THE RAIN FELL, soaking the cobblestone veins of a peaceful London street. It murmured secrets as it beat against rooftops and poured into pools reflecting gaslit windows. The night's silence was broken only seconds ago, with ragged breathing and the frantic slap of footsteps against wet stone.
A young man- in his thirteen-darted through the darkness, limbs pumping with a kind of desperate grace. His white shirt clung to his chest, plastered with sweat and rain, and a once-elegant navy coat flared behind him like a tattered flag. Mud smeared its hem with dust clung to every edge.
"Hey! Stop there! Thief!" came a shout behind him, thick with fury and breathlessness. A burly man, round in the face and red in the cheeks, huffed after him in a heavy army coat. He wasn't alone-there are others following the burly man, wearing a similar army coat, boots pounding in discordant rhythm.
But the boy didn't stop. He didn't even glance back.
He wasn't running from them because he was afraid of getting caught. No-fear had long since burned away, replaced by something fiercer, a purpose. He needs to stay alive no matter what.
He ducked into an alley, breath tearing from his lungs, heart slamming against his ribs like a prisoner against the bars. The soldiers chasing him were relentless, and the rain didn't wash them away.
But he couldn't stop.
He wouldn't stop.
And no army, no downpour, no weight of night could pull him from the path he'd chosen.
He clenched his jaw, the bitter taste of frustration rising in his throat. Rain dripped from his brow, but it wasn't just the storm outside that made his skin prickle-it was those dogs on his heels, the ones who wouldn't give up. Then, through the misty veil of the docks, his eyes caught a break-crates and goods still waiting to be loaded aboard a ship lying lazily beside the pier. He moved quickly into the darkness, hiding behind a stack of wooden crates. He spotted a half-empty cargo hold, its lid slightly ajar like an invitation to vanish. He didn't hesitate for a second and dove inside.
He heard a series of footsteps stormed past.
"Where did he go?"
"He vanished. He's like a damn ghost."
"Keep searching. He's still around here somewhere-I can feel it."
He held his breath, every muscle taut like a drawn bowstring. Their sharp and irritated voices jabbed through the downpour. But then the boy heard nothing but silence and the flowing rainwater kissing the wood.
He waited a moment longer before he slowly yet cautiously pushed open the lid of the crate, just enough for him to peer out. Outside he saw nothing but an empty dock.
A shaky sigh of relief escaped him as he sank back down into the crate, the wood cold and damp beneath him. Every part of him ached-legs like lead, lungs scorched from the run. He curled into himself, no longer caring where the crate would go when the sun came up, or if he'd wake up in another country, or in the belly of the wrong ship.
All that mattered was this- he was still breathing.
And for now, that was enough.
Because he had a promise to keep.
Even if it meant taking a life to do keep it fulfilled.
Ten years slipped by like sand through fingers. The soldiers never caught the young thief. Over time, the tale of the elusive bandit faded-carried off by the salty wind that danced along London's rugged coastline, until only whispers remained.
-----
THE sun shone softly over the countryside town of Jutland, Denmark. It was one of those radiant mornings when the air was filled with the scent of new earth and potential. A perfect day for cultivating land and nurturing hopes.
The life in Jutland flowed in familiar patterns. With men fixed drooping fences and squeaky doors, women mended ripped clothes while exchanging tales on wooden porches, and children dashed between chicken coops with giggles trailing behind. Even the rumors danced like garments on a line-drying themselves in the sun.
Among the mosaic of verdant fields, a lovely young lady glided with intent and elegance. Her bare soles sank into the cool, moist soil as she toiled, and a gentle tune drifting from her mouth. She crouched beside a patch of rice, softly pouring water onto the delicate sprouts.
"There you go, little ones," she murmured with a smile, her voice barely louder than the breeze. "Drink deep and grow strong. The world needs more of you."
"Dorothea!"
The call comes from the charming cottage located at the border of the fields, a dwelling with whitewashed walls, a sunlit thatched roof, and the rich aroma of peat and pine embedded in its structure.
Dorothea halted-watering can in hand, the sunlight glinting in her brown hair like flames through amber. "I'll be there in a minute, Mother!" she replied, her voice as cheerful as birdsong.
Without hesitation, she hopped down the slim dirt trail, her bare feet gliding over wild daisies and gentle clover. She spun around once, simply because the day was beautiful enough to warrant it and rushed indoors.
Her mother was at the quaint kitchen table, with sleeves rolled up, hair secured, encircled by bowls and piles of ingredients-onions, barley, root veggies, fresh milk in a ceramic jug. She was immersed in the calm routine of making their lunch, her hands working as if she had performed this task countless times and indeed she had.
Dorothea paused in the doorway for a moment, observing the scene with the affection of someone who understood just how valuable simple, everyday moments could be.
"What a feast you have prepared, Mother," Dorothea remarked gently, entering the inviting aroma of herbs and the fireplace. "Your beloved Dorothea is at your service now." "Do you require my assistance with something?"
Her mother glanced up from the table, where her hands were occupied with kneading dough and arranging dried beans into a wooden bowl. A weary smile appeared briefly on her lips, but her eyes sparkled as soon as they met Dorothea's-eyes that had witnessed considerable pain, yet still glowed with pride when gazing at her daughter.
"I'd borrow your hands if I could," Her mother Petra said with a chuckle, brushing a stray hair from her cheek with a flour-dusted knuckle. "Can you go to the apothecary and fetch medicine for your grandmother? I meant to go earlier, but-" she held up her flour-covered fingers, "well, you'll see how it is."
Dorothea's smile faded slightly, and she turned her head toward the quiet corner room where her grandmother lay resting. "Is she getting better?"
"She is," her mother replied, though her voice was quieter now, more measured. "The fever's gone down a little. I'm hoping that a remedy helps her strength return."
Without a word, Dorothea reached for the handwoven basket hanging by the door. Her mother tucked a small pouch of copper coins inside and handed it into her palm.
Dorothea Lindholm was twenty-a spirited, sharp and emerald green eyed girl with freckled pretty face, sun-kissed skin and hands shaped by soil and sunlight. She was the only child of a humble farmer's family in the heart of Jutland. She was living in a simple cottage, just big enough for three, Dorothea, her mother Petra, and her aging grandmother, whose once strong hands now trembled with every cup of broth.
Her father?
Gone. Vanished like morning mist years ago, leaving behind the wreckage of vows and a woman too loyal for her own good. He had chosen another life, another woman-someone younger, softer, perhaps prettier. Dorothea had been old enough to understand the betrayal, young enough to feel its sting like a burn that wouldn't heal.
She still remembered the nights her mother sat silent by the fire, refusing food, tears slipping down her face as if they had minds of their own. The house would creak with loneliness, and Dorothea would lie awake listening, wishing she could be enough to fill the silence.
Even now, Petra and Grandma clung to a thread of hope that he might walk through the door again one day. Dorothea didn't understand it, didn't pretend to. Love, it seemed, could make fools of even the wisest.
For Dorothea, love wasn't some sweet necessity every girl was destined to chase. It wasn't a dreamy tale spun in lace and moonlight-it was a gamble, and far too often, a losing one.
She'd seen enough to know better.
She watched how strong, capable women reduced to husks of themselves after being touched by the wrong kind of affection. Men, in Dorothea's eyes, were dangerous creatures disguised in human skins. They knew how to speak honey, how to smile just so, how to make a woman believe she was seen, only for them to vanish once her heart was laid bare.
She'd seen it in her own home. In the quiet ache of her mother's silence. In the tired way her grandmother would pause at the door, half-hoping, half-dreading a return that never came.
Love, to Dorothea, felt like a trap dressed in flowers. And she wanted none of it.
A woman, she believed, could thrive on her own-hands in the soil, heart rooted in self-worth, soul steady and whole. No man needed. No man wanted.
Let the others chase fairytales. Dorothea had no use for them.
She had no dreams of princes or ballads sung under moonlight. Love had never been her calling. What she longed for was to wear armor and become a knight and to save. To be the one who stepped in when no one else would. To be the sword drawn in the face of cruelty, the shield raised when others turned their backs.
People scoffed at her when she spoke of it. "A girl? A knight? Go on, sew your dreams into a pillow and sleep on them, child."
In her country, women belonged in kitchens, in gardens, in quiet places behind the scenes. They were expected to be soft-spoken, tender, and obedient so she buried that dream a long time ago.
Dorothea stepped outside, the morning sun already high, casting soft golden rays over the patchwork of fields and stone paths. The breeze smelled faintly of sea salt and fresh hay, rustling the tall grass as if whispering secrets only the wind knew.
She clutched the basket close to her side, the pouch of coins tucked safely within. Her bare feet met the dirt path that wound its way through the village like a well-worn ribbon-past low fences, curious hens, and neighbors who paused just long enough to offer a nod or a passing "Good morning, lady."
She weaved through the crowd with practiced ease, her eyes scanning for the herbalist's stall. A familiar thatched awning marked the place-hung with bundles of dried sage, chamomile, and wild yarrow.
"Ah, young Lindholm," the herbalist greeted her with a knowing smile, his hands deep in a bowl of crushed lavender. "For your grandmother, I presume?"
Dorothea nodded. "She's still weak. Mother thinks a new tonic might help."
"Then I have just the thing," he said, turning to pull a bundle from the back of his stall. "Boil this with honey and water. Three sips before bed. It's gentle, but strong where it counts-like the women in your family."
She smiled at that, handing him the pouch. He returned a few coins, refusing more than was fair.
As Dorothea turned to leave, the basket was now a little heavier with herbs and promise, a ripple of noise and raised voices caught her ear.
She looked toward the source and spotted a small crowd forming. At its center stood a young woman, no older than herself, trapped in a circle of five men. They loomed around her like wolves circling a lamb, laughing too loud, leaning too close.
Dorothea's jaw tightened. Not again.
Scenes like this had become too common, too accepted. Men bother women in broad daylight, pushing past boundaries with entitled grins. No one ever stepped in. People looked away, pretending not to see. Or worse-they watched, amused, as if it were some sort of street theater.
But Dorothea had never been good at pretending.
She decided to step into the growing circle, eyes steady and voice calm but firm, she knew one thing for certain-if the world wouldn't give her armor, she'd become it herself.
Come now, lady. Give us just a moment of your time," one of the men cooed, his grin slick with entitlement.
"N-no... thank you," the young woman stammered, shrinking into herself as the circle tightened around her.
"Aw, Hart, look at her. She's trembling. I think she doesn't like you."
"Don't be greedy," another laughed. "There's enough of her to go around."
Their laughter-sharp and hollow-rattled the market square. A few passersby glanced over, but most looked away, choosing silence over trouble.
And then came a voice, calm and cutting.
"I didn't know men in this town were so starved for attention that they had to corner unwilling women to feel important."
The laughter died.
All five men turned, heads snapping toward the speaker. Dorothea stood a few paces away, her basket at her side, her posture unshaken. The sun caught the glint in her eyes as if the fire inside her had caught the light.
"What did you just say?" one of them barked, stepping forward, face already flushed with bruised pride.
"I said," Dorothea repeated, unblinking, "I didn't know men in this town were so starved for attention that they had to corner unwilling women to feel important."
"You little-" The tallest man snarled, fists clenched. "You freckled lady. Take that back, or you'll regret opening that mouth."
She raised a brow. "No." That one word was a blade-swift and final. "I won't apologize for speaking the truth. You should be the ones on your knees, begging forgiveness for surrounding a woman like a pack of dogs."
Gasps rippled through the small crowd that had begun to gather. The girl they'd been harassing clung to the edge of the circle, eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe.
"You'll regret this!" another man spat and without warning, they lunged.
Dorothea exhaled out of disappointment. No point reasoning with these brainless wolves. With a fluid motion, she slipped to the side-elegantly. Her basket swung wide as she twisted, narrowly dodging the first strike. She ducked beneath another blow, foot catching one of the men off balance and sending him stumbling into his companion.
The crowd gasped.
Dorothea moved like the wind, all memory and muscle. Years of secret training flooded back to her mind-scraps of technique stolen from watching village boys brawl in the fields, mimicking sword drills with sticks behind the barn, bruising her knuckles and ego until both had hardened.
She hadn't trained to impress anyone. She trained so no one could ever make her-or anyone else-feel powerless again-and of course for her to be accepted as a knight someday.
As another man charged, she stepped into his path, cool and precise. "Still want to teach me a lesson?" she asked, dodging with a ghost of a smirk.
The fight didn't last long.
The five stumbled back, bruised and humiliated, their pride more wounded than their bodies. Muttering curses and threats, they scattered-disappearing into the crowd like rats when the light comes on.
Dorothea turned to the girl, who looked at her as if she'd just watched a storm arrive in human form.
"You're safe now," she said simply then offered her a hand.
The young lady nodded as she accepted it. "Thank you so much. You saved my life."
And though the market soon returned to its usual rhythm, a quiet buzz lingered in the air. Whispers followed Dorothea-not of ridicule, but of awe.
She wore no shining armor, no crest of knighthood upon her chest. But that day, she proved she didn't need any of it to become someone's savior.
----------------
BENEATH the dappled shade of an old fig tree at the edge of the bustling market, a man sat with his arms crossed, eyes steady and unreadable. He had only meant to run some errands-but he stumbled upon an interesting skirmish.
He silently watched the scene earlier unfold from the worn bench, cloaked in a heavy wool coat, hood drawn low, shadows swallowing most of his face.
He observed how she moved-not with the reckless bluster of someone trying to impress, but with quiet purpose. Every step she took was calculated, rooted, confident. She didn't speak loudly, yet her voice had more weight than any man's roar.
There was something rare in that.
He'd seen men twice her size falter under pressure. He'd seen knights with polished armor and gilded blades hesitate when things turned real. But she, with nothing but a basket in her hand and fire in her eyes hadn't flinched.
The stranger's eyes lingered on her a moment longer than they should have, drawn by something quieter than beauty-something steadier. He watched as she spoke beside the young girl she'd shielded, her voice low and soothing, the kind of tone that could mend more than bruises.
He tilted his head just slightly, and in that small motion, a shaft of sunlight slipped beneath the edge of his hood. It caught on the curve of his cheek, the hint of a strong jaw, and eyes the color of an early summer sky-eyes that could stir daydreams from even the most sensible hearts.
'Interesting', he thought, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile, still watching the freckled woman-Dorothea, someone had called her.
Without a word, he rose from the bench, the long folds of his coat catching the breeze like a whisper. And just like that, he slipped into the thinning crowd, his steps silent, his errands have been forgotten, though the image of her lingered, fiercer and bright, in the back of his mind.
----------------
THE beautiful lady offers her a polite smile and curtsy then she introduces herself as Solace Callahan, the only daughter of the House Callahan. The way she curtsied came from years of etiquette lessons, though her cheeks flushed slightly, as if embarrassed by the weight of her title. "I was just out shopping with my maid when we got separated in the crowd. I didn't think much of it until I turned down the wrong way."
Dorothea blinked, taken aback. A noble? Here, of all places? She glanced at the market stalls behind them, chipped paint and weather-worn canopies fluttering in the breeze. Noblewomen didn't frequent places like this. This person is a rare steak. It's almost unheard of to see a noblewoman shopping in a place meant for commoners. "I never would've guessed," Dorothea remarked. "You're braver than most nobles I've seen."
Solace let out a soft chuckle. "Truly, thank you. I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't stepped in." The young woman placed a hand to her chest, still breathless from the encounter. "You were incredible. The way you handled those men... how did you learn to fight like that?"
Dorothea's gaze softened. "When I was little, I wanted to be a knight," she admitted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I used to sneak out and watch the village men spar. I'd mimic their moves in secret, swinging sticks like swords until my arms were sore. Of course, everyone told me it was a ridiculous dream. 'A girl with a sword is a waste of steel,' they said."
She shrugged, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "So I let go of the dream. But not the training. I figured if I couldn't be a knight, I could at least protect myself."
"A knight?" Solace's eyes sparkled, wide with surprise and a touch of wonder.
Dorothea gave a short laugh, half-hearted and tinged with embarrassment. "Yeah. Silly, isn't it?"
But Solace quickly shook her head. "No. Not silly. I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry," she added, her voice softer now. "Actually, I think your dream is beautiful and even brave. Why should you give it up?"
Dorothea blinked. She hadn't expected that kind of response. Most people just smiled politely or changed the subject.
"I don't know," she said, kicking a small stone on the cobblestones. "Maybe because no one ever said I could."
Solace smiled gently. "That makes two of us, then."
Dorothea tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
Solace took a breath, as if steadying herself before sharing a secret. "I want to be a writer. Stories have always made sense to me, more than the rules of court or the weight of family names. But my parents... they see romance books as distractions. A frivolous thing not fit for a daughter of the house." She gave a soft, ironic chuckle. "So I write in secret under the candlelight late at night. It's the only time the words feel free."
Dorothea found herself smiling, something warm blooming in her chest. "That doesn't sound frivolous at all. That sounds like someone who knows who she is."
Solace met her gaze. "So do you. Don't let others define your path. Why not show those knights what you're capable of? Who knows? Maybe they'll accept you if you give them a little bit of surprise." Her eyes shone with sincerity as she added, "Follow what's in your heart, Dorothea. You might be closer to your dream than you think."
Dorothea stood silent for a moment, feeling something stir inside her. For the first time in a long while, the dream she'd buried didn't feel so impossible. It felt... alive.
"I think I will," she said. A decision settling into place. "Tomorrow, I'll go to the knight's headquarters and try to apply."
Solace beamed. "Good. I'll be cheering for you even if it's from behind a book."
Moments later, Solace's maid came rushing toward them, her face flushed with relief. She thanked Dorothea profusely, even offered her a pouch of coins as thanks, but Dorothea refused with a smile.
"I didn't do it for the money," she said simply.
As the two ladies departed, Dorothea realized how much time had slipped by. Her mother would be waiting. She turned to head home, her footsteps light with purpose, but paused after only a few strides when she heard a series of claps behind her.
She turned at the soft, deliberate sound like a slow applause echoing in an empty theater.
There, leaning with casual grace against a lamppost, stood a young man. His long, unruly hair gleamed like tarnished gold beneath the fading light, tousled by the breeze as though the wind itself played with him.
A loosely draped hood framed his face, though the cloak had fallen open just enough to reveal striking sharp, elegant and far too handsome features to go unnoticed. But it was his eyes that caught her. His eyes were playful, a sky-blue shade brimming with amusement and curiosity.
The guy who was clapping is the same mysterious person who was watching Dorothea fought earlier. He didn't know why he had finished his errands too quickly and eventually found his feet wandering back to the town square as if drawn by some invisible thread just to see that lady. There was something about that woman that made it impossible to look away.
"The way you handled those men earlier..." the blonde man began, his voice smooth and velvet-lined, "was nothing short of art. Truly. Who would have thought such a fierce jewel was hidden among the thorns of the marketplace?"
Dorothea narrowed her eyes, studying him. He was striking, yes, there was no denying that. Sun-kissed hair that tumbled carelessly over his shoulders, eyes that gleamed like polished glass, and a smirk that suggested he thought the world owed him its attention.
But she didn't recognize him. Not his face, not his voice, not his scent of sandalwood and arrogance.
And the way he spoke to her as if they were old companions, maybe even more, immediately set her nerves on edge.
She folded her arms, one brow arched. "Thank you for the compliment," she said in a tone that was cool and clipped. "But are we really on such familiar terms that you can speak to me like an old flame?"
The question wasn't just a defense-it was a warning from her. She'd had her share of silver-tongued charmers and she knew better than to fall for honeyed words wrapped in mischief.
But the man didn't seem to be offended. In fact, his grin only deepened, as if her guardedness amused him.
"No," he let out a low but playful laugh. "We're not close yet."
Instinctively, Dorothea stiffened. Her hand twitched near her side, ready if needed. But he reached gently for her fingers, lifting them with a kind of mock chivalry that would've seemed charming.
"But I'd very much like us to become something more," His voice barely above a whisper with devilish glint in his eyes. "Closer than lovers, perhaps. A dangerous sort of closeness. What do you think?"
Dorothea didn't flinch. Her fingers remained in his grasp for half a breath before she slowly and deliberately pulled them back.
"Closer than lovers?" she echoed, her tone laced with dry amusement. "That's quite the ambition for someone I've known for less than a minute."
She brushed her hand against her dress, as if wiping off the remnants of his touch. Her sharp and unblinking eyes locked onto his. "I don't know who you are, or what kind of women usually fall for that act, but I'm not one of them."
The flirtatious glimmer in his gaze flickered just slightly as if her words struck a chord he hadn't expected. But instead of retreating, he chuckled, low and soft.
"That only makes you more interesting," he murmured.
Dorothea leaned in just a little, enough to close the distance but not to invite it. "And that only makes you more suspicious."
She straightened, stepping past him without waiting for a response, tossing one last glance over her shoulder.
"Next time you want to get close," she said, "try earning it."
And with that, she walked away-back straight, eyes forward, leaving the charming stranger blinking after her, caught somewhere between admiration and intrigue. Her steps steady and deliberate like a soldier retreating from a battle she had already won.
The man stood still for a moment, the remnants of her rose scent lingering in the air like smoke after a fire. His hand, now empty, twitched slightly as if still remembering the weight of her fingers. Then, he laughed. Not mockingly but genuinely, as if something unexpected had just delighted him.
"Well then," he muttered under his breath, watching the sway of her hair as she disappeared into the crowd, "not easily swayed. I like that."
Most women in the capital melted at his first sweet word. They smiled, flirted back, fluttered their lashes and let him in.
But not her. She's the only person who refused his advances. She was like an iron wrapped in velvet, sharp beneath the silk. Unlike the others, she didn't see him as something charming and more importantly, she saw through him. Or at least, tried to.
He found himself grinning again.
"Dorothea..." he repeated softly, as if testing her name on his tongue. "You may just be worth the trouble."
"Grand Commander Frederick!" A voice rang behind the flirty blonde man.
Frederick turned around, his golden hair catching the afternoon light as his hood slipped back slightly. Striding toward him was a broad-shouldered man clad in a knight's deep crimson cape, the silver of his hair gleaming beneath a weatherworn helmet. A jagged scar ran across his brow, a mark of battles past that hadn't dulled the sharpness in his gaze.
At his side hung a blade that had clearly seen more than ceremony.
The silver man halted a step away, thumped a clenched fist over his heart, and bowed his head.
"Rise, Mikkel." He eyed the silver with a questioning look. "Did you successfully make contact with the informant?"
Instead of answering his superior's question, Mikkel looked over his surroundings and Frederick instinctively knew that this is not the right place to talk about it. "Alright. Let's discuss it at the headquarters, then."
Then he pulled up his hood, together with the man Mikkel, they turned and disappeared into the flow of the market crowd as though they'd never been there at all. But as the cobbled streets twisted and the noise of vendors rose around them, Frederick's thoughts were far from the information Mikkel have gathered for him.
Frederick hopes to see that feisty woman again.
---------------
On her way home, Dorothea didn't dare to look back not even once.
Her shoes hit the cobblestones with measured rhythm, but her mind was anything but calm. The echo of his voice, that confident lilt wrapped in silk and mischief, still clung to her like a thin veil she couldn't shake off.
"Closer than lovers," she muttered under her breath, rolling the words in her mouth like something bitter.
Ridiculous.
She didn't even know his name. And yet, there he was smiling like they shared secrets, touching her hand as if he had every right to, speaking to her as if the world was his stage and she his next performance. It was annoying.
Men like that always made her wary. Too charming, too confident, too smooth. They used pretty words like traps, waited for you to step into them blind.
But there was something else, wasn't there?
Something beneath the charm. A brief but real flicker when she pulled away from him as if she'd caught him off guard.
'Good,' she thought. Let him know I'm not so easily played.
Still, her hand tingled faintly from where he'd held it. She flexed her fingers, as if trying to squeeze the memory out.
She hated that.
That alone was enough to put her on edge. And yet...
She let out a tired breath. She had other things to focus on like the fact that tomorrow, she was going to walk into the knight's headquarters and try to do something she once thought impossible. That's what matters the most and not some flirtatious and stranger who only thinks about his self pleasure.
She won't let her path cross with that rake ever again.