We’ve been riding for hours. The old man hasn’t said a word the entire time, while Laura and I keep complaining about the pain in our behinds. He’s clearly used to traveling like this—unlike us.

Two weeks of this. At a crossroads, we stopped to buy supplies from other merchants—or rather, the old merchant bought us some bread. It’s bland and dry, though water softens it a bit.

And so the days pass, with Laura and me chatting about mundane things. Neither of us is entirely comfortable being vulnerable, but every so often, moments of genuineness slip through the cracks.

“How old are you? You look rather young,” I ask out of the blue. “I’m twenty-one,” I add, pointing to myself.

“Nineteen, I think,” she replies.

“You’re not sure?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know when my birthday is,” she says softly.

I pause, realizing I’ve touched on a sensitive subject.

“What kind of books do you like?” I ask, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Tales of past heroes, mages in particular,” she says softly. “The way Blue Flame is described makes me wish I had it too.”

This isn’t working. No matter what I say, tragedy seems to follow her.

“I think red suits you,” I say.

She looks at me as if I’ve said something obscene. We only have each other, so these barriers will have to break someday. Best to push gently and hope she doesn’t shatter.

“It’s hard for me to feel the same way,” she mumbles.

“You saw the high priest’s flame too—how mesmerizing it was,” I reply. “But, if you ask me, snowflakes are more beautiful than a blazing flame. Just my opinion.”

“I’m an orphan. I don’t remember my parents’ names or even what their faces looked like,” she says quietly. “A demon raid was my first memory.”

So, it’s not just how the world sees her but how she sees herself. The magic of demons—Red Frost—her first encounter with it must have been deeply traumatic.

“It was freezing,” she continues, her voice trembling. “I was under the bed. The heavy footsteps, the horns on their heads…” She begins to sob. “But then it was warm, and those demons were the ones freezing.”

So, magic doesn’t always manifest in puberty. It likely emerges from trauma as well.

“If it’s too hard for you, you can stop,” I say, gently placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I was found by the church—a lone survivor,” she continues. “They fed me, bathed me, and taught me how to read. But it was only for one purpose: to summon you.”

She pauses, her voice softening. “When you came, I knew it was time for me to go—to leave everything behind and start anew. Somewhere I won’t be seen as a witch.”

“I grew up with everything,” I say.

She looks at me, her eyes still streaming with tears.

“I had successful parents, went to an elite school and to be frank, excelled there. I have no brothers or sisters, my mom and dad worked, so I was alone most of the time, but they spent as much time with me as they could.”

She wipes her eyes and snorts.

“What happened?” She asks.

“I grew up with everything,” I say.

She looks at me, her eyes still streaming with tears.

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“I had successful parents, went to an elite school, and, to be frank, excelled there. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. My mom and dad worked a lot, so I was alone most of the time—but they spent as much time with me as they could when they were home.”

She wipes her eyes and snorts softly. “What happened?” she asks.

“Nothing. I finished school, skipped university, and my dad gave me a job at his company,” I say with a smile.

“Must be nice,” she mutters, looking down.

“The funny thing is, I hated every second of it.”

Her gaze lifts, her expression unreadable.

“I got paid well, barely put in effort, and he still promoted me. Eventually, I stopped showing up every day—and he still loved me,” I say, chuckling.

“That sounds perfect,” she says.

“Exactly! Everything always went my way,” I reply, my voice rising. “I became overweight and started sleeping in my own filth like a pig. And guess what? It didn’t matter. I hated myself, but they still loved me—a useless disappointment.”

She doesn’t answer. As expected. My struggles, my pain—they’re my own doing. Complaining about them feels selfish and immature. How could it compare to what she went through? A privileged failure versus an innocent victim—it’s obvious who deserves happiness.

She gazes into the distance, silent. But then, suddenly, she speaks.

“Everyone deserves happiness,” she says softly. “Just because you think you have everything doesn’t mean you really do.”

She looks at me, her eyes puffy and red. “Hearing you insult yourself makes me mad,” she says, her voice trembling. “Because I know you’re wrong.”

It’s logical—saying it is one thing, but believing it is another. Better to agree to disagree. Besides, I don’t like talking about myself.

The rest of the ride is uneventful: sit, eat, sleep. The constant hunger has probably made me shed some weight—not that I had much choice in the matter. Laura, on the other hand, doesn’t have much weight to lose, but the journey has likely taken its toll on her as well.

Two weeks later, the tops of houses come into view in the distance. Kundor—a walled city with a population of over two thousand. We’re almost there.

When we finally arrive, the old merchant pats us on the back, gives a curt nod, and rides away, leaving us barren and alone. The only thing left to do is knock on some doors and hope we find someone altruistic enough to spare a bite of food.

House after house, door after door, we knock and ask for food, shelter, or work. Lucky for me, having a cute girl by my side raises the success rate somewhat.

An apple, a carrot, a loaf of bread—after what feels like hundreds of houses, that’s all we’ve managed to gather. At one house, when we asked for work and were told they had none, they referred us to a lone smith beyond the walls.

After a couple of miles of walking, we spot a tiny house near the woods, accompanied by the rhythmic clanging of metal. As we approach, we see a man working at a forge. Short and stocky, shirtless and sweaty, bald and bearded, he pauses to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow. His wrinkled skin does little to hide his defined muscles

“You, lad—hold these tongs for me. Lass, fetch me some water from inside,” he commands in an authoritative tone.

We do as we’re told. Laura rushes inside the house and soon returns with a large mug of water. I hold the tongs, the metal painfully vibrating with every hammer strike.

He shouts orders for what feels like an eternity. “Lad, bring me this. Lad, bring me that. Lass, get the soup ready.”

By the time the sun begins to set, my shoulders are sore, and I can barely lift my arms. My palms and fingers are covered in painful blisters, and my stomach churns from having barely eaten today. Despite the exhaustion and pain, I find myself smiling for some reason.

“So, what did you come here for?” he asks.

I almost burst out laughing—the audacity to ask after hours of grueling labor is comical.

“I guess we already got what we wanted. It’s work,” I answer, trying to keep a straight face.

“Hmm…” He looks at me, contemplating, then pokes me in the stomach with his calloused finger, sending a sharp pang through my already sore muscles. “Very well. Let’s go see what the lass has prepared for us.”

The lass had been busy as well. He had asked—or rather, shouted—for her to make the house spotless and prepare a pot of soup. And she succeeded.

The house was clean and organized, and the savory aroma of soup filled the air. Laura stood by the pot, stirring it gently. She glanced at us as we entered.

“It’s done,” she said.

It’s delicious. After two weeks of bread and water, and the bland porridge before that, my tongue feels blessed by such perfection.

“You two will sleep in my shed. I don’t have space for you here,” he says.

He’s right—this place is tiny. The shed, filled with tools, materials, and at least a hundred horseshoes, will be our home for the time being.

“Thank you, I’m Ste—”

“You’re lad, and she’s lass,” he interrupts. “Call me Henrik,” he adds, without missing a beat.

With full stomachs, we bid Henrik goodnight. The spacious shed, with its cold stone floors, will serve as our bedding tonight. We huddle together in the corner, seeking warmth and comfort in each other’s presence.

“What do you think of Henrik?” I ask.

“He’s loud, rude, and smelly,” she responds without hesitation.

“I like him,” I reply.

She looks at me, perplexed.

“He’s honest, direct, and welcoming,” I add.

“He is welcoming, yes,” she admits, “but I’d rephrase the first two adjectives.”

I chuckle. “We have our preferences.”

She rests her head on my shoulder and sighs.

“I want to sleep on a bed,” she says with a pout.

“We will, eventually,” I reply, trying to console her.

With that, we drift off to sleep, our exhaustion finally taking over.