The manor was alive with the quiet hum of the daily routine—footsteps across stone floors, the clang of pots from the kitchen, and the soft murmurs of servants moving through the halls. At its heart, hidden from the main bustle, Talin worked in his apothecary’s nook. The small space was tucked away at the back of the manor, barely more than a corner with shelves filled with jars of dried herbs, vials of tinctures, and stacks of old, worn books. Talin was a man of subtle presence. His short, dark hair was always neatly combed, framing sharp features that conveyed intelligence more than warmth. His brown eyes, though often distant in thought, flickered with a sharp attentiveness when focused on his work. Slender and slightly taller than average, he carried himself with an air of precision, his movements always careful and deliberate. He wore simple robes—dark blues and grays—practical and unassuming, much like his demeanor.

Talin preferred the isolation. Here, away from the noise, he could focus.

His hands moved deftly as he crushed a bundle of lavender, its fragrance spreading through the room. The prince had requested a calming elixir—a special draught to soothe the nerves before an upcoming diplomatic dinner. Talin had prepared dozens of these potions over the years, each one crafted with precision. It was routine, but he found solace in the repetition. Outside the apothecary, the warmth of the kitchen spread through the air, carrying the rich scent of fresh bread and roasted meat. Talin could hear the faint sounds of the kitchen staff, busy as usual. It was a distant world to him—a world of fire and flour, of loud voices and constant motion. He rarely ventured into it unless absolutely necessary.

Today, however, he had no choice.

“Talin,” a voice called from beyond the doorway. One of the kitchen aides appeared, her cheeks flushed from the heat. “The head baker wanted to speak with you. Something about the herbs for tonight’s dinner.”

Talin wiped his hands on his apron, nodding. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

As the aide disappeared back into the chaos of the kitchen, Talin sighed, gathering a few sprigs of rosemary and thyme. He had prepared the herbs earlier, as requested, but Alden, the manor’s head baker, always liked to double-check. Alden had a reputation for being meticulous with his ingredients, and while Talin respected that, it sometimes felt excessive. Still, their interactions were brief, usually limited to discussions about herbs or flavors.

With the herbs in hand, Talin left his quiet nook and made his way into the kitchen.

The difference in atmosphere was palpable. The kitchen was bustling, filled with the clamor of pots, the hiss of steam, and the constant chatter of the staff. In the midst of it all stood Alden, his broad frame commanding the space with ease. He was tall, with broad shoulders and the build of someone used to hard, physical work. His chestnut hair, slightly tousled and streaked with hints of gold from the sun, was tied back in a simple knot, though a few loose strands fell across his forehead. His eyes—an inviting shade of hazel—were always bright, warm with laughter and kindness, even in the heat of the kitchen. Despite the flour dusting his strong arms and the sweat beading on his forehead, he wore his signature smile, easy and open.

Alden’s presence was magnetic in its simplicity, a man who seemed effortlessly at home in his surroundings, whether he was kneading dough or overseeing the kitchen staff. He moved with a confidence that came from years of mastery over his craft, but there was a gentleness in his manner that set him apart from the rest.

“Ah, Talin,” Alden greeted him as soon as he entered. His voice was rich and full, a stark contrast to the quiet murmurs Talin was used to. “I wanted to double-check something about the herbs for the lamb tonight. I saw the rosemary, but... what’s the other one?”

Talin stepped closer, handing him the bundle of herbs. “Thyme. It pairs well with the rosemary, adds a subtle earthiness.”

Alden inspected the herbs, nodding thoughtfully. “Thyme, of course. Always forget how much it brings out the flavor in meats.” He set the bundle aside and wiped his hands on a cloth. “Thanks, Talin. Appreciate it.”

Talin nodded in return, offering a small smile. “No problem.”

The conversation ended there, as it usually did—short, polite, and focused on the task at hand. Alden turned back to his work, kneading dough with strong, capable hands, while Talin lingered for a moment longer than necessary, watching. There was something about the way Alden carried himself—confident yet kind, always smiling even in the middle of the heat and the chaos. Talin admired it, though he would never say so aloud. Alden seemed so at ease in the kitchen, surrounded by people, constantly engaged in conversation. Talin, on the other hand, preferred the quiet.

He slipped out of the kitchen, and back into the cool solitude of his apothecary. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, shutting out the noise, and he breathed a little easier. Alone again, just as he liked it. Yet, as he sat back down at his worktable, the loneliness crept in. It was a familiar feeling, one he had grown used to over the years. Working in the manor, even surrounded by people, there was a distance that Talin could never quite cross. He was the apothecary—trusted for his skills, respected for his knowledge—but that respect never extended to companionship. He was always on the outside, watching from a distance. Talin glanced at the dried lavender on the table, his fingers idly brushing over the petals. The prince’s elixir still needed finishing, but his mind wandered. He thought of Alden, back in the kitchen, surrounded by people, laughter always close at hand. They lived in the same manor and worked in the same space, yet their worlds rarely intersected beyond these brief moments. Alden was at the heart of the manor’s life, while Talin lingered in its quiet corners.

He sighed, shaking off the thought, and returned to his work.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Alden wiped the sweat from his brow and set the dough aside to rise. The kitchen was loud, busy, and full of life, just the way he liked it. He had always been comfortable here, commanding the ovens and the ingredients with ease, making sure everything ran smoothly. But even in the midst of it all, there was an emptiness he couldn’t quite shake. It crept up on him in quiet moments—when the laughter of the kitchen staff faded into the background or when the rush of baking subsided. He’d watch the others chat and joke with each other, and though he smiled and joined in, there was always a part of him that felt distant.

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Alden glanced toward the door where Talin had just left. The apothecary was an enigma to him—quiet, reserved, always hovering on the edges of things. They interacted often enough, but it was always about work, never more. Alden sometimes wondered if Talin felt the same loneliness that he did, tucked away in his little nook, working alone day after day. He shook his head and turned back to his baking. There was no time for such thoughts. The bread needed to rise, the lamb needed seasoning, and there was always more work to be done.

Yet, despite himself, his thoughts lingered on Talin.

As the afternoon wore on, the sun began its descent behind the manor walls, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Talin could hear the faint sound of a bell ringing, signaling the end of the kitchen’s lunch preparations. He had finished the prince’s calming draught, carefully sealing it in a small vial. His work was done for now, but the quiet of his apothecary, which usually brought him peace, felt a little too still today.

He found his thoughts wandering back to Alden. The warmth in his voice, the easy smile he carried—Talin had always admired those qualities, though he rarely admitted it to himself. It wasn’t just that Alden seemed at ease with everyone, but how genuine he was, how people naturally gravitated toward him. He made the bustling chaos of the kitchen feel like a place of comfort. Talin, on the other hand, struggled with that kind of ease. It wasn’t that he disliked people—he found their company... pleasant enough, but there was always a barrier he couldn’t bring himself to cross. He could talk to them, and share knowledge and advice, but that was as far as it went. There was a part of him that remained locked away, untouched, out of self-preservation, or perhaps out of fear.

He stood, stretching his stiff muscles. The prince wouldn’t need the elixir until later that evening, which meant he had time. Maybe a walk in the courtyard would help shake off the quiet weight that pressed on him. He gathered his cloak from the hook by the door and stepped outside.

In the kitchen, Alden wiped his hands on a cloth and glanced at the bread cooling on the counter. It was the usual assortment for the manor’s afternoon tea: small, golden loaves with honey drizzled on top, the kind that practically melted in your mouth. He’d perfected the recipe over the years, and now it was a favorite among the household. But even as he worked, his mind drifted back to Talin. Their interactions were always so... formal. Alden had tried on a few occasions to draw him out of his shell—small jokes, casual conversation—but Talin always seemed to keep a polite distance. Alden wondered what it would take to crack that exterior.

The apothecary was a mystery. He was always so poised, so in control, but there was something in his eyes, a kind of loneliness that mirrored Alden’s own. It wasn’t the kind of loneliness that came from being physically alone, but the kind that came from being surrounded by people and still feeling like you were on the outside looking in. Alden had felt it himself for years, hiding parts of himself from those around him.

Maybe that’s why Talin intrigued him. He saw in him a reflection of something familiar, a quiet struggle to belong.

Alden sighed, brushing flour from his apron. There was still more to do before the evening’s preparations, but for now, he had a small window of time. He thought about going for a walk, maybe catching some fresh air before the kitchen heated up again. His feet, almost on instinct, led him toward the courtyard.

Talin walked along the stone path of the courtyard, the crisp autumn air brushing against his cheeks. The garden was peaceful, a haven of greenery and blooming flowers nestled between the towering walls of the manor. He often found solace here, away from the noise and pressure of his duties. He rounded a corner near the herb garden, his fingers brushing lightly against the sprigs of rosemary and thyme he’d planted himself. A small smile tugged at his lips as he took in the familiar scent.

“Talin?”

The voice, warm and familiar, made him pause. He turned to see Alden approaching, his broad figure framed by the low-hanging branches of an old oak tree. He was still wearing his apron, but it was loosely tied now, as if he had just escaped the heat of the kitchen for a brief respite.

“Alden,” Talin replied, his voice calm as ever, though he felt a flicker of surprise. “Taking a break from the kitchen?”

Alden smiled, a flash of white teeth under the sunlight. “A rare occurrence, I know. Thought I’d catch some air before the chaos of dinner starts.” He glanced at the herb garden, his brow lifting slightly. “I always forget how much work you put into this garden. It’s a wonder you find time between your duties.”

Talin shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. “It helps me think. The herbs don’t ask for much.”

Alden chuckled, stepping closer, his gaze soft as it wandered over the neat rows of plants. “Lucky them, then.” He paused as if considering his next words carefully. “You spend a lot of time alone, don’t you?”

The question caught Talin off guard, though he didn’t show it. He straightened slightly, hands clasped behind his back. “I suppose I do. The apothecary requires concentration, and there’s always something to prepare.”

“True,” Alden said, though his tone suggested something unspoken. “But I imagine it gets... quiet.”

Talin glanced at him, studying his expression. There was something in Alden’s eyes, something deeper than idle curiosity. Talin’s instinct was to deflect, to brush it off as he always did, but for some reason, standing there in the soft afternoon light with Alden’s gaze on him, he found it harder to retreat into his usual reserve.

“It does,” Talin admitted after a pause, his voice quieter than before. “But it’s familiar.”

Alden nodded, his eyes thoughtful as he looked out across the garden. “I get it. Sometimes, even with all the noise in the kitchen, it feels... lonely.”

Talin looked at him then, truly looked. For all the smiles and easy laughter, there was something in Alden’s words that resonated with him. He hadn’t expected that—a shared understanding from someone like Alden, who always seemed so at ease with the world.

“I suppose it’s not so different, after all,” Talin said, his voice softer now, almost introspective.

Alden’s smile returned, but this time it was gentler, more genuine. “Maybe not.”

For a moment, they stood there in the quiet of the garden, a fragile connection forming in the space between them. It wasn’t much—just a few words shared, a brief understanding—but it was enough to stir something in Talin that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t sure what it meant yet, or where it would lead, but for the first time, he didn’t feel the need to shy away from it. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to always be on the outside looking in.

“Care to join me for a walk?” Alden asked after a moment, his voice light again, though the offer held a quiet sincerity.

Talin hesitated, but only for a second. Then, with a small nod, he fell into step beside Alden. And for the first time in a long while, the quiet didn’t feel so lonely.