The Knight

Eileen's vision blurred as she forced her eyes open. The briny sea breeze brushed against her face, and the tattered hem of her dress fluttered in the wind. The soft glow of a fire flickered nearby, casting golden light over a figure crouched beside it—a young knight, prying open an oyster shell with his dagger. The dawn's first light glimmered against the fine links of his chainmail, lending a muted silver sheen to his armor.

The firelight carved sharp shadows across his face, highlighting a straight, noble nose—like the spire of a Gothic cathedral—and a faint scar along his jawline, a subtle flaw that softened his otherwise severe features.

"You're awake." He turned to her, his ice-blue eyes reflecting the dancing flames, molten gold trapped within a frozen gaze. He held out a freshly shucked oyster, his movements slightly unpolished, as if unused to such gestures. His fingertips brushed against her palm—a fleeting touch, light as a feather's caress.

Eileen accepted the oyster, the briny freshness bursting across her tongue. She had barely parted her lips to speak when the knight, without much thought, asked, "Who are you? How did you end up so wounded, falling off a cliff like that? If I hadn't passed by, the tide would've taken you." His voice carried a steely clarity, but there was an unmistakable warmth beneath it, softened further by the curve of his smile.

Lowering her gaze, Eileen took in the state of her ragged clothing, the careful bandages wrapped around her wounds. If he knew who she truly was, death would be the least of her worries—she could bring ruin upon him as well.

So she exhaled softly and murmured, "My name is Elaina. I'm the daughter of a manor's steward… I fled because I refused the count's proposal." A hollow laugh slipped from her lips as she watched the flames flicker. "Perhaps drowning in the sea would've been a kinder fate…"

The fire crackled, filling the silence between them. The knight studied her for a moment before unfastening the flask from his belt and offering it to her. "Drink," he said. "You're paler than an oyster shell."

She reached for it, her fingers inevitably brushing against his palm—rough and warm, the calloused hand of a man who had spent his life wielding a sword.

"I am Léon de Moret." His voice lowered slightly, his expression unreadable. "If you wish, come with me tomorrow. I will take you to my lands. No one will find you there."

Léon's estate lay by the sea—a modest castle, its stone walls entwined with ivy, its iron gates rusted with time. Stepping inside, Eileen found the interior sparse yet sturdy—an oak dining table dominated the great hall, and faded family portraits hung upon the walls, their subjects long forgotten.

"It's small," Léon admitted as he lit the hearth, the firelight accentuating the exhaustion in his features. "But it's safe. You can rest here."

Eileen glanced around. The place was even more worn than she had expected. Léon caught the flicker of hesitation in her eyes and offered a wry smile. "I once served as a vassal knight to the northern lords. But after a battle left me wounded, I lost my lands and title. Now, I live by hunting and fishing."

Something in her chest tightened. She had met many noble knights, but never one who bore his misfortune with such quiet dignity.

Days slipped by in quiet routine.

Each morning, Léon would set out to the shore, casting his nets for fish. Eileen, in turn, tended to the overgrown gardens, mended their worn clothes, and swept dust from forgotten corners.

By dusk, they would sit upon the cliffs, watching the sun sink into the horizon, its molten hues spilling across the waves like scattered gold.

One evening, Léon returned from the shore with a small bundle in his hands. He stepped up to her window and carefully set it down—a cluster of wildflowers, their petals bright against the fading light.

"There are no roses," he said with a sheepish smile. "But these are beautiful in their own way."

Eileen stared at the flowers, her fingers trailing over their delicate petals. Her heartbeat fell into rhythm with the ebb and flow of the waves. She reached out, taking his hand in hers.

"Thank you, Léon," she murmured. "This is the loveliest gift."

For a moment, he seemed caught off guard. Then, his fingers closed around hers, firm yet gentle, warmth seeping through her skin.

Eileen had never imagined that, amidst the shadows of pursuit and the looming specter of death, she would find something like this—something quiet, something steady.

She had grown used to his voice, his laughter, the way his presence turned silence into something comforting rather than suffocating.

And for the first time in a long while, she thought—perhaps staying here wouldn't be so bad after all.