Elara led the way with an energy that left Sol slightly bemused. As they approached the city gates, she suddenly veered left, following a narrow path beside a small creek. Sol quickly fell into step behind her, the murmur of the creek blending with the sound of her voice.
Elara seemed to talk endlessly, her words flowing like the water beside them. She spoke about everything, the gentle curve of the creek, the peculiar birds she saw, even the absurdity of city gossip. Sol, not used to such chatter, mostly responded with short answers or hums of acknowledgment. Yet, despite his quiet nature, her warmth was infectious, and soon his responses became more animated, his words less guarded.
Their laughter mingled with the sounds of nature, filling the otherwise empty path. It was an odd, unexpected camaraderie one Sol hadn’t realized he was capable of enjoying.
Time seemed to pass in a blur until they reached a small wooden shed nestled amidst the trees. The rhythmic sound of wood being cut greeted them, the air heavy with the earthy scent of sawdust. Rays of sunlight filtering through the cracks in the shed walls illuminated tiny motes of dust dancing in the air.
Inside, an old man sat hunched in a corner, carving a delicate shape from a piece of wood. His gnarled hands moved with precision and care, shaping something intricate. Sawdust clung to his faded clothes, and his sharp eyes briefly darted toward the newcomers before returning to his work.
Elara stepped forward with a cheerful smile. “Good day, Master Henrik,” she called out, her voice carrying over the sound of his tools.
The old man grunted but didn’t look up. “What brings the young lady to my shed?” he asked, his voice rough but tinged with curiosity. His hands continued their steady work as though nothing could disturb their rhythm.
Elara glanced back at Sol, her smile widening. “I need your help, Master Henrik. We’re preparing something special for my father’s birthday, and I hear no one carves wood finer than you.”
Henrik finally paused his work, raising an eyebrow as he studied her. “Hmm, and who’s the lad?” he asked, his gaze shifting to Sol, who stood awkwardly behind her.
“This is Sol,” Elara said brightly, gesturing toward him. “He’s here to assist me with the preparations.”
Sol’s eyes wandered around the shed, taking in the sheer variety of wooden carvings that adorned the space. Shelves were lined with completed works—some no larger than a fist, others towering and elaborate. Their details were mesmerizing, from the delicate veins on a carved leaf to the texture of fur on a tiny wooden fox.
On the floor lay pieces in various stages of completion, tools scattered around them. Shavings curled like ribbons on the ground, and the air smelled of fresh-cut wood. Among the unfinished pieces were also those clearly discarded—half-carved forms with cracks or chips, tossed aside as failures. Yet even these seemed to exude a lifelike quality.
Sol moved closer to one of the discarded carvings, his gaze lingering on a figure of a bird with its wings outstretched. The wood was rough where it had been abandoned, but its pose was so fluid, so natural, that he half-expected it to flutter its wings and take off.
Every piece in the shed, whether displayed proudly on a shelf or lying forgotten in the dust, seemed to hold a pulse of life within it. They weren’t fancy or extravagant, lacking the polished sheen of ornate decorations, but their realism was almost eerie. It felt as if they were merely resting, waiting for the right moment to move.
“Speechless, are you?” Henrik’s gruff voice broke through Sol’s thoughts, pulling his attention back to the old man. The carver’s sharp eyes glinted with amusement as he caught Sol staring.
Sol hesitated, then nodded. “They’re… incredible,” he said quietly.
Henrik let out a low chuckle. “It’s not about fancy or flashy,” he said, gesturing to the carvings with his knife. “It’s about breathing life into wood. That’s the trick, lad. Make it feel like it could jump out of your hands any moment.”
Elara smiled, watching Sol’s awestruck expression. “See? Didn’t I tell you Henrik was the best?” she said lightly, nudging Sol’s shoulder.
Sol gave her a small nod, still too absorbed in the artistry surrounding him to respond properly. For the first time in a long while, he felt a sense of wonder—an emotion that had become almost foreign in his day-to-day life.
Elara sat down on the stool near Henrik, her enthusiasm evident as the old craftsman began to explain the basics of carving. He held a small block of wood in one hand, the knife in the other, demonstrating the careful strokes needed to shape it into something meaningful.
Sol sat quietly beside her, his eyes flicking between Henrik’s hands and Elara’s concentrated expression. She was focused, her brows furrowed as she tried her best to mimic Henrik’s movements. Her first attempts were clumsy, her cuts too deep or too shallow but she persisted, her laughter light and unaffected each time she made a mistake.
“Water, please?” Elara asked at one point, glancing at Sol with a soft smile.
“Of course,” Sol said quickly, hurrying to fetch it from a nearby jug. He handed her the cup, their fingers brushing slightly, and he felt his heart race at the fleeting contact.
This routine continued for several days. Each morning, Sol and Elara would arrive at the shed. She would carve under Henrik’s watchful eye, occasionally turning to Sol for small tasks or simply to share a smile or laugh. Sol, in turn, found himself waiting for those moments, his chest tightening each time she looked his way.
But it wasn’t just during the day that they grew closer. In the evenings, after their work was done, they began to sit together outside his house. The night stretched endlessly above them, stars scattered across the sky like dust on a craftsman’s floor.
“Do you think the stars ever get lonely?” Elara asked one night, her voice soft and contemplative.
Sol, leaning back against the wooden wall of his home, looked up at the sky. “Maybe,” he murmured. “But they still shine, even when no one’s watching.”
Elara turned to him, her expression thoughtful. “You say that like you understand how they feel.”
He hesitated but eventually gave a small shrug. “Maybe I do.”
Their conversations often meandered, sometimes playful, sometimes deep. Elara spoke with a natural warmth that made him feel seen, important in a way he hadn’t felt before. Her laughter was infectious, her curiosity boundless, and the way she treated him as though he wasn’t just a servant or a shadow in the background left him utterly disarmed.
Over those few days, Sol felt his walls crumbling. He didn’t just admire her beauty anymore; he had fallen for her completely. It wasn’t just the way she talked or the kindness she showed him it was how she made him feel alive, as if the dull monotony of his life had been swept away by her presence.
And yet, a quiet fear lingered in the back of his mind. He knew their worlds were too far apart. She was a noble, and he was nothing more than a servant. But for now, in the glow of starlit nights and the echo of her laughter, he allowed himself to forget that truth.
On the fifth day, Henrik finally decided it was time to test Elara. He handed her a small block of wood, the grain smooth and unblemished, and asked her to carve a feather.
“A feather?” Elara repeated, tilting her head slightly.
Henrik nodded. “A feather may seem simple, but it’s not. Its beauty lies in its delicate balance—the veins, the curvature, the softness that must feel light even in wood. It’s a true test of a carver’s understanding.”
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Elara’s lips curled into a determined smile. “I’ll do my best.”
She began, her hands steady, her strokes precise. Henrik and Sol watched in silence as the room filled with the quiet rhythm of the blade against wood. Elara’s concentration was unshakable; her eyes followed each movement of the knife as if she were translating her thoughts directly into the grain.
When she finally set the knife down, she held up her work with a mix of pride and anticipation. The carving was intricate and detailed. Every vein of the feather had been carefully etched, the edges finely smoothed. It was undeniably beautiful.
But Henrik’s expression told a different story. He took the carving from her hands and turned it over slowly, his brows furrowed in thought. “Hmm,” he muttered, his thumb running over the grooves and ridges.
Elara’s smile faltered slightly. “What is it?”
Henrik set the feather down and sighed. “It’s… skilled, yes. Precise. But it lacks something.”
“Lacks something?” Elara echoed, confusion and frustration creeping into her voice.
Henrik nodded, his gaze still fixed on the feather. “Carving isn’t just about technique, Elara. It’s about capturing the essence of the thing. A feather isn’t just lines and curves; it’s lightness, freedom, motion. This… is beautiful, but it feels… heavy. Static.”
As Henrik spoke, his eyes drifted toward Sol, who had been quietly watching from his seat. There was a strange look in Sol’s eyes, something Henrik could see, it was understanding.
“Sol,” Henrik said suddenly, “what do you think?”
Sol blinked, startled. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Henrik gestured to the feather. “What does it say to you?”
Sol hesitated, glancing at Elara, who was now watching him intently. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think…” He paused, his words uncertain. “It’s… beautiful, but it doesn’t feel like it could fly.”
Henrik’s lips quirked upward in a small, approving smile.
Elara frowned, looking between the two men. “But I followed all the steps you showed me. I made sure the proportions were perfect, the details sharp—”
“And you did,” Henrik interrupted gently. “But carving isn’t just about what you see. It’s about what you feel. A feather isn’t just a shape it’s the idea of weightlessness, of soaring. You can’t capture that with skill alone. You need to feel it in your hands, in your heart.”
Elara’s frustration melted into quiet contemplation. She looked at the feather again, her fingers brushing over the carving. “I see,” she said softly.
Sol, still unsure why Henrik had turned to him, felt a strange mix of embarrassment and pride. Henrik’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, as if silently acknowledging something.
“Elara,” Henrik said, breaking the silence, “you’ve done well for your first test. Don’t be discouraged. Skill takes time, but heart… that’s something you’ll find as you go.”
Elara nodded, her determination returning. “I’ll try again,” she said firmly.
Henrik chuckled. “Not tonight. Let the feather sit with you for a while. Think about what it means before you carve again.”
Henrik leaned back in his chair with a knowing smile. “For now, Sol, do you maybe want to try your hand at carving? Nothing fancy, of course. Just… anything that comes to your mind. We still have some time left in the day.”
Sol hesitated, glancing at the tools laid out before him. “Me?” he asked, his voice uncertain.
“Yes, you,” Henrik said, his tone encouraging. “Sometimes the best way to understand something is to try it yourself.”
Elara, who had been quiet since Henrik’s earlier comments, tilted her head and smirked. She hadn’t forgotten how Sol’s words had inadvertently pointed out what her work lacked. “Why not?” she said, a teasing edge to her voice. “Let’s see what you can do, Sol. Show us.”
Sol shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, but something about her tone half challenge, half curiosity stirred him. He thought about the things Henrik had taught Elara over the past few days and decided it couldn’t hurt to try. “Alright,” he said, taking a deep breath.
Henrik handed him a simple block of wood and a carving knife. “Take your time. Let your hands guide you.”
Sol sat down, gripping the knife carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration. his movements were firm, he began to carve, something remarkable happened. His strokes were confident, fluid, and precise. Henrik’s eyes widened as he watched, and even Elara, who had been leaning back with a slightly skeptical expression, sat up straighter.
It wasn’t just that Sol was carving well; it was how he moved. Every stroke of the knife mirrored Henrik’s movements with uncanny precision, as if Sol had absorbed days of observation and was now replicating it perfectly. The way he held the knife, the subtle shifts in pressure, the angle of his cuts it was identical to Henrik’s own technique.
Henrik leaned forward, his voice low with astonishment. “Incredible,” he murmured.
Elara, her earlier irritation forgotten, stared at Sol with wide eyes. “How… how are you doing that?” she asked, her tone a mix of disbelief and curiosity.
Sol looked up briefly, his face reddening. “I… I just remembered how you showed Elara,” he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Henrik chuckled, shaking his head in amazement. “Remembered, he says,” he muttered under his breath. “This isn’t just remembering, boy. You’ve got an eye, a feel for this. It’s not something you can teach.”
Elara crossed her arms, her pride slightly bruised but her curiosity piqued. “Beginner’s luck,” she said, though there was no malice in her voice. “Let’s see how it looks when you’re done.”
Sol worked silently, his focus unwavering. When he finally set down the knife, he held up the carving. It was a simple bird, mid-flight, its wings spread wide. The lines were clean, the proportions perfect, and though it wasn’t overly intricate, it captured the essence of motion in a way that felt alive.
Henrik took the carving from him, turning it over in his hands. “Remarkable,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with awe. “You’ve got a gift, Sol.”
Elara leaned over to look at the carving, her expression softening. “It’s… really good,” she admitted reluctantly.
Sol rubbed the back of his neck, unsure how to respond to the praise. “I just… thought about what you said, Henrik. About feeling the thing you’re carving. I imagined it flying, and…” He trailed off, shrugging awkwardly.
Henrik placed a hand on Sol’s shoulder, his grip firm but warm. “You’ve done more than imagine, lad. You’ve breathed life into this. Don’t let this go to waste.”
Sol looked down at the carving, a strange mix of pride and confusion swelling in his chest. He had never considered himself talented at anything, but for the first time, he felt like he had created something truly meaningful.
Elara watched him quietly, a thoughtful expression on her face. For all her confidence and determination, she couldn’t deny that Sol’s unexpected talent had left her both impressed and intrigued.
Sol looked up at her, unsure how to respond, but her words lingered in his mind as the day came to a close.Henrik leaned back in his chair with a knowing smile. “For now, Sol, do you maybe want to try your hand at carving? Nothing fancy, of course. Just… anything that comes to your mind. We still have some time left in the day.”
Sol hesitated, glancing at the tools laid out before him. “Me?” he asked, his voice uncertain.
“Yes, you,” Henrik said, his tone encouraging. “Sometimes the best way to understand something is to try it yourself.”
Elara, who had been quiet since Henrik’s earlier comments, tilted her head and smirked. She hadn’t forgotten how Sol’s words had inadvertently pointed out what her work lacked. “Why not?” she said, a teasing edge to her voice. “Let’s see what you can do, Sol. Show us.”
Sol shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, but something about her tone—half challenge, half curiosity—stirred him. He thought about the things Henrik had taught Elara over the past few days and decided it couldn’t hurt to try. “Alright,” he said, taking a deep breath.
Henrik handed him a simple block of wood and a carving knife. “Take your time. Let your hands guide you.”
Sol sat down, gripping the knife carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration. At first, his movements were hesitant, but as he began to carve, something remarkable happened. His strokes grew more confident, fluid, and precise. Henrik’s eyes widened as he watched, and even Elara, who had been leaning back with a slightly skeptical expression, sat up straighter.
It wasn’t just that Sol was carving well; it was how he moved. Every stroke of the knife mirrored Henrik’s movements with uncanny precision, as if Sol had absorbed days of observation and was now replicating it perfectly. The way he held the knife, the subtle shifts in pressure, the angle of his cuts—it was identical to Henrik’s own technique.
Henrik leaned forward, his voice low with astonishment. “Incredible,” he murmured.
Elara, her earlier irritation forgotten, stared at Sol with wide eyes. “How… how are you doing that?” she asked, her tone a mix of disbelief and curiosity.
Sol looked up briefly, his face reddening. “I… I just remembered how you showed Elara,” he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Henrik chuckled, shaking his head in amazement. “Remembered, he says,” he muttered under his breath. “This isn’t just remembering, boy. You’ve got an eye, a feel for this. It’s not something you can teach.”
Elara crossed her arms, her pride slightly bruised but her curiosity piqued. “Beginner’s luck,” she said, though there was no malice in her voice. “Let’s see how it looks when you’re done.”
Sol worked silently, his focus unwavering. When he finally set down the knife, he held up the carving. It was a simple bird, mid-flight, its wings spread wide. The lines were clean, the proportions perfect, and though it wasn’t overly intricate, it captured the essence of motion in a way that felt alive.
Henrik took the carving from him, turning it over in his hands. “Remarkable,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with awe. “You’ve got a gift, Sol.”
Elara leaned over to look at the carving, her expression softening. “It’s… really good,” she admitted reluctantly.
Sol rubbed the back of his neck, unsure how to respond to the praise. “I just… thought about what you said, Henrik. About feeling the thing you’re carving. I imagined it flying, and…” He trailed off, shrugging awkwardly.
Henrik placed a hand on Sol’s shoulder, his grip firm but warm. “You’ve done more than imagine, lad. You’ve breathed life into this. Don’t let this go to waste.”
Sol looked down at the carving, a strange mix of pride and confusion swelling in his chest. He had never considered himself talented at anything, but for the first time, he felt like he had created something truly meaningful.
Elara watched him quietly, a thoughtful expression on her face. For all her confidence and determination, she couldn’t deny that Sol’s unexpected talent had left her both impressed and intrigued.