He had been sitting outside his hut, a small knife in hand and a piece of wood gradually taking shape beneath it, when she emerged from the woods carrying a woven mat.
Another gift bearer, he thought.
He had thought he had escaped the women of Wisteria that morning, only to still be approached by one again that evening.
She introduced herself as Milcah and presented the mat as a welcome gift.
Milcah went on to ask questions he had answers to—but chose not to give.
When she saw that every attempt at a conversation failed, she turned away with her unshaken smile, just as he had expected—and hoped—she would.
But then she paused.
"Can this old woman ask a favor of you?"
He lifted his gaze from his carving and met a pair of soft brown eyes—very different from the ones that had glared at him earlier that day—staring back at him.
"She might not show it, and she might act rather fearless, but the truth is… deep down she fears being hated."
Zuriel's mind did not wander in search of whom the old woman meant. He knew instinctively.
"So… could you show her a little kindness?"
Again, someone other than Goodwin was asking him to show her kindness.
"She is a sweet child, and perhaps one day you will come to learn why she is loved."
Goodwin had once said something similar.
"But until that day comes, I ask that you treat her with a little kindness."
He treated her the same way he treated everyone else. Why did they all wish for him to treat her specially? Why should he have to concern himself with her feelings?
What was so precious about the girl that everyone seemed so eager to protect?
The question lingered in his mind long after the old woman had left.
What was so special about the woman—Damaris?
Was it her raven-black hair, like the depths of the midnight sea, or her dark brown eyes that seemed to hide no secret?
Was it the sound of her voice, like mild thunder on a silent night, or the flutter of her long lashes like the delicate wings of a fairy?
Perhaps it was her bold steps, trailing barefoot through the manor as though she were its master.
Whatever it was, she remained on his mind.
It was nearly midnight. He was neither finished with his carving nor feeling sleepy. So he slipped the unfinished piece into his pocket, tucked the knife into his boot and decided to take a walk.
Who would have expected…
Bells around her ankle…
Barefoot again.
Beads upon her wrists.
The madwoman of Wisteria was dancing again in the middle of the night.
And as always, he noticed her first.
"Acknowledge me," she had said as he held her foot in his hand.
"Acknowledge me and the people of Wisteria. They already believe you are kind—though I know it is quite the opposite. But for their sake, try to be kind. Truly kind, I mean. Do not mock their generosity by ignoring them."
He said nothing. He simply listened as she continued.
"If they come bearing gifts, accept them with open arms. I know it is not easy to change one's nature, but you could at least try. You were clearly born rude, but I am an open minded woman who believes there is goodness in everyone."
He almost laughed at those words. It was not the first time she had spoken so highly of herself.
"Though truthfully, I think you may be irredeemable. Still… for the sake of the people of Wisteria, try to redeem yourself." She concluded.
He paused, then he asked, "And you? How do you wish to be acknowledged?"
"When you see me in the morning, say Good morning, Damaris. I always catch you staring at me with that wicked gaze. But I would rather you see me and say hello, Damaris. That is all I ask."
"I love Wisteria. It is a peaceful place—you must know that already. I have made only beautiful memories here so far, and I do not wish to taint them."
"Everyone calls you kind—"
"I never accepted the praise." He shrugged.
"You did not refute it either. So would it truly kill you to act the part?"
"Is that a plea?" A sudden urge to tease seized him.
"Do I look like one to beg?"
No.
No, she did not. She seemed like she would rather stab herself in the throat than beg for anything.
"Then is it an order?" He raised a brow.
"I do not believe I am in a position to give you orders. I am only suggesting we call a truce—for whatever bad blood has been brewing between us since the night we met."
He had to admit, something about her amused him.
Truce?
A truce was needed only if there had been trouble in the first place.
Was he ever really in a battle with her?
Perhaps.
"Does your silence mean you agree?" She was very impatient—that much he was certain of.
"You are an annoying man to deal with. Has anyone ever told you that?"
Only by nearly every head of the prominent noble families in the empire—though the words were always spoken behind his back. Who would dare speak such words in the presence of the Hound of Zebulon? Much less call him annoying while staring straight at him.
Only this woman.
A barefoot girl from Wisteria.
Then again, she had no idea who he was.
"Do you or do you not agree to a truce?" she pressed.
"Perhaps," he replied.
The answer clearly vexed her.
By the time he released her foot, she could walk perfectly well again. For a moment, she seemed more curious about what he had done to her ankle to make the pain vanish just by rubbing it.
She pressed and pressed, and when he refused to answer, she finally said, "Forget all I said tonight. If you do not want a truce, then so be it. Just do not disregard the people of Wisteria… and do not cross my path."
With those words, he watched her walk away until she faded into the night.
Zuriel had no plans of getting involved with anyone in Wisteria. Goodwin was already enough to deal with.
Yet because of the child named Peter, everyone had begun paying attention to him—and now he was being asked to be kind.
He could simply ignore them all. After all, when had he ever heeded the unnecessary counsel of others.
Yet when morning came and the sun rose over Wisteria, as he fetched water from the lake and carried it back to his cottage, a thought crossed his mind.
He would not be here forever.
Soon he would return to his rightful place.
So for once, would it not be alright to let his guard down? He never grew close to people. Because being stabbed in the back by someone close was far more painful than getting struck by a hundred arrows.
But…
The people here were honest farmers. Would it not be alright if he allowed himself to loosen his guard, even for a little while?
He had always held back his tongue, for words were weapons.
But here, where no one knew him—where no one waited for a single word from him to destroy either him or those around him—would it not be alright to speak.
Would it not be alright if, for once, he laid down the armor of Zuriel Hezron, the Hound of Zebulon, and lived simply as Zuri?
Not a man shackled by duties of imperial scale—
but a normal man.
A common man.
Would it not be fine?
He heard footsteps—and knew immediately who they belonged to.
He waited. He listened.
She turned the corner and exclaimed at the sight of him. The bowl of water balanced on her head swayed, but her grip remained firm.
Slowly, an expression seen by only a chosen few rose to his face as he said—
"Good morning, Damaris."
They wanted him to be kind to her.
He could try.
So that morning, he decided…
Zuriel Hezron was on official sabbatical.
Now Zuri…
Zuri would indulge her.
Truly… sincerely, indulge her.