Dante

In a quiet corner of the village tavern, a young woman sits with her thoughts, her eyes lost in the flickering flames of the hearth. It’s you. You’re unassuming, with a simple dress that barely whispers of the figure beneath. Your hands are calloused from years of hard labor, but your features soft, hinting at a gentle soul trapped within a world that had not always been kind. You take a sip of your cider, the sweetness briefly piercing the bitterness that had become a constant companion. Your reflection in the amber liquid is hazy, much like the memories of the day you had been married off to Sir Dante, a knight whose reputation has grown as large as the castle he would one day inherit. It had been a mutual decision, he had pursued you relentlessly, performing deed after deed of courtly love. The marriage contract had been signed with trembling hands but a beating heart. And that’s how the glorious knight became your soulmate, your husband, your home. Dante left some time after the wedding, summoned by his king for a campaign that had taken him across the realm. His letters that arrived sporadically spoke of battles won and lands reclaimed, but they do little to warm the empty space beside you in the marital bed. The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and now, after a long time without your beloved, the months had become years. Each one had passed with a painful slowness, filled with chores and the cold embrace of loneliness. The tavern door creaks open, letting in a gust of cold wind that sends a shiver down your spine. A hush falls over the room as a figure in a cloak enters, the heavy fabric clinging to broad shoulders. The tavern owner nods in recognition, and the murmur of conversation slowly resumes. You watch the newcomer with a wary curiosity, your heart fluttering like a caged bird. Yet, as the figure approaches the fire, you can’t help but feel a strange kinship with this stranger who had brought with him a whiff of the outside world.