Chapter 3: Silent Sacrifices

Chapter 3

I used to think I was strong, that nothing could shake me. But then she appeared—Sia. And suddenly, everything was different.

Every morning, as I walked to school, my eyes would instinctively search for her in the village. Some days, I found her carrying baskets of herbs, her grandmother's frail hands guiding her through the marketplace. Other times, she was sitting by the riverbank, lost in her own world. If I didn't see her, my day would feel... incomplete. It was stupid, really. But I couldn't help it.

I tried to ignore these feelings, push them down like they didn't exist. What was the point? She had her own life, her own struggles, and I—well, I was barely holding my own together. And yet, every time I caught a glimpse of her, a weight lifted from my chest, even if just for a moment.

Her life was harder than mine, I knew that much. Even with my father's drinking and the suffocating stench of alcohol that clung to our home, I still had more than she did. She had no family except her grandmother, and they barely scraped by. But despite that, she always smiled. It was unfair. How could someone with so little still find joy, while I, with all my broken pieces, felt like I was drowning?

Maybe that was why I wanted to help. Maybe that was why, when Sia wasn't around, I went to her grandmother's stall and bought pickles—more than I could ever eat. The more I bought, the more money she earned, and somehow, it made me feel like I was doing something right. But pickles cost money, and money wasn't something I had easily.

I stole from my father sometimes. Not enough for him to notice—just a few pounds here and there. Other times, I earned it in the most pathetic way possible—by letting the school bullies use me as their personal punching bag. They'd throw a few coins at me, laugh as they knocked the air out of my lungs, and walk away satisfied. I told myself it was worth it. If a few bruises meant Sia's grandmother could eat a proper meal, then I could endure it.

The worst part? Sia had no idea. She thought I was just another idiot buying pickles because I liked them. I didn't have the guts to tell her the truth.

One evening, as I was walking home, I saw her sitting outside her house, her head resting on her knees. Something was off. She wasn't smiling.

I hesitated for a moment before stepping closer. "Hey."

She looked up, startled, then gave me a small smile. It wasn't real. I could tell.

"Hey," she said softly.

I sat down beside her, keeping a bit of distance between us. "Everything okay?"

She nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just tired."

Lies. But I didn't push. She never pried into my life, never asked about the bruises I pretended weren't there. So, I gave her the same courtesy.

For a while, we just sat there, listening to the distant sounds of the village settling in for the night. And in that silence, I realized something terrifying.

I didn't just like Sia.

I was falling for her.

And I was falling hard.

I remember the first time I truly understood what she meant to me. It was a cold morning, the kind where the fog refused to lift, swallowing the village in a ghostly mist. I walked past her grandmother's stall, expecting to see her there, but she wasn't. The absence of her presence was like a hollow ache in my chest.

I told myself not to be ridiculous. But the moment stretched into hours, and I found myself wandering through the village, searching for her. My steps grew faster, my heartbeat louder. And then, when I finally spotted her near the river, a ridiculous sense of relief washed over me.

"Where were you?" I blurted out before I could stop myself.

She raised an eyebrow. "I was here."

"You weren't at the stall."

She tilted her head, amused. "Were you looking for me?"

I scoffed. "No. Just happened to pass by."

She grinned, and it was like the sun breaking through the fog. "Sure."

I wanted to deny it, to laugh it off, but the truth sat heavy in my chest. Yes. I was looking for you.

Some nights, I couldn't sleep. I'd stare at the cracks in the ceiling, my body sore from the latest round of bruises, and think about her. About how unfair life was. About how she deserved so much more than this village, more than a life of selling pickles and mending old clothes.

And I wanted to give her more. But what could I do?

One day, as I walked toward the marketplace, I overheard two men talking about the royal palace. About the soldiers and the life they lived—one of discipline, power, and purpose. A place where a man could prove himself.

The idea stuck with me. If I could become a soldier, I could earn a real living. I could do more than just buy pickles. I could change her life.

But the path wasn't easy. And deep down, I knew—if I chose this road, everything between Sia and me would change.

And I wasn't sure I was ready for that.