"But my lord, the sun hasn't even fully set!" Lucas the Great Poet protested hastily. The sheriff cast him a disdainful glance, then his attention was caught by the lyre strapped to the boy's chest. "You're a traveling minstrel, are you not?"

  The boy nodded. "Yes, my lord." He patted his instrument gently.

  "I believe I recognize you, young man. You perform for coin in this market as well, don't you?"

  Lucas's face gradually paled. "...Yes, my lord." He dreaded that the coin purse he had so laboriously filled today would soon suffer the same fate.

  The sheriff looked from Elisa to the poet, then back again. "Very well," he said abruptly, dragging over a weathered wooden crate and settling his weight upon it. "You were evidently about to play something for this young lady. Please, continue."

  Elisa shot the poet a desperate glance; the sheriff seemed to have forgotten about the fine on his account. "My lord, I—"

  "Begin promptly, poet," the sheriff commanded, folding his arms across his chest. "I have pressing matters to attend to."

  Caught between their expectant gazes, Lucas had no choice but to comply. At the first note that resonated from the strings, the sheriff blinked and gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval. Elisa had never truly heard Lucas sing before. The voice that emerged was shockingly different from his spoken word; it was not the voice of a boy, but something ethereal, delicate, and achingly pure. The Great Poet gradually immersed himself in the performance, his eyelids lowering, his head swaying gently with the rhythm. When he reached the passage requiring rapid plucking, he leaned forward intently, his fingers dancing across the strings with the precision and grace of an acrobat on a tightrope. He navigated the notoriously difficult passage with flawless precision. The sheriff, forgetting himself, stroked his beard, a low growl of pure appreciation rumbling in his throat. Elisa clasped her hands to her chest, an irrepressible smile spreading across her face. For the first time, she felt genuine admiration for this boy—two years her junior—without any reservation.

  Lucas lowered his left hand, clutching the strap with his right, still catching his breath. "Magnificent, poet," the sheriff said with repeated nods. "That piece demands extraordinary skill. I've rarely witnessed anyone navigate that rapid sequence without a single error. Did you once perform in royal courts?"

  "Certainly not, my lord. I have always been merely a common poet." The boy was visibly pleased by the praise. His gaze toward Elisa grew bolder, infused with newfound confidence.

  "Of course I know you're a common poet. If you were anything else, you wouldn't be wasting your talent in this market square. Hmph." The sheriff rose slowly and kicked the crate aside. "Now then, gather your belongings and be on your way. Should I discover you still here later, a simple fine will be the least of your concerns." The serving girl bowed respectfully. As the sheriff passed by the poet, he placed his hand firmly on the boy's right shoulder. "You have the potential to become a truly Great Poet. I believe this to be so." He squeezed his shoulder meaningfully before continuing his rounds with his two spearmen.

  "I simply cannot believe it," Elisa marveled, pushing the handcart laden with a barrel of wine—such poor sales were uncommon. "Forgive my speechlessness, Great Poet. I was utterly astounded that you could perform The Feast of Dragons. And," she added with admiration, "perform it with such mastery."

  Lucas walked beside her, his chin elevated, chest proudly expanded, like a soldier on ceremonial parade. He merely smiled without speaking. His perceived value had risen considerably; he now felt compelled to be economical with his words. "That intricate passage—your execution was flawless. Truly, Lucas." She detected his self-satisfaction and deliberately used his given name. Upon hearing his name from the lips of the object of his affection, he immediately took the bait. "Oh, naturally, Elisa. In truth, I can perform it even faster." His smile verged on becoming comically lopsided.

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  "You finally used my name," the girl observed, her voice alight with playful victory. "That's the first time you've ever done it."

  Lucas's face flushed a deeper shade of red than when receiving the sheriff's praise. "I apologize, next time I'll—"

  "It's perfectly fine, Lucas." Her smile dimmed slightly. "You know, I appreciate hearing you say my name. I gave you permission long ago, yet you persistently addressed me as 'my lady.'"

  "I..." he stammered. "I believed... it conveyed greater respect toward a lady..." He adjusted his shoulder strap nervously. "Besides, don't you consistently refer to me as 'Great Poet'?"

  She considered explaining, then thought better of it. "Oh, Lucas," she murmured, mostly to herself. "How are you ever going to be a Great Poet if you're this shy?" The boy couldn't quite make out what she was muttering and edged closer, their arms brushing. They arrived at an uphill stretch of road. Elisa halted, set down the cart, and placed her hands firmly on her hips.

  The boy, preoccupied with her muttered words, continued several steps before stopping. "Is something wrong?" he inquired. "Are you fatigued?"

  She nodded affirmatively.

  Lucas found this peculiar. Elisa had always insisted on pushing the cart alone from the marketplace back to Clawyn Estate—never requiring nor permitting his assistance. She used to tease that the cart would surely crush him on any incline. "It's because of this additional weight," Elisa explained, indicating the wine barrel. "That's why I'm tired."

  "You've never allowed me to help before," he reminded her, his inflated sense of worth making him hesitate. "You claimed I'd be crushed beneath it. Hmph." In truth, he privately worried this might indeed be the case; his strength possibly didn't match Elisa's.

  "Today there's no need for concern," she remarked with a meaningful glance. "I'll be right behind you."

  The Great Poet had never pushed a cart in such a manner before. He had assumed they would each take one handle. Instead, he found himself in an unexpectedly awkward position. Elisa pressed herself fully against his back. He could feel the soft warmth of her breasts against his shoulder blades, her chin resting on his shoulder, and the whisper of her warm breath ghosting across his neck and ear. "Are you certain this approach will be effective?" Their progress was excruciatingly slow. "It doesn't matter. Slow is perfectly acceptable," she replied, her tone languid and content.

  Lucas desperately attempted to fill his mind with poetry and music, banishing all other thoughts—especially those causing the unwelcome stirring below his waist. Each could feel the other's breathing. Elisa was thoroughly pleased with the arrangement. She recognized that in their relationship, she had always been the one to take initiative. The boy's awkward stance made it difficult to apply proper force, while the unfamiliar pleasure building below further distracted him; caught between these conflicting sensations, his thoughts began to blur. A passerby observed them with curiosity. The light was too dim for Lucas to make out the man's face or clothes, but he could clearly see the empty sleeve where a right arm should have been. In that single instant, all desire vanished, extinguished by the sudden, cold thought of war.

  Elisa maintained her position and began humming a gentle melody. "Elisa."

  "Hmm?" She opened her eyes.

  "I wish to ask you something."

  "Go ahead," she said, closing her eyes once more.

  "Do you believe poetry serves any useful purpose?"

  She paused, surprised. "Of course it does."

  "In what manner?"

  "Isn't that what you understand best? You're the poet, after all." She shifted her head slightly but remained pressed against his back. Lucas doubted they had progressed at all. "Some poems capture beauty—describing distant landscapes, dawns never witnessed, sunsets never heard. They allow us to envision magnificence though we've never experienced it firsthand. Others chronicle heroes' sacrifices, knights' perseverance, inspiring within us a yearning for justice and noble virtues." Finally, Elisa applied her strength; together they gradually propelled the cart up the long incline. "Isn't that the essential purpose of poetry, Lucas?"

  "During peacetime," he countered. "When people can live ordinary lives in safety. But what of turbulent eras? In our present age—dominated by warfare and bloodshed—do poetry, music, painting still retain any significance?"

  "Hmm..." Her voice lost some of its certainty. "I cannot say with absolute conviction. However, I believe the fundamental purpose and significance of poetry remain constant despite changing circumstances."

  "In reality, they change profoundly," Lucas the Great Poet halted abruptly, forcing the serving girl to stop with him. "In times of war, you cannot stop a charging knight with a line of poetry, and you cannot block an arrow with a painting. In the face of all this," he gestured to the dark street, "art is useless."