Life in the Artisan District flows on as smoothly as the canal beside Eis’s shop.

  Each morning smells of tea, roasted bread, and enchantment dust from nearby forges.

  Each evening, the golden lamplight reflects across the water, warm and steady — a reflection of the life she’s built.

  But change, like the tide, always comes quietly at first.

  Word spreads one morning through the district:

  an imperial knight has arrived in Lumaire — a representative from the capital, here to conduct an inspection of the city’s leyline stabilizers and city security.

  The Artisan District reacts as it always does: half curiosity, half gossip.

  Eis doesn’t pay much mind at first.

  Her world is smaller now — her stall, her family, her rhythm.

  Until the day he stops by her window.

  It’s midday, the air filled with heat shimmer and the smell of roasted herbs. The line of customers is long, and Eis moves through it with practiced calm — plating food, passing tea, keeping the conversation minimal.

  Then a new voice joins the mix. Smooth, calm, confident.

  “Pardon. Is that where the smell’s coming from?”

  She looks up — and there he stands.

  Tall, posture unmistakably military, his armor trimmed with the imperial insignia of a rising star. A knight, but not in parade shine; his gauntlets bear the faint scuffs of travel.

  His eyes — pale blue, steady, sharp — meet hers.

  He smiles faintly.

  “If this is street food, it’s far too good for the street.”

  “It’s food,” she answers simply. “What would you like?”

  He chuckles, orders a skewer, and after one bite says nothing for a long moment — then nods.

  “Remarkable.”

  He leaves payment on the counter — far too much — and adds quietly:

  “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Eis keeps her attention on the counter, movements steady—but the slight pause in her rhythm betrays her true thoughts.

  True to his word, he returns.

  Then again.

  And again.

  He introduces himself on the third visit.

  “Sir Alaric Vale, Imperial Knight of the Third Order. Temporarily stationed here for inspection and liaison work.”

  “Eis,” she replies simply.

  “Just Eis?”

  “It’s enough.”

  He laughs softly — not mockingly, but with genuine warmth.

  Each visit, he lingers a little longer — asking about the district, the food, the runes carved into her grill (“a fascinating craft,” he calls them).

  He’s careful, respectful, always polite — never prying, but watching.

  Eis recognizes the look of someone who’s both trained to observe and quietly captivated.

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  And she, despite herself, doesn’t mind the company.

  It’s a late afternoon when Team Argent stops by after patrol.

  The children are playing by the canal; Lira’s laughing with Elara; Tomm’s showing Kael his latest rune disaster.

  And Eis is at the counter — speaking with Alaric.

  Ronan was the first to notice.

  A man in armor stood near Eis, posture relaxed, head tilted as he laughed quietly at something she’d said. Too close to be accidental. Comfortable in a way that suggested familiarity—or an attempt at it.

  Lira followed his line of sight and huffed a quiet laugh. “Something wrong, captain?”

  “No,” Ronan said.

  “You’re staring.”

  “I’m observing.”

  Lira glanced back at the window, then leaned a little closer to him. “You know, men do tend to hover around her.”

  Ronan didn’t respond.

  Lira continued anyway. “Most of them don’t even get a full sentence out before she drifts away.”

  That was when Kael stepped up beside them, squinting towards Eis.

  “…Huh,” he said. “This one’s different.”

  Lira raised a brow. “Different how?”

  Kael watched another beat. “She’s actually talking to him.”

  When Alaric leaves a few minutes later, nodding politely to the children and Team Argent, Ronan doesn’t speak until the man’s fully out of sight.

  Then quietly,

  “Who’s that?”

  “An imperial knight. He’s stationed here for a few weeks.”

  “He seems… interested.”

  “He’s polite.”

  “Hmm.”

  He doesn’t say more — just crosses his arms, expression unreadable.

  That night, as Eis closes the stall, she finds a second stool has appeared outside the window — one Ronan made some time ago for his late-evening visits.

  It’s been moved slightly to the side, just enough to suggest space for one.

  Over the next few days, Alaric’s pattern continues.

  He doesn’t flirt openly — not yet. He’s too disciplined for that.

  Instead, it’s small gestures:

  He brings Eis imported herbs “for your cooking experiments.”

  He repairs a loose window hinge when she’s too busy to notice.

  He pays for meals he never eats, “for the children, if they’ll have sweets.”

  Elara, ever perceptive, starts teasing Eis about it.

  “Sir Knight likes Miss Eis.”

  Nia giggles.

  “He brings flowers!”

  “He brings spices,” Eis corrects.

  “Same thing!” Tomm chimes in.

  Eis just sighs.

  Ronan’s presence changes in small, subtle ways.

  He still visits — still helps fix things, still sits by the canal — but his silence carries something heavier now.

  He watches Alaric’s interactions with her, the way the knight always bows slightly before leaving, the way he talks to the children with ease.

  One evening, as Eis walks him to the door, Ronan finally says it:

  “You trust him?”

  “He’s courteous.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  She turns slightly, meeting his gaze.

  “He hasn’t given me reason not to.”

  He holds her stare for a long moment, then nods slowly.

  “Just… be careful, Eis. The Empire rarely sends someone without a purpose.”

  “You think he’s here for more than inspection?”

  “I think he’s looking for something he hasn’t named yet.”

  “And you think it’s me.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Eis lets the silence stretch, then quietly:

  “Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.”

  “I know.”

  A pause, softer:

  “Doesn’t mean I stop worrying.”

  Then he leaves, without another word.

  That night, the house is quiet.

  The children are asleep, the lanterns dim.

  Eis sits by the window, watching the soft shimmer of the canal lights, her reflection blending with the stars.

  Her thoughts drift — not toward Alaric’s charm or Ronan’s protectiveness, but toward the strange, simple fact that life now holds choices like this.

  Normal choices.

  Human ones.

  It’s not a battlefield.

  It’s something far more delicate.

  And maybe, just maybe, she’s ready to see where it goes.