John decided to stay for the night.
There was no inn in the village, but the fruit seller—Mr. Gray, as he introduced himself—offered him a place to rest in the shed behind his house. It wasn't fancy, just a wooden cot and an old blanket that smelled like apples and dust, but John was too tired to care.
He sat by the open window, watching the sun disappear behind the hills.
The village glowed softly in the dusk. Children chased each other down the dirt paths, laughing. Old women watered plants in their little front gardens. Men carried baskets of vegetables home to their wives.
Everything here felt… gentle.No tension. No titles. No politics. Just life.
John closed his eyes and imagined Jane walking through this place. Barefoot, like she always had. Her hair messy. Eyes glowing that unnatural violet hue—but smiling.
She would love it here. He knows it.
No grand halls. No nobles whispering behind her back. No cruel gazes calling her giftless.Just peace.
He took the folded photo out of his cloak again and stared at it under the fading light.
"I'll find you, Jane," he whispered. "Even if it takes the rest of my life."
The air grew cooler. Crickets began to sing. A soft wind rustled through the trees nearby.
And for the first time in days, John allowed himself to sleep—not because he was exhausted, but because he felt hope. Real hope.
She had been here. She might still be nearby. And tomorrow, he would search again.
_______
The next morning, John woke up early.
He thanked Mr. Gray for his kindness and bought a few apples before heading into the village again. With the folded photo of Jane in hand, he went door to door, asking the same question:
"Have you seen this girl?"
Most villagers politely shook their heads. Some gave him a second glance, probably wondering what a man dressed in fine traveling boots and a noble's coat was doing in their quiet town.
After hours of searching, he passed by the same fruit stand where he had met Mr. Gray yesterday.
The man spotted him and raised a brow. "Still no luck?"
John shook his head.
Mr. Gray leaned closer, arms crossed over his chest. "I told you, I don't know where she went. But I remember her. How could anyone forget those eyes?"
John straightened. "Her eyes?"
Mr. Gray chuckled softly. "Purple. Bright as lavender in full bloom. I asked if it was her natural color, and she said she was wearing contact lenses." He smiled a little. "But even if she was lying, they were beautiful. I gave her a discount just for being honest."
John's heart jumped.
Purple eyes. She didn't even try to hide them properly?
"She didn't say where she was staying?" John asked, hopeful.
Mr. Gray shook his head. "Nope. Just bought some fruit and walked off. But I think she's still around. She looked like she belonged here... At first I thought she's a local here."
John took a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions.
"She's nearby," he murmured to himself. "I know it."
Mr. Gray tilted his head. "Is she your sister?"
"No," John answered quickly.
"Ah... then someone important?"
John didn't reply.
But his silence said everything.
________
The sun had already begun to set by the time Jane stepped out of Mrs. Watsonville's restaurant. Her apron was folded neatly in her arms, and a thin layer of flour still clung to her sleeve. She had spent the entire day sweeping, cleaning tables, taking orders, and learning how to fold napkins into the shape of tiny birds.
Her legs were sore, and her back ached slightly—but oddly, she felt… good. The kind of tired that comes from honest work.
As she walked home, the golden glow of the setting sun bathed the village in warm colors. Children played on the road, and neighbors sat outside, enjoying the last bit of daylight. Jane passed them quietly, giving small nods and polite smiles, her steps light but steady.
Then it happened.
Halfway down the dirt road toward her little house, her steps suddenly slowed. The air around her shifted—like the wind was holding its breath.
She paused.
There was a hum in her chest, subtle but steady. Not from fear. Not from pain.
From recognition.
Her eyes darted to the trees, to the rooftops, to the path behind her.
She could feel it again—that same pull she had felt the night before. A familiar warmth, soft and sharp at the same time. Her fingertips twitched slightly.
"…John?" she whispered under her breath, her heart beginning to race.
No one answered. But she didn't need one.
Somewhere close… he was here.
She hurried her pace, clutching the apron tighter against her chest.
Not now, she thought. Not yet. I'm not ready.
But her soul already knew what her heart refused to accept—
He had found her.
_______
John walked slowly through the quiet village street, his eyes scanning every detail. He had visited three other villages before this, but something about this place… felt different. Peaceful. Hidden. Like a secret waiting to be found.
The breeze carried the faint scent of herbs, fresh bread, and lavender soap. But then, something else hit him.
A scent he knew too well.
Violets.
He stopped.
The sweet, subtle aroma drifted from one of the houses. A small cottage near the end of the road—walls slightly weathered, roof old but clean. A garden with uneven grass, like someone had trimmed it by hand. But it wasn't the appearance that made him stare.
It was the feeling.
He stepped closer.
The scent grew stronger, clearer. His Savorian senses sharpened, narrowing in like a hound on a trail. He didn't need to think twice.
She was here.
John walked up the short path, heart pounding harder with each step. Then, with a deep breath, he raised his hand and knocked on the wooden door.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Inside the house, Jane froze.
She had just placed her apron on the hook and was about to pour herself some water when the knock came. At first, she thought it was a neighbor. Maybe Mrs. Watsonville?
But then she felt it again.
That same magnetic pull. Stronger. Closer.
Her blood turned cold.
No… no, not yet. Please, not yet.
She crept toward the front window and slowly pulled the curtain aside—just a little.
Her heart nearly stopped.
John.
Standing there. Alive. Breathing. Looking older, tired… and searching.
Panic shot through her body like lightning. Her fingers trembled as she let go of the curtain and backed away, breath shallow.
He found me.
Jane's heartbeat wouldn't slow down.
She stepped away from the window, breath quick and shallow. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the small pouch of herbs hidden behind the fireplace—a backup spell she had memorized and prepared, just in case something like this ever happened.
"Veilo Illusio," she whispered, her palm glowing faintly with violet light. "Distort the eyes. Mask the truth. Show them what they fear."
The magic poured from her hand and spread like mist, wrapping the house in layers of illusion.
Outside, John took a small step back.
He blinked.
The cute little cottage he had seen just seconds ago… began to blur.
The flowers wilted. The walls darkened. Cracks appeared, vines grew wild, and the once-welcoming door now looked like it hadn't been touched in years. The windows were broken, the roof caving in.
It looked abandoned. Cursed. Wrong.
John furrowed his brow and rubbed his eyes.
What the hell?
The scent of violets was fading now, overtaken by the stench of mildew and rotting wood. Something didn't feel right anymore. His senses were usually sharp, but suddenly, everything felt… off.
Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe the long search was messing with his head.
With a tired sigh, he shook his head and took a step back. Then another. Then he turned around and walked away, mumbling, "There's no way she'd stay in a place like this… I probably really tired."
From behind the curtain, Jane finally exhaled.
She collapsed onto the floor, her back against the wall, heart still racing.
"He didn't see me…" she whispered to herself. "He didn't see me."
For now, she was safe.