As Kael stepped across the threshold, the morning light opened around him like a slow breath.
The yard stretched wide before the house—broad, packed earth still damp from night's dew, churned here and there into soft mud that caught the sun in faint, liquid glints.
Rows of kitchen plants stood in disciplined order: sturdy cabbages, feathery carrot tops, climbing beans threading up slender poles, all arranged with quiet precision so the eye could travel cleanly from one green swell to the next. The effect was serene, almost deliberate in its beauty, a small domestic kingdom held in place by patient hands.
At the heart of it rose the well—broad stone rim worn smooth by generations, wooden bucket already dangling on its rope, swaying very slightly in the still air. And beside it stood Madam Lysa.
She turned as his shadow fell across the mud. Warmth seemed to radiate from her before she even smiled: a soft, motherly presence wrapped in the simple lines of a village dress of faded indigo.
The fabric clung gently where it touched—over the generous curve of hip, the full swell of breast—yet moved with her in easy, unselfconscious grace. Her hair was drawn into a practical knot at the nape, but a few dark strands had escaped, curling against the pale skin of her neck and catching the light like fine threads of bronze.
Age had softened her without diminishing her; if anything, it had deepened the quiet allure of a body that had borne children, carried water, kneaded dough, and still held its shape with unhurried confidence.
"Kael, can you help me take out water from the well, dear?" Her voice carried the same gentle melody as before, only now it was edged with the smallest weariness. "My back is aching so I can't pull too strongly."
He nodded at once, concern flickering across his face like a shadow passing over still water.
"I will do it, Madam Lysa." He stepped closer, voice lowering. "But does your back really hurt? Would you like me to give you a massage?"
The offer came without calculation—only the instinctive wish to shield her, to keep this small household intact.
She had been the first steady kindness he had known in either of his lives: no transaction lurking behind the warmth, no price quietly tallied for later collection.
In the world he had left, even those who should have shielded him had instead bartered him away like livestock already branded for breeding—his body a commodity before it was ever truly his.
As for this life, the body's original occupant had carried no memory of parents, no echo of a mother's voice or a father's hand on his shoulder. Nothing. So this—this household, this quiet care—was the first taste Kael had ever known of what it might mean to belong somewhere. To someone.
The thought of anything cracking that fragile warmth made his chest tighten.
Lysa's smile came soft and immediate, the kind that reached her eyes and crinkled the fine lines at their corners.
"It's not that painful, don't worry," she said, voice low and reassuring. "But you could still massage me later, okay? I heard from your master that your hands are amazing."
Kael dipped his head in a quick, earnest nod.
"Of course. I will do anything for you, Madam Lysa. Now let me help you with this chore."
He turned toward the well as he spoke, already reaching for the rope. Lysa's smile lingered, deepening just a fraction—and for the briefest instant a different light flickered through her gaze: something darker, hungrier, like the sudden flare of coals beneath ash.
Kael never saw it. His attention had already dropped to the task, fingers wrapping around the coarse hemp, testing its familiar bite against his palms.
He fed the rope downward, the wooden bucket vanishing into the cool dark of the shaft with a faint, hollow knock against stone. Then he braced his feet in the damp earth, shoulders squaring, and began to pull.
From behind him Lysa watched.
His back was still lean—days of proper meals and smithy work had only begun to layer muscle over the old sharp edges—but the strength was there now, corded and alive beneath the thin fabric of his tunic.
Each steady haul flexed the long muscles along his spine, shoulders rolling in slow, powerful rhythm. The rope creaked; water sloshed below, then the bucket rose into view, silver surface trembling with captured sky.
Lysa stood very still, arms loosely folded beneath her breasts, the morning breeze tugging at the loose strands of hair along her neck.
Heat bloomed low in her belly, insistent and liquid, spreading until it pressed warm against the cradle of her hips. She let her gaze trace the line of his exertion, unhurried, savoring.
Let's see… my husband told me he will ask him today during work. I hope he does. I can't wait any longer to taste him now.
The thought arrived unbidden, thick with anticipation, and she pressed her thighs together almost imperceptibly, containing the slow throb that answered it.
Kael, oblivious, gave one last strong pull. The bucket cleared the rim; he hooked it securely on the stone ledge, water sloshing bright and cold over the side in a thin silver sheet. His breath came a little faster now, a faint sheen of effort along his neck and temples catching the light.
He believed—still believed—that his master had pulled him from the gutter out of simple kindness. That this household had taken him in because they were good people.
He had no reason yet to suspect there was anything more beneath the surface of their generosity, no inkling that a quiet, long-held secret was already uncoiling toward him like a vine reaching for light.
For now his world remained small and immediate: the wet rope in his hands, the clean smell of well water, the soft rustle of Lysa's skirts behind him as she stepped closer to take the bucket.
He straightened, wiping his palms on his trousers, ready for whatever small task came next.
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