"But..."

  "Did you notice that man who just passed us?" he continued. "The one missing his right hand. He must have been a soldier, likely from the Crividsylvan campaign. If even his armor couldn't shield him from the blade, what hope could poetry possibly have?"

  "I don't understand where these thoughts are coming from today," Elisa sighed softly. "You've always cherished poetry and your lyre. You even prided yourself on them, Lucas."

  I'm torn. I constantly question what good a poet is in times like these. I sing to people, bringing them tales and half-truths from the battlefields. But now, I can no longer stand to sit here, singing my own songs, while other men—real men—are out there fighting a real war.

  "You are who you are, and they are who they are. The two have no connection."

  "Perhaps," he smiled bitterly. "But I remain convinced that neither my lyre nor my voice can withstand iron and fire. Monowe had many poets, yet when the Godmans slaughtered our people, every one of those poets fell silent."

  "That's in the past now, poet," she pressed closer, resting her nose against his shoulder. "No one is ravaging Monowe anymore. You're free to be yourself—to be a poet."

  After much struggle, they finally glimpsed the shops atop the long slope. "Even if Monowe enjoys peace, Cynthia bleeds under stormy skies. Nearly every man in town has answered the call to arms, while I..."

  "You're going to join them?" the girl interrupted sharply.

  He remained silent.

  "You want to join that mob with their spears, wearing mismatched leather, marching like drunken fools—men who are nothing but killers now?"

  "Many of them are Monoweans, Elisa."

  "What difference does that make?" Her voice rose with emotion. "They've forgotten their own history—forgotten how the Godmans once played the role of butchers—yet now they eagerly assume that same role themselves. Have you forgotten too, Lucas? This is an invasion! Godma—" She ran out of breath before finishing her thought. "I'm sorry. I became too passionate."

  The boy was catching his breath as well, though from the weight of the cart. Elisa watched him gazing at the night sky with a melancholy expression, which kindled a spark of irritation within her. She strode directly toward the bakery, intending to purchase a long, soft white loaf—not too coarse—to stuff into his mouth. But the shop was already closed. Elisa's temper flared; she uttered a curse typically heard only from prostitutes when clients refuse payment. The second the curse left her lips, she clapped a hand over her mouth, glancing back furtively, terrified Lucas had heard her vulgarity. Fortunately, he remained absorbed in his communion with the stars.

  She returned to him and, without waiting for his consent, seized his hand and pulled him to a stone bench, forcing him to sit before joining him.

  Their hands were still clasped together.

  "...I'm not tired, Elisa," he murmured softly after a moment. "You should return home. Lady Clawyn will be waiting for you."

  "Just sit a while longer," she replied simply.

  Lucas's thumb gently caressed the back of her hand while he observed her reaction from the corner of his eye. "How fares Miss Clawyn?"

  "Not well. Her fever persists."

  "She's been sleeping for many days now, hasn't she?"

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The serving girl nodded. "Both my lady and I are increasingly baffled. None of the herbs we've managed to administer have shown any effect. She sleeps for days without water, yet shows no signs of deterioration. And most peculiar of all—her hair is gradually turning white."

  "White?" His grip unconsciously tightened, causing her to wince. "Her hair?"

  "It began as gray at the roots. Then it spread to the tips, transforming into white—as white as milk. Neither my lady nor I can fathom the cause, yet in all other respects, the young miss behaves normally."

  "Turning white..." Lucas echoed under his breath. "Do you perhaps know what's causing this?"

  "No, I don't." He refrained from sharing the tales he'd heard from other minstrels; he scarcely believed them himself. "Has this condition persisted for long?"

  "Several months now."

  "Perhaps you should urge Lady Clawyn to consult a physician."

  "We've already tried that approach." She shifted closer, resting her head against his shoulder. "My lady has summoned several doctors from the city. All proved as helpless as we are. Being decent souls, they charged us nothing—not even their consultation fees. Otherwise, we'd scarcely afford bread nowadays."

  (All who voluntarily enlist to support the empire's northern campaign shall receive 3,000 Glens as reward; those who distinguish themselves in battle may be granted nobility and one hundred acres of land.) His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts.

  "Then perhaps seek physicians from other cities—Paripha, for instance. They have a medical academy there, along with numerous independent practitioners."

  She merely smiled. "I believe this ailment extends beyond medical understanding."

  He hesitated. "Perhaps you're right."

  "If Lord Clawyn were still with us, everything would be simpler." She closed her eyes as the evening breeze gently played with the strands of hair across her forehead. "Whenever I found myself overwhelmed and confused, he and my lady would step forward. He always seemed so tall and commanding."

  "But you cannot rely on him now." And not on me either, he thought with resignation. "I've matured considerably," she nestled closer against him. "I've learned that one of life's greatest lessons is accepting loss. Everything surrounding us—both people and possessions—will gradually slip away. Ultimately, we all face solitude. Loneliness is our inevitable destination."

  "Ending one's journey in loneliness cannot be considered favorable."

  "Of course it isn't, but we must all confront this reality."

  "The experience of facing death alone..." he spoke with raw emotion, "is nearly impossible to articulate. We enter this world amid commotion, yet depart in isolation."

  "You speak as though you've experienced this profoundly."

  "It was another's experience—someone once dearest to me. I just read my mother's final letter, but I feel like I've died a thousand times since then."

  Elisa fell silent for a moment. "You've never spoken of your past before, Lucas."

  "Because I deliberately chose to forget it."

  "Was it painful?"

  His silence served as confirmation. That's why I became a wandering poet. Poetry has wings; it carries life higher than any dragon, farther than any eagle. It was a life I could never have had otherwise.

  She snorted lightly. "You're speaking as though composing poetry right now."

  He blushed. "It's... an occupational tendency."

  Another brief silence fell between them. "Do you think Lord Clawyn will also die in solitude?" she asked suddenly.

  Lucas shivered slightly. "I don't know, Elisa. I believe none of us wishes for that outcome."

  "Certainly not. I hope that when his final moment comes, he'll be surrounded by myself, my lady, and the young miss. But he's on the battlefield now—who can predict? I fear that when he falls from his horse, disoriented and helpless, no one will witness it, and no one will extend a helping hand. As you described—facing death entirely alone."

  "Then banish such thoughts," he said firmly. "As long as you don't envision it in your mind, it won't manifest in reality."

  "What a curious notion. Where did you hear that?"

  He hesitated. "Femenlaulus."

  She didn't inquire further about this name. Based solely on its sound, she mentally pictured a bald, sturdily-built man—then promptly dismissed this image, leaving only Carl Clawyn in her thoughts.

  "Come," she released his hand and stood. "I should return now. My lady awaits me."

  "You'll come to the market tomorrow, won't you, Elisa?" Only after speaking did he realize the foolishness of his question. The girl appeared at the market unfailingly each day, regardless of weather.

  "That depends on whether someone wishes to see me."

  He froze, frantically searching his mind for an appropriate metaphor.

  "A fish could never despise clear water—" He trailed off, because she had already grabbed the handcart and, humming to herself, pushed it around the corner and out of sight.