"Brother!"
Rumia approached her gaze fixed on her older brother with the kind of disappointment that could wither a grown man.
I watched the interaction unfold, noting how she carried herself with the natural authority of someone accustomed to managing difficult situations. Her hands were already moving to her hips before she even reached us, a gesture I'd seen countless times over the years whenever she prepared to dress down her troublesome sibling.
"Are you picking fights again?"
Alric's face contorted with rage, his jaw clenching as he whirled to face his sister. "Shut it! It has nothing to do with you!" The words exploded from him like a cornered animal's snarl, spittle flying as his voice rose to near-shouting levels.
But Rumia didn't even flinch. If anything, her stance became more resolute, her chin lifting with stubborness. "It has everything to do with me! Father specifically asked me to make sure you don't cause problems. You're going to be the next village chief, succeeding father—remember? Do you want everyone in the village to hate you before you even take the role?"
The transformation in Alric was almost comical to witness. The bombastic rage that had filled him moments before seemed to deflate like a punctured waterskin. His shoulders sagged, and for just an instant, I glimpsed something almost vulnerable in his expression—the weight of expectations he clearly wasn't ready to bear.
This village is truly doomed if this fool takes over. At least Aldan was a bastard with some competence. This one will run everything into the ground within a year.
The mention of their father and the responsibilities that came with leadership seemed to strike Alric like a physical blow. His hands, which had been clenched into fists, slowly uncurled. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked away, his footsteps heavy with wounded pride and barely suppressed anger.
Perhaps there's some hope for him after all, I mused, watching his retreating figure. At least he recognizes authority when it's properly applied.
"Phew." Rumia let out a long breath, her entire demeanor shifting as the tension drained from her shoulders. When she turned toward us, her expression had transformed completely—gone was the stern authority, replaced by genuine embarrassment and concern. "I'm so sorry about my brother. He can be... difficult."
"You have nothing to apologize for, Mia," Rosaluna said warmly. My sister stepped closer to Rumia, her body language open and welcoming in a way that still surprised me.
It was remarkable, really. Rosaluna had spent the last four years maintaining a carefully constructed wall of polite distance from every other woman in the village who showed even the slightest interest in me. She could spot potential rivals from across the market square and freeze them out with surgical precision. Yet with Rumia, she had always been different—welcoming, even encouraging.
Rumia's smile in response was radiant, transforming her entire face. But instead of taking her leave as I expected, she lingered, shifting her weight from foot to foot in a display of nervous energy. Her eyes kept darting toward me, then away, as if she were gathering courage for something.
I found myself simply watching her, wondering what she was going to do.
The prolonged attention seemed to affect her deeply. A pink flush crept up her neck, spreading across her cheeks like watercolor on wet paper. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than usual, almost tentative.
"May I... may I accompany you? I would also like to look around."
This wasn't simply about sightseeing, and we all knew it.
"Of course," Rosaluna replied immediately, her smile widening with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. "We'd be delighted to have your company."
I really wonder, I thought, observing my sister's enthusiastic response, if she truly doesn't realize that Rumia is doing this to get closer to me, or if she's simply pretending ignorance for reasons of her own.
The truth was, these last four years had made it nearly impossible to maintain any meaningful distance from Rumia, no matter how hard I tried. Each attempt to create space between us only seemed to strengthen her resolve. Every polite deflection was met with renewed determination. Every cool response was countered with patient persistence.
She reminded me of Victoria Ashford—that textile heiress from my previous life whose heart and mind I had systematically destroyed for my own advancement. Victoria had possessed the same stubborn determination, the same refusal to accept defeat in matters of the heart.
But where Victoria's interest had been calculating, born of social ambition and carefully cultivated attraction, Rumia's feelings seemed to spring from something deeper, more genuine. It was precisely what made the situation so complicated.
I had truly believed that time would solve this problem naturally. Childhood infatuations were supposed to fade, weren't they? I could barely remember my own fleeting attractions from that age—they had seemed so important then, yet meant nothing to me now. Logic dictated that Rumia's feelings should have followed the same pattern.
Instead, they had only grown stronger, more focused, more mature. What had begun as a child's innocent admiration had evolved into something far more serious and potentially dangerous.
What does she see in me? I wondered, not for the first time. I've been nothing but distant with her. I haven't employed any of the charm or seduction techniques that served me so well in my former life. If anything, I've been deliberately cold.
Perhaps it was simply physical attraction—I had been blessed with favorable features in this life, after all. But no, that couldn't be the whole explanation. Rumia's attachment had begun years ago, when we were both too young for such considerations to carry much weight.
The moment that kept returning to my mind was that day I had healed her injury. It had been nothing more than an experiment to me—a test of my newfound abilities in this strange world. I hadn't thought twice about the act itself, focused entirely on the fascinating mechanics of magical healing.
But for her, apparently, it had been something else entirely. A moment of connection, perhaps. Or maybe just the kindness of a boy toward a hurt child, magnified by her young imagination into something far more significant.
Could it really be that simple? I mused as we began walking together. Is there some kind of natural charm at work here that I'm not even aware of?
The cobblestone streets of the market square buzzed with afternoon activity as I, Rosaluna and Rumia made our way through the crowd. Rumia walked beside me with an easy grace, her hands clasped behind her back, a bright smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she took in the sights and sounds around us.
But again were the pointed stares boring into my back. Every few paces, I caught another cluster of young men watching us with barely concealed resentment, their conversations dying as we passed only to resume in heated whispers once we were out of earshot. The older men were more subtle about it, but I could feel their disapproving gazes just the same.
What did I do exactly?
A wry smile tugged at my lips. Men and boys truly were the same, regardless of age or circumstance. Back on Earth, during the high-society gatherings I'd been obligated to attend, I'd grown accustomed to the same bitter undercurrent of jealousy whenever women showed me attention. The settings might be different—glittering ballrooms versus dusty market squares—but human nature remained depressingly consistent.
"Oh, here!" Rumia's excited exclamation broke through my musings as she suddenly veered toward a merchant's stall that had caught her eye.
The carriage-turned-shop was a riot of colors and glinting metal, its wooden sides lined with hooks and shelves displaying an array of women's accessories. To call them jewelry might have been generous—these weren't the precious gems and fine metals that would grace the necks of nobility—but there was an undeniable charm to the collection. Copper bangles caught the afternoon light, their surfaces polished to a warm glow. Delicate hair pins carved from bone and wood promised to tame even the most unruly locks. Strings of painted clay beads in vibrant blues and greens offered a splash of color for any outfit.
They were simple pieces, well within the reach of common village folk, but crafted with enough care to make any young woman feel special. I could already see Rumia's fingers hovering over a particularly lovely copper bracelet etched with swirling patterns, while my sister had materialized beside her as if summoned by some feminine instinct, her attention completely absorbed by a set of matching hair ornaments.
Recognizing that I was about to become surplus to requirements, I murmured something about browsing nearby and drifted away from their animated discussion of which pieces would complement their complexions best. The universal language of female shopping was one I'd learned long ago to appreciate from a safe distance.
My wandering brought me to another merchant's setup that immediately took my attention. Unlike the jewelry vendor's carefully arranged display, this stall was a practical affair—a sturdy wagon with its sides folded down to create a sprawling showcase of hunting equipment. Leather quivers bristled with arrows of varying weights and points. Bows hung from wooden pegs, their strings slack but ready. Knives of every description lay arranged on felt cloth, from delicate skinning blades to hefty choppers designed for breaking down large game.
I found myself smiling as I imagined old Henrik's reaction to seeing villagers purchasing hunting tools from traveling merchants instead of commissioning them from his forge. The blacksmith took considerable pride in his craft, and I could practically hear his grumbling about inferior foreign metalwork. But Henrik focused primarily on farming implements, horseshoes, and the occasional sword—his expertise lay elsewhere. Here was variety he simply couldn't match: specialized traps with their spring mechanisms, different grades of bowstring, even vials of scent lures and masking compounds.
The timing couldn't have been better. Tom had been after me for weeks to join their hunting expeditions, and I'd finally decided it might be worth pursuing. The forest surrounding Millbrook was rich with game, and the skills would serve me well in this world where self-sufficiency often meant the difference between comfort and hardship.
I reached for one of the larger knives, testing its weight in my hand. The blade was substantial—easily eight inches of well-tempered steel with a full tang and leather-wrapped grip. Perfect for field dressing deer or wild boar.
"Planning to murder someone?"
The amused voice made me turn, knife still in hand, to find Lisa standing nearby with her arms crossed and a small smile on her lips. At fourteen, she'd grown into her beauty with the kind of effortless grace that turned heads wherever she went. Along with my sister and Rumia, she completed what the village lads had dubbed the "trinity of torment"—three girls so lovely they'd rendered half the young men of Millbrook tongue-tied and stumbling.
It truly was remarkable how a forgotten backwater village like ours had managed to produce such a concentration of beauty. Perhaps there was something in the water, or maybe the isolation had simply allowed certain bloodlines to flourish undiluted.
"Actually, I was thinking of putting old Aldan out of his misery," I replied with mock seriousness, turning the blade to catch the light. "The man's convinced I'm planning to slaughter the entire village anyway. Might as well give him something real to worry about."
Lisa's giggle was like silver bells, drawing glances from nearby merchants and shoppers. She stepped closer, her keen eyes already assessing the array of weapons and tools spread before us.
"You know, I was wondering when you'd finally stop acting like a scholar and embrace your more... primitive instincts," she said with a teasing lilt. "So, hunting finally appeals to you?"
"Tom's been relentless in his invitations," I admitted, setting the knife back down and picking up a smaller skinning blade. "And I figure it's past time I learned skills that might actually prove useful in this world. Reading philosophy won't fill the larder when winter comes calling."
Lisa nodded approvingly, then surprised me by demonstrating an unexpected familiarity with the merchant's wares. Her fingers moved confidently among the knives, testing edges with the pad of her thumb and checking the balance of each blade with ease.
"This one," she said, selecting a medium-sized hunting knife with a slightly curved blade. "Good steel, proper weight distribution, and the curve will help with skinning. Avoid the fancy ones with all the etching—pretty to look at, but the decorative grooves collect blood and become impossible to clean properly."
She moved on to the bows with the same assured competence, drawing back strings to test their pull weight and examining the wood grain for flaws. "You'll want something in the forty to fifty-pound range to start," she continued, selecting a recurved bow of dark wood. "This yew composite should serve you well—powerful enough to bring down deer, but not so heavy you'll tire yourself out on long hunts."
I stared at her with newfound respect. "Where on earth did you learn all this?"
Her gaze turned slightly sad as she muttered. "My father."
I shouldn't have asked, it was easy to guess.
She handed me the bow, and I hefted it experimentally. The grip felt comfortable in my hand, and the draw was smooth when I tested it without an arrow. "You're full of surprises, Lisa."
"A girl has to have her secrets," she replied with a wink. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't accidentally shoot yourself in the foot on your first expedition. Tom means well, but his idea of hunting instruction involves a lot of enthusiastic gesturing and very little practical advice."
As if summoned by our conversation, I heard Tom's familiar voice booming across the market square, followed by the distinctive sound of something heavy hitting the ground and a string of creative curses that would have made a sailor blush.
"Speaking of our hunting guide," Lisa murmured.
I turned to see Tom extracting himself from what appeared to be a collision with a cart full of turnips, his face red with embarrassment as the vegetable merchant berated him in increasingly colorful terms. Behind him, Mark and Willem, Tom's sons, were making valiant attempts to help while simultaneously fighting off fits of laughter.
"He always seems so focused when hunting, but everything else becomes secondary," I said, watching as another group of young men gathered around the weapon merchant's stall, their eyes gleaming with the same fervor I'd seen countless times before.
When I turned back toward Lisa, expecting to continue our conversation, I found myself staring in bewilderment. She stood there already holding a cloth-wrapped bundle in her hands—the very bow and hunting knife she had been examining just moments before.
"Lisa? I have money, you know. I can afford my own equipment."
She extended the wrapped weapons toward me with a smile. "Consider it my gift for helping out my grandmother."
I hesitated, my hands hovering just above the bundle. Yeah, I had been helping Martha but she taught me the art of sewing in return.
"You didn't need to do this," I said. "I help her because I want to learn. It's not charity—she's teaching me sewing in return. It's a fair exchange."
Lisa's expression shifted subtly, her eyebrows drawing together in that way that suggested she was studying me more carefully than usual. She blinked once, twice, and then let out a soft sigh. Before I could react, she stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint lavender scent that always seemed to cling to her hair.
Leaning in, she pressed her lips gently against my forehead. The kiss was brief, barely more than a whisper of contact but it felt nice.
"This is my gift, Harold," she muttered against my skin. "Accept it."
As she pulled back, I found myself reaching up to touch the spot where her lips had been, my fingers coming away slightly damp.
"Now I'm certain that every boy in the village hates me," I said, sighing. I could already imagine the whispers that would follow, the envious glances and muttered comments. Lisa was easily the most sought-after young woman in our village because she was coming at age, and her public display of affection would not go unnoticed.
Lisa's lips curved into a smirk that was equal parts innocent and knowing. She turned as if to leave, her skirts swishing around her ankles, but I reached out instinctively and caught her arm.
She paused, looking back at me with curiosity written across her features.
My eyes had already found what I was looking for. The neighboring stall displayed an array of jewelry that caught the afternoon light—rings, necklaces, and bracelets spread across dark velvet cloth like captured stars. Most of the pieces were simple, meant for the common folk of our village, but one item drew my attention immediately.
A silver bracelet lay among the other wares, its surface etched with delicate patterns that seemed to dance in the shifting light. Tiny flowers and vines wound around the band in a sublime design that spoke of skilled craftsmanship. It was exactly the sort of thing that would complement Lisa's natural grace.
"Give me that one," I said to the jewelry merchant, pointing at the bracelet without taking my eyes off Lisa's puzzled expression.
The merchant, a thin man with calculating eyes, picked up the piece and examined it as if seeing it for the first time. "Ten silver coins, boy," he said, his tone suggesting he expected me to balk at the price.
Ten silver coins was indeed a significant sum—more than many families in our village earned in a month.
I reached into my coin purse and began counting out the silver pieces, placing each one on the merchant's counter. The man's eyes widened with each coin that clinked against the wood, clearly not having expected a ten years old boy to carry such wealth.
"H—Harold?" Lisa tried to step forward, perhaps to stop what she saw as an unnecessarily extravagant purchase. "You don't need to—"
But I was already taking the bracelet from the merchant's suddenly eager hands, the cool metal warming quickly against my palm. Without giving Lisa a chance to protest further, I gently took hold of the wrist of the hand I'd been grasping and carefully fastened the silver bracelet around it. The patterns seemed to come alive against her skin, the flowers and vines appearing to bloom in the dappled marketplace light.
"This is my gift," I said, echoing her earlier words as I secured the clasp. The bracelet fit perfectly, as if it had been made specifically for her delicate wrist.