When I grabbed the reins of my warhorse and lifted my foot to mount, I stopped.
Something—a faint sound, an echo among the trees, perhaps—made me turn my head. And then I saw her.
Her.
Mounted on a small donkey, which trotted almost comically, as if it were an old toy, but steady, obedient. She was coming down a dirt trail, waving a wooden stick above her head. Not as a weapon, but as a natural extension of her arm—a staff of command.
"Come on, come on! No messing around!" she said loudly as she drove the flock.
The sheep obeyed as if they were lambs, following behind her in perfect order. There were no shouts, no whistles, no running. Just that small, firm voice that seemed to have been born there, along with the earth, the clay, and the smell of animals.
She wore the same worn-out overalls I had seen before, scuffed leather boots, and her hair tied back haphazardly, a few strands escaping down her face.
We were the same age. But our lives were completely different.
I stood there watching, and for a moment... the world seemed to slow down.
The sunset tinged the sky orange, and the silhouette of the sheep passing through the gate seemed almost... peaceful. This life — simple, repetitive, full of dirt under the nails and wrinkles on the face — had a calmness I had never known. There, no one shouted orders. No one bled. No one betrayed. It was just her, the stick, and the animals.
"What's your name?" I asked, without even realizing I had spoken aloud. My question came out unintentionally, without calculation, without armor. Just genuine curiosity.
She turned slowly, startled at first. Her eyes stared at me for a second before looking away, as if she were facing something too big. She looked at my dark red armor—the thick leather, the steel plates, the weight on my shoulders. I saw her gaze fall to my boots, then rise to my face.
"Evelyn, sir" she said, with a drawling, sweet accent. Typical of someone born in the countryside.
She wasn't perfumed like the girls in the capital. Her face was ordinary, the kind you forget in a crowd... were it not for the X-shaped scar on her left cheek. Her teeth weren't white, and her clothes looked like they had been worn by five brothers before her. She didn't speak like someone educated, nor did she seem to understand the world beyond the fences.
But even so...
There was something about her that captivated me. As if I had found a crystal-clear lake in the middle of a battlefield. Amidst everything I was... she was something else. Untouched.
"My horse is sick" I said suddenly, looking for an excuse to stay. "So I'll stay for a few more days. Could I ask your brother to go to town and send me a letter?"
She looked at me for a second. Then she turned her head, looking at my horse as if it were just any animal. As if it didn't weigh more than a ton. As if it weren't a symbol of the empire.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked seriously, her eyes fixed on the horse as if trying to diagnose something.
"Back pain" I replied without hesitation.
She turned her face toward me, frowning.
"Do horses have back pain?"
"Yes, they do" I replied, trying to sound confident, even though I knew how absurd it sounded.
She crossed her arms, thoughtful.
"I've never heard of that..."
I swallowed hard. Her question stung more than it should have.
"Are you questioning me?" I blurted out without thinking, my tone coming out firmer than I would have liked.
She gave a little start and raised her hands in the air defensively.
"Of course not! No way!"
"Good" I said, turning my face away, ending the conversation there. Not because I had won — but because any other explanation would require more creativity than I was willing to muster that morning.
The truth?
I had no letter to send. No real orders. No sick horse.
I just wanted an excuse to stay there.
On that piece of land where everything was quieter. Where no one looked at me expecting me to kill, command, or decide someone's fate.
Next to that girl with her drawl and stick in her hand, I felt... small. And that, strangely, was a relief.
It was the best night I'd had in years.
Without the clinking of chains in the camps. Without the stench of dried blood on the walls. Without voices shouting my name with orders, requests, or fear. Just the sound of cicadas, the rustling of leaves in the night breeze, and the smell of the countryside—wood, wool, and wet earth.
Sleeping on a straw mattress next to the stable didn't bother me. On the contrary. It was a relief. The weight of the armor, set aside for one night, seemed less physical and more... symbolic. There, lying under an old wooden roof and a starry sky, for the first time in a long time, I was nobody.
Morning came with the sun pouring gold over the pastures. The sheep were already scattered across the field when I saw her again.
"Show me the place... and what you do" I asked, as soon as we met near the fence.
She stood beside me, shrugging her shoulders. I noticed how her fingers tightened around the stick. She was nervous, but also curious. She wasn't the kind of girl who got attention from a man like me. Nor should she be. But something about her caught my eye, like a song you don't understand but can't stop listening to.
"I'm a shepherdess" she said after a few seconds, looking ahead. "Our family owns this pasture. I... I take care of the sheep so they don't run off into the forest. There are a lot of monkeys there. They come to steal... and when they try to eat one, I hit them on the head with this"
She raised the stick as if it were a ceremonial sword. There was pride in her posture. And then she smiled. It wasn't a practiced smile, nor was it seductive. It was the smile of someone who had survived long enough to be able to laugh again.
"You hit them?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Right on the head" she replied with a light laugh. "My mother taught me. I climb on the donkey because it's tall, and the monkeys think I'm bigger than I am. They're afraid"
She twirled the stick with an exaggerated flourish, almost as if trying to impress me. But then she stumbled.
The stick hit the ground and she staggered, almost falling. Her leg—I had noticed it before, but now it was clear—didn't work well. She leaned on it with more than confidence. It was survival. Reflex.
I reached out without thinking and grabbed her waist, preventing her from falling. Her skin was warm, alive. Her body was light, fragile. A stark contrast to everything I had ever known.
"I apologize, sir... this stupid girl can't even walk properly" she muttered, embarrassed, without looking at me.
"Don't say that" I replied, my voice lower than I expected.
She looked up, and for a moment, our eyes met. In the golden reflection of the sunset, I realized she wasn't afraid. Not of me. Not of my armor. Not of what I represented. She feared only one thing: disappointing those she loved.
In my entire life, I had never met anyone like her.
I let her go carefully, easing my grip, afraid of breaking her unintentionally. Even so, she remained steadfast, as if she had fallen so many times that she had learned to get up before even touching the ground.
I brought my hand to my face. I ran my glove over the rough, scarred skin that covered half of my face. I usually hide this from others—even from myself, sometimes. But not from her.
"You are very brave" I murmured. "Why don't you tell me about your time here?"
She hesitated.
The silence between us was long, but not uncomfortable. It was a silence where words needed time to form. And then, when she looked at me again, I saw something I had never witnessed even on the battlefield: trust. True trust.
She knew she shouldn't trust me. But she did anyway.
And I... I didn't know if I wanted to leave anymore.