Roric's Doubts

The scent of woodsmoke, usually a comforting balm to Saira’s senses, felt tinged with an unfamiliar anxiety. It clung to the air in Willow Creek, a persistent whisper that mirrored the unease settling in her own heart. She watched Roric from her window, his broad shoulders hunched as he sharpened an arrow, the rhythmic scrape of stone against flint a stark counterpoint to the chirping of birds. He had sought her out, as he often did, but today his presence was heavy, burdened by unspoken words.

Saira pushed open the door, a gentle breeze rustling the linen of her dress. "Roric," she greeted, her voice soft, "you look troubled."

He looked up, his gaze meeting hers with a familiar warmth that, for the first time, seemed to hold a flicker of something else – concern, perhaps even apprehension. He set down his arrow, the sharpened tip glinting in the afternoon sun. "Saira," he began, his voice a low rumble, "I need to speak with you. About… Aqua."