The question struck Love with the force of a physical blow. Her hands fumbled clumsily along the wrapped leather grip, her balance faltered, and the spear slipped from her trembling fingers, clattering loudly against the wooden floorboards. The tongue really is like a blade, Love thought bitterly, her heart hammering against her ribs as the sudden tension suffocated the room.
She dropped to one knee to retrieve the weapon, desperately buying time to assemble her thoughts. Lying was a tempting retreat. A quick, harmless white lie—claiming "Willow" was merely a common name from her homeland or a random slip of the tongue—might offer a temporary shield. But Love knew the noblewoman was far too perceptive for such deception. The artisan had already witnessed Love's unguarded reaction: the sudden freeze, the shadow of bitter melancholy passing across her eyes, and the raw, wistful shock that had ripped the name from her throat.
She gripped the polished shaft of her spear, remaining crouched on the floor as the weight of her choices settled over her. A lie would shatter the fragile trust she had just purchased with her surrender, forcing her to decide whether truth was a price she was truly ready to pay.
Refusing to let her potential ally's first memory of her be built on deceit, Love chose the path of truth—or at least, a carefully crafted version of it.
Rising slowly from the floor, she began to recount her story. She spoke with measured precision, weaving the narrative to conceal her otherworldly origins while honoring her bond with Willow. Love described how the young elf had found her, extended a saving hand, and taught her the brutal art of forest survival. They had become trusted companions, bound by the unforgiving nature of the wilderness.
To shield herself from appearing ungrateful or heartless for parting ways with her savior, Love strategically shifted the focus to the impending doom threatening the realm. She painted her departure not as a selfish abandonment, but as a desperate, urgent quest to deliver news of the looming invasion swiftly concluding its final preparations. By framing her journey as a race against time to warn the enchanted domain, she seamlessly presented her actions as those of a selfless messenger rather than a mercenary prioritizing her own survival.
Love held her breath, her chest tight as she waited for the noblewoman's reaction. A quiet part of her rationalized the omission—she had stayed true to the spirit of her connection with Willow, merely reshaping the context to protect herself. After all, when meeting someone for the first time, no one reveals the entirety of their soul. Trust was a house built brick by brick, and raw honesty would come only as the foundation hardened.
The noblewoman drifted into silence, her gaze floating past Love into the quiet, amber light of the workshop. The harsh edge in her posture softened, melting into something delicate and profoundly weary.
"Willow was my daughter," she murmured softly.
A gentle sigh escaped her lips, carrying the weight of a long-standing sorrow. Her expression smoothed into a quiet, resigned stillness before she added calmly, "I miss her."
Love braced herself for a storm that never arrived. She had mentally prepared for a barrage of sharp accusations—for the grieving craftswoman to turn on her, demanding to know why Love was standing safe in her workshop while Willow was left behind, fending for herself in a ruthless wilderness. Love had even begun to calculate whether this moment would strip away her last chance of finding refuge in the enchanted domain.
Yet, as the heavy silence settled over the timbered room, Love realized she had overthought the noblewoman's reaction entirely.
There was no sudden outburst of rage, no pointing of fingers. The noblewoman had simply confessed that she missed her daughter. What chilled Love to her core, however, was the quiet grammar of her grief. The artisan had spoken in the past tense—using "was" and "miss"—her tone hollow and detached, as if speaking of a memory carved into stone or a life that had already ceased to exist. To this mother, Willow was not merely far away; she was already lost.
The realization hit Love with a subtle, uncomfortable weight. She had prepared to defend herself against an angry mother, but standing before a woman who had already surrendered her child to memory presented a far more dangerous, unpredictable kind of vulnerability.
Those few quiet words tumbled through Love's thoughts, stirring a surge of sudden uncertainty. Looking at the woman's distant, hollow eyes, Love pieced together the grief behind her past-tense phrasing: the noblewoman simply couldn't believe her daughter was capable of surviving the brutal, untamed forest alone. To protect her own heart from endless, agonizing suspense, she had quietly decided her child was dead.
Yet, Love knew the truth of Willow's strength. She had seen her navigate the shadows, wield her bow with deadly intent, and thrive where most would perish. Willow wasn't just a delicate elven girl; she was a survivor.
Love stood torn at the edge of the workbench. Part of her urged her to offer simple, safe condolences to match the mother's quiet resignation. But a stronger, fiercer impulse flared within her chest—to shatter the noblewoman's dark assumption and spark a flame of hope. She wanted to tell this mother to have faith, to believe that the daughter who had saved Love's life was still breathing, still fighting, and would one day walk back through those timber doors whole and healthy.
Sensing the delicate balance in the room could shatter at any second, Love subtly shifted her footing, mentally preparing her defense. If the noblewoman turned on her, she was ready to explain that she had tried to bring Willow along. She had pleaded with her to come to the enchanted domain, but Willow had steadfastly refused—going so far as to slip away from their shelter in the dead of night to escape the pressure. Love had delayed her departure, waiting dejectedly for a return that never came, before finally setting out on her own.
Love opened her mouth to speak, desperate to lay out the truth before a misunderstanding took root, but the noblewoman cut her off before a single word could escape.
"I lost my daughter immediately she acquired that plague," the craftswoman said softly.
The confession hung heavy in the air, cold and definitive. The noblewoman wasn't mourning a girl lost to the teeth and claws of the wilderness; she had already buried her daughter in her heart the moment the affliction took hold. To her, the plague was a death sentence that stole Willow's future long before her breath left her body.
Love had no time to process what plague the noblewoman meant, because the craftswoman continued almost immediately, her gaze fixed on the quiet shadows of her workbench.
"You see, dark elves are not welcomed into the enchanted domain..."
She paused, taking a long, heavy breath that seemed to drain the last remaining warmth from her posture. When she spoke again, her voice had turned hoarse, scraped raw by an old, unspoken grief:
"That was the reason why I had to let Willow go... and why I asked you to bring your hand forward to check your skin."