over the noise. Then feet slowed. Heads turned.
And the men appeared.
Tall. Grim. Cloaked in black and steel. Their boots struck stone with the rhythm of marching drums, parting the crowd with cold precision.
At their centre walked Lucius Wisteria.
Polished boots. A cloak edged in gold. A smile that didn't reach his eyes. He moved as though the street itself bent to his will.
Rosemary felt it at once—that faint tightening in her chest, like a splinter under the skin.
JoJo shifted without thinking, a fraction forward, his arm resting on the anvil in a way that looked casual but wasn't.
"Stay close," he murmured.
Lucius's gaze found her in an instant.
The smirk deepened.
He altered his path without hesitation.
CHAPTER 4: THE CLASH OF INTENTIONS
The market had fallen eerily silent.
What was once filled with music, merchant calls, and children's laughter was now soaked in a breathless hush. Heads turned slowly. Eyes darted. And without needing to speak, the villagers began to shift away—making space without being told.
They knew who was coming.
The Wisteria name carried farther than any voice. It was carved into every tax ledger, signed on every land deed, stamped onto the very fences that marked the village borders. The family owned Freesia the way the sun owned daylight—utterly, without contest.
At its head sat Count Javier Wisteria, a noble so wealthy even lords from beyond the city whispered he was too rich for one man's grasp.
And Lucius Wisteria was his heir.
The sound of synchronized boots striking stone echoed across the square.
They weren't just men—they were symbols. Symbols of fear, of authority misused, of a name too rich to be touched.
Lucius didn't need to shout to be seen. He wore his ego like his cloak—midnight black trimmed in gold, tailored to perfection. The embroidery alone was enough to feed three families for a year.
He smiled.
Not kindly.
But with the smugness of a man who had never once been told no.
And he was walking straight toward her.
---
Heat Under Ice
Rosemary did not move.
She didn't look away.
She met Lucius's eyes with a quiet, coiled strength that burned colder than ice.
JoJo stepped beside her, arms folded over his chest, steel rod casually within reach. "Well," he muttered, "there goes the morning."
Lucius stopped just a few paces from them. His entourage fanned out behind him like silent shadows, each one exuding menace.
"Rosemary," he said, his voice smooth and deliberate, "still so radiant. Freesia's market doesn't deserve you. But then again, Freesia itself exists because my family allows it."
She kept her tone flat. "What do you want?"
He placed a hand over his chest, mock-offended. "Is it so strange that I visit a lady I admire?"
JoJo answered before she could. "It is when the lady tells you she's not interested. Repeatedly."
Lucius didn't even look at him. "The blacksmith again. Still clinging to sparks and sweat, hoping one day you'll be more than a tradesman."
JoJo grinned. "At least I'm not crawling beneath someone else's skirt to pay for mine."
A faint twitch at the corner of Lucius's mouth—smoothed away in an instant.
---
The Offer She Didn't Ask For
He turned back to Rosemary.
"I've come to make a generous offer," he said. "One that could change your life entirely—if you have the sense to take it."
"I'm not interested," she said immediately.
"You haven't even heard it."
"I've heard enough."
Lucius stepped closer.
"You deserve better than this," he said, gesturing lightly toward her stall. "A flower stall and dirt under your nails? Please. You should be a queen—silk on your skin, gold at your feet, power in your hand. And all it would cost is a single 'yes.'"
JoJo snorted. "Let me guess. You're the one who'll give her all that?"
Lucius smiled faintly. "And what would you offer her? A hammer and a cot? My name opens gates across the kingdom, blacksmith. Yours keeps you in the mud."
JoJo opened his mouth to fire back—but Rosemary raised a hand, stopping him.
Her eyes locked onto Lucius.
"If I wanted what you're offering," she said slowly, "don't you think I would have said yes by now?"
Lucius's smile thinned.
For a flicker of a moment, his eyes sharpened.
"You've always been difficult," he said.
"And you've always mistaken obsession for love."
His expression faltered.
Then returned—tighter, colder.
"Careful," he said. "You wouldn't want to provoke me. My family protects its own… and what belongs to us."
JoJo stepped forward. "Or what?"
Lucius raised his hand.
---
The Spark That Lit the Fire
Two of his men lunged forward.
Before Rosemary could even shout, one grabbed JoJo's shoulder, yanking him back.
The other drove a fist into his side.
JoJo staggered, caught off guard—but recovered fast, slamming his elbow into the attacker's ribs. A sharp crack echoed as the man dropped back with a grunt.
JoJo reached for his rod—but the second guard grabbed his wrist mid-motion and twisted hard.
A hiss of pain escaped JoJo's lips.
Another guard moved in, driving a knee into his ribs.
Rosemary shouted, "Stop!"
Lucius raised a finger—and the men froze.
JoJo crumpled to one knee, breathing hard, arm wrapped protectively over his ribs.
Lucius looked down at him, shaking his head in mock pity.
"This could've been avoided."
Rosemary stepped in front of JoJo, shielding him.
"Leave."
Lucius tilted his head. "Is that how you speak to your future—?"
"Leave."
A pause.
His eyes flicked to her hand. She was trembling—just slightly. But her eyes had not blinked once.
Behind him, his men stood ready.
Waiting.
JoJo coughed again, barely upright.
Lucius let out a breath through his nose.
And then—
---
The Stranger's Voice
"Enough."
The word cut through the square like a drawn blade.
Not shouted.
Not dramatic.
Just… final.
Lucius paused.
Slowly, heads turned.
And there—on the edge of the gathered crowd—stood a stranger.
The same man the villagers had whispered about.
The mysterious traveller.
He looked unbothered. Calm. Standing with one hand on his hip, the other resting loosely near the hilt of a sword he had never drawn. Golden hair. Dignified posture. But most of all—
An aura.
Not of nobility.
But of experience.
Danger. Precision.
Authority that didn't need explanation.
Lucius narrowed his eyes.
"And who are you?" he asked.
The traveller didn't answer.
He just stepped forward.
Every step echoed.
And every breath held.
CHAPTER 5: SHADOWS AND RESCUE
The air had weight.
Not the softness of the lake breeze or the warmth of village sun—this was heavier. It pressed like storm clouds on the verge of breaking.
Lucius's lips curled into a sharp, amused smile as the crowd parted further, revealing the man who had dared interrupt him.
The traveller.
Golden-haired. Lean. Steady.
He moved forward with a confidence that didn't shout—it declared. His cloak swayed like a second shadow, boots falling in deliberate, unhurried steps.
He stopped just shy of the invisible line between Lucius and Rosemary.
The guards tensed. Lucius remained still, eyes narrowing in calculation.
"You're interrupting something," Lucius said coolly, each syllable polished with the kind of entitlement only generations of unchallenged wealth could breed.
The traveller met his gaze without flinching. "Yes. I noticed."
Lucius tilted his chin, the faintest hint of condescension curling his lip. "You may not know who I am, so let me explain your error—"
"I know who you are," the traveller interrupted.
He hadn't raised his voice, but the market somehow grew quieter.
"And I've seen what you are."
A faint crack appeared in Lucius's composure—gone as quickly as it came. "Then you know this isn't your concern."
The traveller's head tilted slightly. "I've decided otherwise."
---
Thin Ice and Shattered Ego
JoJo, still crouched behind Rosemary, coughed. Blood streaked his lip, but his eyes gleamed at the timing.
Rosemary stayed silent.
Something in the stranger's tone—its unshakable calm—felt more dangerous than rage.
Lucius gave a dry chuckle. "You must be one of those wandering heroes peasants tell stories about. The kind who thinks honor can stop a sword."
"No," the traveller said. "I'm the kind who stops it before it's drawn."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Lucius's jaw tightened.
He raised his hand.
The Wisteria guards advanced.
The traveller moved before they reached him—no rush, no wasted motion.
He pivoted, catching the first man's wrist mid-lunge. A twist, a sharp shift of weight—and the hilt of the guard's own blade slammed into his ribs.
The second charged with raw strength.
The traveller sidestepped, his elbow striking temple with surgical precision.
Neither blow was showy. Neither lingered.
Both guards hit the ground breathing—but unwilling to rise.
The others hesitated.
For the first time, real doubt flickered in Lucius's expression.
---
Veins of Fire
"You've made your point," Lucius said tightly.
The traveller stayed silent, standing between Lucius and Rosemary like a wall that had always been there.
Lucius looked past him now, voice curling in accusation. "You let this man fight for you?"
Rosemary's answer was ice. "No one fights for me. But they seem willing to fight because of you."
A pause stretched, heavy.
Lucius's gaze turned flat, his tone stripped of its practiced charm. "You've made an enemy today."
The traveller spoke before she could. "No. She had one already."
Lucius's jaw worked, but he turned with a snap of his cloak. "We're leaving."
The silk was gone from his voice. Only stone remained.
The Wisteria guards followed, shaken and bruised.
The crowd didn't cheer. They just watched.
Too stunned. Too wary. Too aware the family's reach did not end here.
---
Aftermath
Rosemary's breath finally broke through in small, sharp exhales.
JoJo groaned, trying to stand. The traveller knelt, offering an arm—gentle this time.
"Careful," he said.
JoJo winced. "Ribs'll be fine. Pride might take longer."
Rosemary steadied him. "You were reckless."
"I was right," he muttered.
Her eyes lifted to the traveller's.
Up close, he was even less of a mystery—and somehow more of one. Not a passing guest. Not with reflexes like that. Not with the stillness of someone who had stood in far worse storms.
"…Thank you," she said softly.
He gave a single nod. "It's not over."
She
already knew.
Lucius Wisteria would not forget humiliation.
But for the first time, she didn't feel alone in what was coming.
CHAPTER 6: BENEATH THE SURFACE
The cabin was quiet.
Not peaceful—just heavy. Like the silence after a storm, when the air still tastes of lightning and the earth pretends it never trembled.
Rosemary moved carefully through the room, bowl in hand. She knelt beside the couch where JoJo lay sprawled, shirt half open, skin blooming with deep purple bruises across his ribs—the same ribs that had taken Lucius Wisteria's message earlier that day.
He hadn't woken since they'd gotten him inside.
A washcloth, damp and fragrant with rosewater, trailed from her fingers. She touched it to his temple, wiping away the last smear of dried blood.
"JoJo," she whispered.
No answer.
His breathing was steady, but shallow. His hands lay limp at his sides, his jaw slack in uneasy sleep.
She blinked against the heat in her eyes.
"This is my fault."
The words came raw. The last one nearly broke in her throat.
"I should've stopped him," she said. "Shouldn't have let him talk. Shouldn't have let him fight."
She pressed the cloth to his ribs again, slower this time, as if she could erase the bruises by will alone.
"Oh, my sweet JoJo," she murmured. "Why did you always have to be the one to stand between us?"
---
A Quiet Watcher
Across the room, unmoving, the traveller stood in shadow near the doorway.
He hadn't spoken since they arrived.
Hadn't left either.
His presence was as constant as it was silent.
One hand rested against the wall, the other loose at his side. His eyes stayed on JoJo—not searching, not impatient, just watchful. Like a man standing guard over a fire that might flare without warning.
He didn't interrupt.
Even as Rosemary's voice trembled.
Even as her fingers lingered a heartbeat too long against JoJo's hand.
He simply watched.
---
The Guilt She Couldn't Hide
When Rosemary finally stood, her shoulders were drawn tight under the weight of something she couldn't yet name. She rinsed the cloth in the basin, the motion mechanical.
She didn't look at him—not directly—but she knew he was still there.
Her voice was low, meant for no one, but it hung in the air between them.
"I never wanted him involved."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was listening.
She gripped the counter, knuckles white.
"I need air," she said, and left without waiting for a reply.
---
Left Behind
The traveller stayed.
He crossed the room with unhurried steps, stopping beside JoJo.
He studied the bruises. Not with pity—pity was for things already lost.
With thought.
"You shouldn't have stepped forward," he murmured, voice too soft to carry.
His eyes lingered on the young man's face for a moment longer before drifting away.
His stance shifted—not into readiness, but into something older, more deliberate. For just a breath, his spine straightened, chin lifting in a way that spoke of salutes, of ceremonies, of long-forgotten oaths.
It was gone before it could be named.
He moved to the window.
Outside, the lake mirrored the stars in fractured silver.
Rosemary stood at the dock's edge, arms wrapped around herself against the wind.
She didn't look back.
The traveller said nothing.
He simply watched.
And waited.
CHAPTER 7: BENEATH THE STARLIT LAKE
The stars had emerged in full above Freesia—bright pinpricks scattered across a sky so deep it might swallow the world whole. The lake mirrored them in fractured silver and black, broken only by the soft lapping of water against the dock.
It should have been peaceful.
But Rosemary knew better.
Somewhere out there, the Wisteria name still hung over them like a shadow waiting for the right moment to fall.
She stood alone.
Or so she thought.
Arms folded, her breath visible in the cool night air, she stared into the reflection, trying to settle the storm in her chest. The confrontation in the market was over. Lucius had walked away. JoJo was inside, still breathing, still bruised.
But nothing felt finished.
She was still holding her breath.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
The voice didn't startle her.
It didn't need to.
She knew he'd followed.
Arthur—though she didn't know that name yet—stood a few paces behind, his cloak loose around his shoulders, one hand tucked behind his back, the other resting easily at his side. He wasn't watching the lake.
He was watching her.
"No," she said. "Sleep doesn't come easily after threats and bruised ribs."
He stepped closer, his boots quiet against the wood.
She didn't turn.
"Why did you step in?" she asked.
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted.
"Because someone needed to," he said simply.
---
What Was Left Behind
They stood like that for a moment—two shadows mirrored by the water.
She finally turned to him.
Her voice softened, almost hesitant. "You didn't have to."
"I know."
She studied him.
"Then why really?"
He didn't answer right away. His gaze turned toward the lake, watching the light ripple over the water.
"The kind of man I used to be," he said at last. "I came here to forget him."
That answer carried weight—not just memory, but regret.
She searched his face in the dark.
"…Do you have a name?" she asked, quieter now.
A pause.
Then he looked at her—not away, not through her, but at her.
"Arthur."
The name lingered between them. Not a title. Not an explanation.
Just truth.
---
Unspoken Wounds
"You act like someone trained to kill," she said.
"I was."
"For who?"
He didn't answer.
That silence was answer enough.
She turned back toward the lake.
Arthur stepped beside her now, not too close, but close enough for their reflections to meet.
"I've been hiding too long," he said quietly. "And I thought I could keep hiding. But today… I remembered what it means to step forward."
Rosemary looked at him now—really looked.
His face was handsome, yes, but it carried too many years for a man so young. Not in lines, but in eyes.
"I don't know who you are yet," she said. "And I'm not ready to trust you."
He nodded once.
"I wouldn't ask you to."
"But," she added, "you stepped forward when no one else did."
Her voice was steady now.
"And that matters to me."
---
The First Spark
Their eyes met.
Neither smiled.
But something shifted between them.
Not warmth. Not comfort.
Something unexplainable, yet calm.
Understanding.
The stars rippled across the lake. A soft breeze drifted between them. Far in the trees, an owl called once, then fell silent.
"I won't stay hidden," Arthur said. "Not this time."
She didn't answer. Not with words.
But she stood beside him a little longer.
And didn't move away.
CHAPTER 8: A SCENT OF LONGING
A soft warmth surrounded JoJo as he drifted back into consciousness.
Before memory returned, he noticed it—the scent.
Floral. Clean. Comforting.
And hers.
It wasn't just a scent. It was a memory. A feeling. A wound and a balm at once.
His eyes opened slowly. Candlelight danced against the cabin's wooden walls. The curtains swayed in the breeze, carrying with them that faint perfume of roses and daisies.
It smelled like home.
It smelled like her.
He shifted beneath the blankets, curling an arm around the pillow. The linens held the trace of her presence, and for a moment, the ache in his ribs didn't matter.
Without thinking, he whispered,
> "It's like hugging Rosemary…"
Then he blinked, sat up, and shook himself.
What the hell am I saying?
JoJo rubbed his face and swung his legs over the bed. His ribs throbbed with dull protest, the fight with Lucius's men still written across his body.
"Weak punches," he muttered.
Still, he felt the pull.
"I should find her."
---
A Sight He Wasn't Prepared For
The porch creaked under his boots as he stepped out. The wind met him with a cool kiss.
And then—he froze.
Down at the dock, silhouetted in silver moonlight, sat Rosemary—knees drawn up, head tilted toward the man beside her.
Arthur.
They weren't just talking. They were laughing.
Her smile was unguarded, her eyes bright in a way JoJo hadn't seen since before the Wisteria name had started haunting them.
Even relaxed, Arthur's presence filled the space around him. His golden hair caught the starlight, his posture calm but deliberate—like a man who could move in an instant if he chose.
Something sharp twisted in JoJo's chest.
He knew what it was.
Jealousy.
Not loud. Not ugly.
Just… sharp.
He turned back inside before either of them could see him.
---
A Jealousy He Couldn't Deny
Back in bed, JoJo groaned, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other gripping the sheets.
You always knew she deserved more.
Someone who could give her more than a blacksmith ever could.
Someone like him.
A knight.
He shut his eyes, bitterness settling like grit in his throat.
"I won't stop her," he whispered.
But damn, it hurt.
---
Returning Home
The door opened.
Footsteps—soft, familiar.
"JoJo, you're awake."
Her voice wrapped around him, warm and effortless.
He turned his head with a crooked grin.
"Barely. Thought I died, but then I smelled roses—so I figured I was either in heaven or your room."
She rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching. "And here I was, actually worried about you."
Arthur followed her in, leaning casually against the doorframe. He didn't speak.
JoJo's eyes flicked toward him, then away.
Rosemary stepped closer, her brow furrowed.
"How do you feel?"
"Lucius's men throw weak punches."
She didn't answer—just looked at him like she knew the truth and chose to let it pass.
---
An Uneasy Introduction
Arthur finally spoke, his voice smooth and measured.
"I don't believe we've been properly introduced."
JoJo studied him. Even standing still, Arthur carried himself like a man who had seen too many battles.
Arthur offered a hand.
"Arthur Valentine. Former knight of Aster."
JoJo's brow arched.
"A knight, huh?"
He shook the hand, noting its firmness.
"Didn't think knights went around saving flower girls in small villages."
Arthur smirked faintly.
"Didn't think blacksmiths threw punches at noblemen, either."
JoJo chuckled, grudgingly.
"Touché."
---
The Sudden Question
Arthur's gaze drifted to the small table.
A silver pendant rested there—simple, worn, and unmistakably treasured.
He stepped forward, picking it up with deliberate care.
The design stirred something in him.
Not recognition.
Memory.
A face.
A voice.
A name he hadn't spoken in years.
He didn't look up when he asked,
"Do you have a sister?"
The air shifted.
JoJo straightened. Rosemary stilled.
"…Yes," she said.
Arthur's voice dropped, almost to a murmur.
> "Her name?"
A pause.
"Daisy."
Arthur's fingers tightened around the pendant—just for a heartbeat.
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.
Then it was gone.
He set the pendant back down, his voice returning to its calm surface.
"I see."
---
An Unspoken Shift
No one spoke.
Rosemary glanced at him, searching. JoJo narrowed his eyes.
Arthur leaned casually against the doorframe again, his expression unreadable—but his eyes never fully left the pendant.
The silence wasn't empty anymore.
It held weight.
It held questions.
And then, as easily as slipping on a mask, Arthur smiled again and let the conversation drift elsewhere.
CHAPTER 9: THE HEIR OF WISTERIA
The carriage doors slammed behind them, the echo bouncing off the cold stone walls of Wisteria Manor's courtyard like the crack of a whip.
Lucius didn't wait for the footman. He shoved through the wrought-iron gate himself, boots striking the gravel hard enough to send shards skittering.
His men followed in uneasy silence—some bruised, all cautious.
One lagged behind, his breathing uneven, a hand pressed to his side.
Lucius caught the motion.
"You call that protection?"
The guard barely got a breath before Lucius's fist drove into his gut. Another blow—across the face—dropped him to one knee.
Lucius turned away without a glance, his cloak snapping behind him like a lash.
---
Father and Heir
Inside the marble foyer, a voice cut through his fury.
"Lucius."
Calm. Controlled.
Javier Wisteria stood at the base of the grand staircase, hands clasped behind his back, his expression carved in the same stone as the manor's walls.
Lucius halted.
"I assume there's a reason," Javier said slowly, "for returning like a hurricane and striking your own men."
Lucius's jaw flexed. "Nothing. Just a pest that needed reminding of their place."
Javier's gaze was steady. "You are the heir to this house. Wisteria carries weight. Do not drag it through the dirt over… pests."
Lucius bowed stiffly. "Of course, Father."
The words dripped with polished venom.
Javier studied him one moment longer before ascending the stairs without another word.
Lucius's pace quickened toward the east wing.
The pest wasn't the blacksmith.
It was the stranger. The man who stood between him and what was his.
---
Tantrum in Silk
The instant the door shut behind him, Lucius's restraint shattered.
Gloves flung to the floor. Chair kicked over. A porcelain vase hurled against the wall, exploding into shards.
"She still won't look at me!" he snarled.
Another crash.
"First the blacksmith. Now him. That smug-faced bastard—who is he?"
He stopped, breath ragged, the echo of his own voice sharp in the room.
At the mirror, he met his reflection—collar askew, cheeks flushed.
And then, slowly, he laughed. Low and bitter.
He smoothed his hair back into place. Straightened his cuffs.
"Calm, Lucius. Not before the festival."
The Vernal Crown Festival. The moment the entire province would watch. The moment she would have no choice.
---
The Sculpture
In the far corner, beneath a velvet shroud, waited the one thing that never turned away from him.
Lucius crossed to it, fingers steady now.
He pulled the cloth free.
Rosemary's likeness stared back in pale stone—her head bowed slightly, lips parted, the curve of her hands carved with delicate care.
Not perfect. But close enough that, in the dim light, she could almost breathe.
Lucius traced the stone cheek with the back of his fingers—tender and possessive all at once.
"You'll wear the crown," he murmured. "You'll stand beside me."
His thumb brushed the statue's chin.
"And no one—" his voice hardened, "not the blacksmith, not the traveller, not even your own fear—will keep you from me."
He stepped back, letting the cloth fall again.
"After the festival," he whispered, "I'll act accordingly."
CHAPTER 10: A SWORD, A SMILE, AND A CROWN
The sunlight drifted lazily through the cabin window, warming the wooden floorboards like a slow tide creeping inland.
Rosemary stirred, the soreness in her shoulders and ribs a faint echo of the last two days—an ache that reminded her she'd survived them.
On the narrow couch across the room, JoJo slept awkwardly, one arm dangling toward the floor, his bandaged torso rising and falling in steady rhythm.
He'd refused the bed the night before.
> "If I can't protect you," he'd muttered, "the least I can do is take the harder pillow."
Rosemary hadn't argued. She had been too tired, too grateful.
Now, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, smiling faintly at him before stepping toward the door.
Outside, something sliced the air—sharp, rhythmic, precise.
Not the panic of a fight.
The discipline of practice.
---
A Dance of Precision
In the clearing, Arthur stood barefoot, his coat folded neatly beside him. In his hands, not his sword, but a stripped and carved branch.
He moved with deliberate grace—turn, pivot, sweep. Each strike as fluid as ink on paper, each step the punctuation.
Rosemary didn't speak. She just watched the silent choreography, the way he seemed not to be fighting, but remembering.
Then her gaze shifted.
At the base of the tree near his coat, his sword rested in its scabbard—always there, never drawn.
She'd never seen it unsheathed. Never even seen his hand rest on it in a fight.
Curiosity tugged at her.
She stepped toward it.
The leather was worn, but not neglected. Subtle markings traced along the scabbard's side—patterns almost too faint to notice unless you were searching.
Her fingers brushed the hilt.
And the air shifted.
Not colder, not heavier—just… aware.
She pulled her hand back instinctively.
Arthur was beside her.
Not sudden, not sharp—just there.
"Be careful," he said softly, a quiet smile on his lips. "That one's sharper than it looks."
Rosemary blinked, caught between apology and explanation. "I didn't mean—"
"No harm done," he interrupted gently. His eyes, calm but steady, held hers. "I'd just rather you didn't leave this place with a scar from something I carry."
The words landed heavier than she expected.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
Arthur nodded once. "Have you calmed down since yesterday?"
She smiled faintly. "Mostly. You?"
"I don't rattle easily."
---
Recovery and Rehearsal
JoJo shuffled out of the cabin, rubbing his side.
"He's up early," he muttered, watching Arthur disappear between the trees.
"You're not supposed to be moving like that," Rosemary said.
JoJo grinned, then tried to drop into push-ups.
He made it to two before collapsing with a grunt.
"Impressive," Rosemary deadpanned. "Next time, try breathing."
JoJo groaned into the dirt. "Pain builds character."
"It builds hospital visits."
He sat up, wincing but smiling. "You're in a good mood."
She didn't answer. But the smile stayed.
---
A Familiar Stranger
The sound of wagon wheels crunched into the clearing.
A small crew of men hopped down, unloading crates. At their head was a tall man in fine brown wool, his boots polished, his step easy yet commanding.
"Rosemary!" he called with a warm wave.
It took her a moment to place him.
"You're the man from the other day."
"Peter Cromwell," he said with a broad grin. "Full introduction this time."
She hesitated, unsure whether to bow or hide. "I… might have been a little blunt with you before."
"That's why I liked you," Peter replied easily. "Everyone else talks like they're reading a contract."
She relaxed slightly. "So what brings you here?"
---
An Unexpected Proposal
Peter gestured to the crates. "Wisteria's throwing their biggest event of the year. The Vernal Crown Festival. I'm in charge of dressing the place up."
JoJo stiffened. "The Wisterias hired you?"
"Javier Wisteria himself," Peter said. "Told me I had exactly three weeks to make the festival unforgettable, or he'd find my replacement at my funeral."
He chuckled. They didn't.
Rosemary tilted her head. "So you want… flowers?"
Peter stepped closer.
"I want you."
JoJo's eyes narrowed.
"To assist," Peter added quickly. "Be one of the public faces for the Vernal Crown ceremony. Javier wants the festival to feel rooted in Freesia's spirit—and honestly, no one is Freesia more than you."
The air between them shifted—JoJo's jaw tightening, Rosemary caught between surprise and uncertainty, and Peter smiling like the whole thing was already settled.
Chapter 11: The Face of the Festival
The lake shimmered beneath the pale morning sun, mist curling along its surface like loose ribbons of silk.
Rosemary stood at the water's edge, skirts brushing against damp grass, the scent of dew fresh in her lungs. Her fingers played with a loose thread in her dress, eyes distant.
Behind her, Peter Cromwell leaned against a moss-covered post, his fine shoes dusted with shore dirt—though he didn't seem to mind.
"You're really serious about this?" she asked, voice almost swallowed by the breeze.
Peter smiled.
"Very."
She bit her lip. "There are plenty of other women in Freesia. Ones who are more… graceful. Proper. Ones who don't spend their mornings elbow-deep in flowerpots."
Peter chuckled.
"And yet I keep returning to the one who smells like daisies and says exactly what's on her mind."
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
He stepped closer, voice dropping—not flirtatious, but steady and sincere.
"You might not realise it, but I've been watching you for a long time."
Her brows rose, halfway between suspicion and curiosity.
"I mean that in the least creepy way possible," he added quickly, grinning. "You're elegant. Brave. Kind. Beautiful."
Then, after a short beat—
"Second only to my mother, of course."
He laughed.
Rosemary flushed, caught off guard. "Oh my…"
---
A Glare Behind the Smile
Not far off, JoJo sat on a tree stump, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the scene. Bandages peeked from beneath his shirt.
Another one… of course.
"Hey," JoJo called suddenly, sharper than he meant. "What exactly are you trying to say, Cromwell?"
Peter didn't miss a beat.
"Only what I mean. That Rosemary's the right one for this."
He turned back to her.
"You don't have to decide now. But I hope you will."
Rosemary hesitated.
And then—surprisingly—it was JoJo who spoke softer.
"Hey. Maybe this is more than just a festival."
She blinked at him.
"People from all over Aster come to the Vernal Crown," he said. "Big names. Big reach."
A pause.
"If your sister's out there… maybe this is how she finds you."
The thought landed heavier than she expected.
Rosemary went quiet, eyes lowering to the water's slow ripples.
Finally—she nodded.
"Alright. I'll do it."
---
The Training Begins
The next two weeks blurred like watercolour.
Peter sent a parade of instructors—tailors, posture tutors, voice coaches, even a historian who seemed determined to teach her every Freesian folktale in existence.
At first, Rosemary stumbled through it all. But soon, she began to adjust.
JoJo remained close—hauling props, fetching books, cracking jokes to ease her nerves. He never said it aloud, but he was always there when she needed him.
Arthur came less often now. Always in the evenings. Always keeping his distance.
Sometimes he lingered in the shadows of the clearing, watching until she noticed… then disappearing before she could say more than a greeting.
When she asked once why he didn't stay for tea, he gave a faint smile.
> "Too many strangers about these days."
His eyes flicked—briefly—toward the path Peter had taken earlier that morning.
She almost asked what he meant, but the question dissolved when he slipped away without a sound.
And Peter, without trying, seemed to step into the spaces Arthur left—organising fittings, arranging lessons, and filling the quiet with his easy confidence.
---
The Crown Rises
On the morning of the final rehearsal, sunlight spilled gold over Freesia's rooftops.
JoJo stood outside Rosemary's cabin, arms folded.
He heard the door creak behind him.
Turned.
And froze.
Rosemary stepped out in a ceremonial gown—lavender silk threaded with wildflower embroidery, hair curled in soft waves, silver earrings catching the light.
She adjusted the hem awkwardly. "Too much?"
JoJo smirked.
"Heh… not bad for a crybaby."
She burst out laughing. He joined in, the tension between them breaking like glass. For a second, it was just the two of them again.
---
The Pendant's Return
Then Peter arrived.
The moment his eyes landed on her, his face lit up.
"I knew I was right to choose you."
He stepped forward, dipping a hand into his coat pocket.
"You left this behind."
Rosemary's breath caught. In his palm lay the silver pendant.
"I— I thought I lost that."
"You asked me to fetch it from your place," Peter said, carefully placing it in her hands. "Careless of you."
She flushed.
"I've… had a lot on my mind."
"Someday," he said, fastening it gently around her neck, "you'll tell me the story behind it."
His fingers brushed her skin as the clasp clicked shut.
JoJo looked away.
Peter stepped back, smiling.
"Now then—Freesia's crown jewel is ready."
Chapter 12: The Crown and the Spark
The Vernal Crown Festival had begun.
Freesia had transformed. Flower arches now framed every street, cascading across balconies in rich violet, gold, and green. The air was alive with music—strings, drums, flutes—mingling with the scent of roasted spices, sugared fruit, and crushed petals.
People from all over had gathered. Nobles in velvet, merchants with their wares, knights in shining armour, and diplomats from across the seas—everyone had come to see the unveiling of the crown jewel of Freesia.
But one person was missing.
Arthur.
Not a word. Not a sighting. Not even a whisper. His absence felt heavier with each passing hour, and despite the festivities, a cloud lingered over the village.
---
All Eyes on Her
At the heart of the village square, beneath a grand arbor of wild roots and blossoms, the procession began.
Rosemary emerged slowly, flanked by pages scattering petals. Her dress shimmered like the mist over lavender fields. Her hair was twisted with gold thread and fresh lilies, and the pendant—her pendant—lay gently over her heart.
Gasps followed her steps. Applause rang through the air. A hush fell over the crowd as they watched her walk toward the throne, a seat crafted from twisted flower stems and soft moss, surrounded by rare blooms from across Aster.
She looked radiant.
But her eyes... her eyes searched the crowd, scanning for a face she longed to see.
Daisy... where are you?
Her smile was a mask, one she wore because she had to. But inside, her heart whispered a prayer:
Please… if you're here… find me.
---
Above the Applause
From the raised VIP terrace, Lucius clapped louder than the rest. His hands struck together with the force of a man possessed.
"Marvelous! Absolutely divine!" he bellowed, his voice echoing across the square.
Beside him, Javier Wisteria rubbed his temples, clearly dismayed.
"Sit down," he muttered. "You're embarrassing us."
Lucius ignored him. His gaze, fixed firmly on Rosemary, held a hunger that went beyond mere admiration. It was the same dark fascination that had begun to shadow his every move.
---
The Coronation
Peter stood proudly beside the throne, offering his hand to guide Rosemary up the final step. She took it with a careful smile.
Javier Wisteria himself stepped forward, his steps slow and deliberate, holding the Vernal Crown—a circlet of silver laced with delicate ivy and violet gemstones.
Together, Peter and Javier lowered it onto Rosemary's head.
Applause erupted like thunder.
As she took her seat, fireworks burst into the sky—violets, golds, reds—painting the heavens in bright flashes. The people of Freesia gasped, laughed, and cheered.
Everyone was watching her.
Everyone... except Daisy.
---
When the Lights Go Out
Later, as the fireworks faded and the square began to empty, Rosemary walked alone along the garden path behind the throne.
Her crown had been returned to its velvet box, and her earrings were removed, but the weight in her chest only seemed to grow heavier.
"Rosemary!"
She turned at the familiar voice.
Peter approached from behind, his expression open and sincere.
"Let me escort you home."
She smiled softly but shook her head.
"Thank you, Peter. But I want to be alone. Just for a bit."
He hesitated, then nodded and stepped back, allowing her the space she needed.
---
The Spark Fizzles
Minutes later, JoJo caught up with her.
At first, neither of them spoke—just walked side by side. The garden's flowers swayed gently, and the cool night air felt still.
Finally, JoJo spoke, his voice low but sincere.
"Are you okay?"
Rosemary didn't answer immediately.
He tried again.
"You were incredible out there."
Still no response.
He forced a grin.
"If your sister saw you tonight…"
She whispered, voice barely audible,
"She'd be proud."
There was a beat of silence before she added, almost to herself,
"I miss her, JoJo."
He nodded, understanding.
"I know."
"I thought tonight—of all nights—maybe fate would finally bring her to me," she confessed, her voice trembling slightly.
JoJo didn't speak at first, instead looking down at the cobblestones beneath their feet. Finally, he said,
"Sometimes fate's just... slow."
They stood together beneath the garden arch, the sound of the distant celebrations muffling as they embraced the quiet.
---
The Wrong Kind of Attention
Suddenly, laughter rang out from nearby—a loud, drunken chorus.
A group of knights stumbled into view, their armour loose, their steps unsteady. Their pride, however, was anything but diminished.
One of them whistled low when he saw Rosemary.
"Now that's a crown worth stealing."
Another knight laughed.
"Hey—lady in lavender. Why don't you come to our country? We'd treat you real nice."
Rosemary stiffened, jaw tightening, and turned away, ignoring their crude comments.
JoJo, however, didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his tone icy.
"Get lost."
The tallest knight frowned.
"We're complimenting her."
JoJo didn't flinch.
"She's not interested."
The knight took a step closer, leering. Another knight reached out to touch Rosemary's arm.
"Don't be shy, sweetheart."
That's when JoJo swung.
His fist landed squarely on the knight's jaw. The man staggered back, eyes wild with fury. He snarled, and the rest of the group closed in.
---
No One Left to Save Them
JoJo fought back, but these men weren't like Lucius's guards. They were real fighters, their skill matched only by their arrogance.
JoJo was outnumbered.
One man grabbed him by the shoulders, pinning him down, while another landed a brutal kick to his ribs.
Rosemary rushed forward, screaming, trying to pull them off him—
A hand whipped across her cheek.
She stumbled. Fell.
Time stilled.
Then—
A blur.
A flash.
A cry.
The knight who had slapped her was thrown backward, hurled into a vendor's cart with a sickening crash.
Everyone froze. Eyes wide.
JoJo, bloodied but still standing, blinked in disbelief.
And standing where the knight had been, having just arrived... was Arthur.
Chapter 13: The Man with the Scabbard
Dust hung in the moonlight, drifting in slow spirals like ash after an explosion.
The knight who had struck Rosemary lay crumpled against a cart, groaning.
And standing where he had been—calm, composed, unmoving—was Arthur.
His coat shifted gently in the night breeze. His boots were still planted from the force of the throw. And in his hand—
Not his sword.
Just the scabbard.
The blade remained sheathed at his hip.
Rosemary's breath caught somewhere between shock and recognition.
Arthur glanced at her and gave a small, crooked smile.
"It seems trouble keeps finding you."
For a brief second, his gaze flicked down the street—toward the distant festival lights, then to the shadowed alleys beyond—as if checking for someone else.
Someone who might have been following.
Then his expression cooled. His attention returned to the knight near the shattered cart.
He walked forward slowly.
Placed his boot on the man's outstretched hand.
"You raised this against her."
The knight tried to pull back—
Crunch.
Arthur pressed down until bone and tendon snapped beneath his heel.
The scream was instant.
Another knight shouted, drawing steel.
"He's alone! Take him!"
They rushed.
Arthur exhaled once.
And moved.
---
The Dance of the Scabbard
The first attacker came in high with a horizontal slash—
Arthur ducked low, swung the scabbard in a sharp arc, and cracked the man's wrist. The blade clattered to the stone.
Spinning, Arthur stepped into the next man's range—thwack—a brutal elbow to the ribs, followed by an upward swing of the scabbard that clipped hard under the chin.
The knight collapsed mid-step.
Another lunged from behind.
Arthur twisted, parried the sword arm with his scabbard, grabbed the man's collar, and flipped him over his hip. The man hit the cobblestones with a hollow thud and didn't rise.
Two remained.
One thrust straight for Arthur's ribs.
He sidestepped cleanly, batted the weapon aside, and drove the blunt end of the scabbard into the knight's gut. The man doubled forward—
Arthur swept his leg and sent him crashing face-first into the ground.
The final knight froze, eyes darting between Arthur's still-sheathed blade and the wreckage of his companions.
Arthur took one step toward him.
No words.
The knight dropped his sword.
And ran.
---
The Quiet After
Five men lay scattered across the street. Some groaned. Some didn't.
Arthur hadn't drawn his blade once.
When he turned back, his face shifted instantly—gone was the fighter, replaced by something softer.
Rosemary was on her knees beside JoJo.
He was breathing, but limp. She cradled his head in her lap, her hand pressed gently to a swelling bruise at his temple. Tears streaked her cheeks, falling onto his shirt.
"Why does this keep happening to me…"
Her voice trembled.
"Why does it always end like this?"
Arthur knelt beside her.
"It's not your fault."
She shook her head. "It is. I should've gone. I should've never said yes. I bring this with me—I ruin everything."
Her voice broke.
Arthur's hand settled gently on her shoulder.
"You don't ruin things. You survive them."
She said nothing more, only kept holding JoJo as though letting go would make everything worse.
Arthur's eyes swept the empty street—then to the rooftops, where shadows shifted faintly in the distance.
"Let me take you both home," he said quietly, almost as if they were not alone.
She nodded.
Arthur lifted JoJo onto his shoulder with the ease of someone used to carrying the wounded. Then he offered Rosemary his free hand.
She took it.
And together, they walked away beneath the fractured glow of the lantern light—while, far behind them, one of the moving shadows slipped silently out of sight.