The festival had come to an end, leaving the village quieter than usual, though faint echoes of laughter and music still lingered in the streets. For three days, the celebrations had carried her along in a current of sound, color, and movement. Even now, after sleeping as deeply as she could, Asoka felt a lingering heaviness in her limbs, a quiet fatigue that was not entirely physical. Perhaps it was the ritual she had attended the previous night, a ceremony of candlelight and whispered prayers that had left her mind restless, or perhaps it was simply the way her body had absorbed too much joy, too much noise, too much life.
She rose slowly, brushing a hand over her hair as she moved through the small, familiar spaces of her home. The morning air smelled faintly of the festival's aftermath—burned torches, spilled honey, and the lingering scent of sweet pastries. She gathered her baskets with care, checking the contents, adjusting their weight on her arms, muttering to herself when something seemed out of place. Even in these small, mundane tasks, she found herself reflecting, her thoughts drifting between fatigue, curiosity, and amusement at the many little accidents she had accumulated in recent days.
There was the spilled basket of eggs during the festival market, which had sent her fleeing amid the laughter of children, and the time she had tripped over Farmer Holo's crooked fence, scattering goods across the street. Even now, she smiled faintly at the memory, shaking her head at her own clumsiness. Such mishaps were ordinary in her life, a small measure of chaos in a routine otherwise well-ordered, and she had grown used to them, learning to meet each one with a resigned humor.
Her path to the shop was familiar, lined with the houses and fences she had passed every morning for years. She noticed the early sunlight spilling across the cobblestones, the dew glinting on the grass, the faint hum of the village waking. Her mind wandered to the lands beyond the hills she had never seen, imagining kingdoms, forests, and cities she had longed to visit. She had dreamed of them often, wondering about their names, their rulers, and the lives of those who lived there. Today, though, such thoughts felt more urgent, sharper, stirred by the quiet emptiness that always followed the festival.
She stumbled slightly over a loose cobblestone and muttered under her breath, earning a faint giggle from a nearby child.
Smiling sheepishly, she adjusted her basket and continued, thinking that perhaps the world was reminding her to be careful, or simply amused by her clumsiness. She passed familiar landmarks—the small bridge arching over the shallow stream, the crooked fence marking the boundary of Farmer Holo's field, the narrow alley that led toward the shop. Everything was as it always had been, and yet she moved through it with a quiet restlessness, her thoughts half on her work, half on the distant hills she longed to know.
It was then, near the bend where the path dipped toward the small orchard, that she noticed it—a carriage. At first, she thought her eyes were deceiving her. The road rarely saw traffic of any kind, and certainly not vehicles as polished, as modern, as deliberate as this one. Its wheels glinted in the sunlight, the wood of its frame was smooth and dark, and the leather covering shone with a care she had never before seen on any wagon that passed this path.
She slowed her steps, her mind momentarily distracted by curiosity. Who would travel this way, at this hour, in a carriage so out of place? Her first instinct had been to dismiss it, to assume it had already passed, that it would vanish behind the curve as quietly as it appeared. For a moment, she even wondered if she was seeing a trick of the morning light.
But the carriage did not vanish. Its pace remained deliberate, and she stopped halfway along the path, basket in hand, her heart stirred by the subtle strangeness of the moment. She felt no fear, only a quiet confusion. It was unusual, yes, and yet not threatening—only unexpected,
The carriage had come to a stop In front of her, this had only quickened her curiosity, and then she heard it: a calm, measured voice, clear across the small distance, breaking the morning quiet, he had ordered the coachman to move at his pace.
"Nice to see you again— milady."
The realization had them dawned on her.. he had said something afterwards, but she couldn't hear anything at that moment..
Confused, slightly startled, she blinked, letting her mind absorb the sound. And in that single, ordinary sentence, recognition came—short, swift, and certain. She knew who it was. She had known him even before she saw his face.