Thorsten had fought in countless battles, faced down roaring beasts, and weathered the fiercest storms nature had to offer. But nothing in his years as a warrior had prepared him for the peculiar storm that was Serrandyl.

He sat on the rough-hewn bench outside his cabin, sharpening his axe with slow, methodical strokes. The familiar scrape of the whetstone against the steel was soothing, a rhythm he could count on. But today, even that small comfort couldn't keep his mind from wandering back to Serrandyl's strange behavior over the past few days.

It had started innocently enough—or so he'd thought. A few mornings ago, she had shown up at his door with a plate of… something.

"Thorsten!" she had called, her voice carrying that familiar blend of challenge and excitement.

He'd opened the door, half-expecting her to demand another sparring match. Instead, she thrust a plate into his hands, practically smashing the edge of it against his chest. Her expression was...nervous? He couldn't quite place it.

"What's this?" he'd asked, staring down at the lumpy, misshapen objects on the plate.

"Food," Serrandyl had declared, as if daring him to question it. "I made it for you."

Thorsten had blinked, momentarily at a loss. He wasn't used to Serrandyl bringing him food—especially not something she'd made herself. Her skills, as far as he knew, were better suited to the battlefield than the kitchen. Cooking had never been Serrandyl's strong suit—she was more at home skinning a deer than kneading dough.

But there she stood, watching him with an intensity that made him feel like he was being tested.

So, with the same resolve he'd mustered before charging into battle, he picked up one of the… pastries? Bread rolls? Whatever they were meant to be, he bit into one. Chewed slowly. Swallowed carefully. Tried to keep his face neutral as the flavor settled in his mouth.

Serrandyl watched him closely the whole time, her eyes tracking every move. There was an odd tension in her body language as she waited for him to react. It made him uncomfortable. And what sort of warrior would he have been had he shied away from discomfort? He bit down on a mouthful of pastry. Then he swallowed. Took another bite.

Immediately, he regretted it. The texture was dry and grainy and the taste was bland. He chewed through sheer force of will alone, but by the third bite, even that effort failed him. With great difficulty, he forced down what remained of the first bite and then set aside the half-eaten roll. He cleared his throat and met Serrandyl's gaze with a weak smile.

"How is it?" she asked, her voice tinged with hope. "I worked really hard on them. I'm still practicing with the recipe..."

She trailed off as Thorsten swallowed again—a little too quickly this time—and choked. A shudder ran through him as he finally managed to swallow the last mouthful of crumbs down without spitting them all over his front.

"It's… hearty," he managed. "Tough bread makes tough warriors, they say."

She looked at him for a moment, as if unsure whether to believe him, then laughed—her usual boisterous laugh, full of life and energy. "Yeah, tough. Right."

She turned on her heel and bolted before he could say another word, leaving him standing there, bemused and holding a plate with a half-eaten misshapen doughy lump. After a moment, he shrugged and placed the plate beside his door—then went back inside and ate several large handfuls of oatcakes.

Serrandyl was a peculiar one, that much was certain. Perhaps she had simply been trying to be kind.

But it didn't stop there.

A couple of days later, Thorsten was enjoying a rare quiet moment at the feast hall when Serrandyl plopped down beside him, sliding a flagon of mead his way. She seemed strangely subdued, her usual vigor tempered by something he couldn't quite place.

"Thorsten," she said, her tone more serious than usual, "what do you think about...normal things?"

He frowned at her, not understanding the question. "Normal things?"

"Yeah, you know. Things people talk about. Not fighting or hunting, just… other stuff."

Thorsten leaned back, giving her a sidelong glance. "I talk about plenty of things," he said, though even he knew that wasn't entirely true. Most of his conversations did tend to veer toward combat or survival—things he was familiar with. Anything else tended to elude him. Especially when it came to the ladies.

Serrandyl seemed to sense his hesitation and pressed on. "Do you...I don't know, have hobbies? Interests? Things that make you happy?"

Thorsten stared at her. This was not the kind of conversation he was accustomed to having with Serrandyl. Normally, their exchanges were filled with banter and playful insults, not...whatever this was. Still, he humored her.

"I suppose I like carving wood in my spare time," he said slowly. "It keeps my hands busy when there's no work to be done."

Serrandyl perked up at that. "Wood carving! That's interesting! What do you carve?"

Thorsten shrugged, scratching idly at his beard. "Depends on what strikes my fancy at the time. Sometimes I make little figurines, animals mostly. Other times I try to replicate certain objects—like the axe or sword. And occasionally, I make furniture—benches or chairs, things like that. But usually only when someone asks for one. People don't really buy such items when there are far more practical items to make instead."

She blinked at him, clearly expecting a different answer, but she recovered quickly. "Axes are… nice. What about anything else? Ever think about...I don't know, the future? Maybe a family?"

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Bjorn's words from earlier came to mind. Ever since that conversation at the feast hall days before, Thorsten hadn't been able to forget them. Serrandyl herself kept popping into his mind, invading every quiet moment when she wasn't constantly around.

Thorsten frowned, scratching at his beard. "Never gave it much thought, to be honest. I'm content with the way things are."

Serrandyl's shoulders slumped slightly, but she nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah, makes sense. Just curious, that's all."

And with that, she drained her flagon and left, leaving Thorsten more confused than ever. He watched her go, his thoughts churning. There was something going on beneath those fiery red locks of hers.

Was she really fond of him after all?

The final straw came a few days later when Serrandyl appeared at his cabin again, this time holding something behind her back. Her expression was uncharacteristically hesitant, almost shy, as if she couldn't quite believe she was standing outside his front door with whatever she was about to give him in her hands.

"Thorsten," she began, her voice uncharacteristically soft, "I, uh...I brought you something."

He sighed inwardly, bracing himself for another attempt at baked goods, but instead, Serrandyl revealed...flowers. A small, slightly wilted bunch of wildflowers, probably picked somewhere near the stream on the edge of town. She thrust them at him, holding the ragged bouquet with both hands.

"Flowers?" he asked, not quite able to keep the confusion out of his voice. No woman had ever given him flowers before—not in all his years.

"Yeah," she muttered, looking anywhere but at him. "Humans give flowers, right? Thought you might...like them or something."

Thorsten took the flowers from her, holding them gingerly as if they might crumble in his grip. He had no idea what to do with them, but the sight of Serrandyl standing there, shifting nervously from foot to foot, was enough to make him smile despite himself.

"Thank you, Serrandyl," he said, his tone gentle. "I...appreciate it."

She grunted in response, shuffling back a step. "Yeah, well... don't get used to it. I'm no florist."

With that, she turned and walked away, her tail lashing side to side as she left. And Thorsten watched her go, feeling oddly perplexed but pleased all the same. Maybe there was something to Bjorn's suspicions after all.

But now? What exactly did it mean? He wasn't sure. And when it came to matters such as this—matters of the heart—he preferred to take the advice of someone far wiser than himself. So he did what any sensible man would do when faced with an uncomfortable situation: he sought out his old friend.

And thus, the next morning found him sitting across from Bjorn at his table, pouring out his worries in hopes that they would prove less intimidating when laid bare like this.

"So let me get this straight," Bjorn interjected midway through Thorsten's long-winded monologue. "First she made you burnt pastries? Then gave you mead?"

"Aye, that she did," Thorsten agreed solemnly. He shifted in his chair and added, "She gave me flowers too."

"Right." Bjorn stroked his beard in thought. "She's courting you."

"Is she?" Thorsten mused out loud, the gears in his mind spinning as he mulled the thought over. She certainly wasn't shy about getting his attention in every way possible. Maybe the young woman did harbor genuine feelings for him...or at least some interest. "Maybe she just has a crush? She seems to find amusement in teasing me, so perhaps this is all just a prank?"

Bjorn shrugged. "Sure seems like more than a crush to me. I mean, she does spend a lot of time challenging you and seeking your attention, which is a common tactic used by those trying to show off for someone."

Thorsten sighed, rubbing his forehead. He didn't like being unsure of what to do. "You're not making this any easier."

"It never is when we try to decipher women's intentions."

A faint giggle slipped out, drawing both men's attention. The source came from a third party who had unceremoniously invited herself into their conversation after Thorsten had entered Bjorn's home—Ebonheim, of course. A coy smile rested on her lips as she sat cross-legged beside them, her golden eyes dancing with delight.

Bjorn's face contorted to hide a smile while Thorsten sighed and rubbed his forehead.

He should have known that Ebonheim would eventually catch wind of all this and want to join in the fun. As the town's resident deity and protector, she often took an interest in people's comings and goings and readily inserted herself into conversations—often times without prior warning—even if she wasn't directly involved. This didn't surprise him or Bjorn any longer. It had happened far too often for them to even raise their voices at her.

So Thorsten did his best to play along and pretend he found nothing odd about the situation.

"I don't suppose she has spoken to you about this," he remarked with a weary voice. "In any form."

"Oh no," Ebonheim chirped in reply. "She won't say a word about that sort of stuff. But she does talk about you quite often. I can fill in the rest."

The hint of mischief in Ebonheim's tone wasn't lost on Thorsten. Neither was Bjorn's widening smirk. They exchanged a look, as if sharing the same thought, before Thorsten spoke again. "I'll bite...what do you mean by 'fill in the rest?'"

"Oh, nothing much." Ebonheim waved dismissively, a playful giggle escaping her. "I've got an inkling of her heart, at least. She cares for you a great deal."

Her answer didn't reassure Thorsten in the slightest. If anything, it did little to ease his mind. A part of him felt guilty about not being more enthusiastic towards her. She was a strong warrior and a reliable friend. Her presence was never unwanted but she did tend to get underfoot. He respected her courage, but her boldness had always made her a bit too reckless.

And yet...her smile remained etched deep in his heart.

Bjorn shook his head with a sigh. "This is like watching a man try to catch a fish with his bare hands—and the fish has already jumped into his bucket. What am I going to do with you? At this rate, she'll have to knock you unconscious and tie you down before you'll take the hint."

Thorsten opened his mouth to protest, but Bjorn held up a hand to silence him. "Enough. I will give you only one piece of advice: do not overthink this. She wishes to be close to you and clearly finds joy in spending time around you. That should be enough. Spend some time with her—show her how you feel. You don't have to rush into anything, but don't waste your opportunity either. Sometimes the answers to your heart's greatest desires can be found in the last place you expect to look."

Ebonheim nodded as if she were the one giving counsel. Thorsten resisted the urge to groan. He'd come to Bjorn for advice—he hadn't intended for Ebonheim to get involved too. Still...they were both right. No point dwelling on things when actions speak louder than words.

"Right, of course," Thorsten replied reluctantly. "I appreciate your guidance."

Bjorn smiled kindly. "Come now, old friend. Don't act so defeated. It doesn't suit you."

"He has a point," Ebonheim remarked offhandedly. "Besides, what could go wrong?"

The mischievous glint in her golden eyes made Thorsten bristle slightly. He didn't miss the teasing tone in her voice. She probably meant no harm by her comment, but the sheer innocence in her tone still put him on edge nonetheless.

He flexed his hand. It had been a while since he delivered the "iron claw" technique to someone's skull. Maybe Ebonheim would enjoy a taste of that once or twice.

"What indeed?" he answered flatly.