The Weight of Memory

“We are bound for Baron Freyer’s castle to deliver a letter,” Adrian explained.

“We are merely passing through and were hoping to find a place to rest our weary feet.”

“Baron Freyer…” Elena Whitlow murmured, a faint frown creasing her brow.

She appeared poised to speak, yet the words seemed to catch in her throat, leaving a silent, unreadable expression on her face.

“The village chief informed us that you have vacant rooms,” Adrian stated.

“You wish to stay in our home?” Elena Whitlow asked.

“Indeed, we might require your hospitality for a few days,” Adrian confirmed with a nod.

“I serve as a physician for the Order, and it is our sacred duty, by religious law, to offer free medical consultations to the villagers for a number of days upon our arrival in any settlement.”

While this identity was, naturally, a fabrication, Adrian did, in fact, hold the necessary qualifications of a physician.

Elena Whitlow’s expression darkened, but she remained silent.

Generally, distinguished visitors to the village would be accommodated in the village chief’s home.

However, things had changed since the previous chief’s passing and the appointment of a new one.

The new chief invariably shifted the responsibility of hosting guests onto the villagers, fearing that their appetites might prove too substantial, thus depleting his own stores of grain.

However, a moment of reflection brought Elena Whitlow to the realization that the man standing before her was, in essence, her benefactor.

Even if his role had merely been to represent the Order in delivering the news of her debt’s absolution.

This news had been of immense help to her.

At the very least, Elena Whitlow and her son no longer had to fear being evicted from their ancestral home before winter’s chill arrived.

What brought her even greater peace of mind was no longer having to confront the monster Madi alone.

The first time Elena Whitlow had borrowed money from Madi, she had sensed the man’s utter depravity, as if he constantly plotted ways to inflict more suffering upon her life.

Madi had lent her money; she had mortgaged her very life.

Now, Madi was dead.

Though Elena Whitlow had not witnessed the corpse herself, the profound shift in her circumstances compelled her to believe Adrian’s words.

“Then… do come in,” Elena Whitlow finally offered after a pregnant pause, stepping aside to clear the doorway and usher Adrian and Ilisia into the warmth of her home.

Elena Whitlow glanced towards the kitchen, then sighed.

There was hardly any decent food left in the house.

The cupboards yielded only a few morsels of dry, hard rye bread, a handful of salted pickled radishes, and a small pot of leftover green bean soup from the previous night.

These were meager, coarse provisions, barely enough even for herself.

She cast a glance back at Adrian, who was now divesting himself of his cloak in the living room.

He was a peculiar young man.

His hair was raven-black, his eyes deep and dark, and his facial features, though finely sculpted, held a certain reserved quality.

A foreign countenance.

Though Adrian’s attire was not opulent, it was impeccably tailored.

He was clearly a person of considerable standing.

As for Ilisia, who accompanied Adrian, Elena Whitlow’s first impression of her was simply this:

Beauty.

With her cascading silver-white hair and flawless bone structure, she appeared nothing less than a snow goddess incarnate.

Like a snow goddess, Ilisia’s face remained utterly devoid of expression.

Elena Whitlow’s gaze, as if ensnared, drifted over Ilisia, tracing her form until it finally settled upon the cloth-wrapped sword slung across her back.

‘What was that sword for?’

A flicker of wariness, once again, rose within Elena Whitlow’s heart.

Elena Whitlow led the two into the inner room.

Inside, the room was bathed in bright light, its wooden furnishings simple yet impeccably clean.

In one corner, bundles of dry hay lay stacked beside a few worn, old chests.

Elena Whitlow pointed to a room upstairs, saying, “You can stay there for now.

The bed isn’t very large, but it is clean.”

“Thank you, madam,” Adrian said, nodding in gratitude.

“By what names should I address you, sirs?” Elena Whitlow inquired, her tone laced with careful deference.

“You can call me Ed, and her White Star,” Adrian replied.

After speaking, he subtly cast a meaningful glance at Ilisia, who stood silently by his side.

Ilisia nodded understandingly, then, with a light step, picked up her backpack and ascended the stairs.

“I shall take a turn around the village,” Adrian announced.

“Should you require any assistance, you are welcome to instruct her.”

With that, Adrian stepped out the door.

Soon after, Elena Whitlow, pulling Noah along, retreated to the back of the house and resumed her work in the fields.

For several days now, she had been leaving at dawn and returning only after dusk.

A sudden heaviness descended upon Elena Whitlow’s head, her temples began to throb with a dull ache, and a suffocating tightness settled in her chest.

Sweat trickled down her temples, dampening her collar; she raised a hand to wipe it away, only to find her palm trembling slightly.

“Perhaps I caught a chill last night,” Elena Whitlow murmured to herself.

Time, as it often does, swiftly carried them into the embrace of evening.

When Elena Whitlow returned home, the rich aroma of stewed meat wafted through the house.

Within the house, Adrian stood by the kitchen hearth, sleeves rolled up, actively engaged in culinary endeavors.

A pot of soup bubbled invitingly on the stove, while the chopping block was laden with fresh carrots, onions, and an entire wild pheasant.

Such a bounty of ingredients, fresh and plentiful, was a sight she had not witnessed in months.

Ilisia, meanwhile, was crouched nearby, gently coaxing a laugh from Noah, who held a piece of dried meat in his hand, giggling merrily.

Elena Whitlow stood rooted at the doorway, her expression a complex mix of emotions.

She ought to have felt grateful for the sudden abundance of good things in her home.

Yet, for reasons she could not quite grasp, an inexplicable disquiet began to stir within her as she watched a man stand so naturally before her own hearth, seemingly in effortless command of her kitchen.

Perhaps the charcoal fire was burning too fiercely, for Elena Whitlow’s forehead began to feel warm again.

She dabbed at it with her sleeve, yet her gaze gradually grew vacant, lost in a distant haze.

Memories surged forth like a nocturnal tide.

She had married into this village from another when she was sixteen.

To others, it had seemed a “good match”—the man was handsome, strong, skilled in hunting, had some savings, and possessed a sweet tongue.

The man named Lev had offered a generous dowry, and her father had accepted swiftly.

After all, there were younger siblings at home to support, and funds were exceptionally scarce.

Lev had initially treated Elena Whitlow well, but his true nature quickly revealed itself.

He drank heavily, gambled, and possessed a violent temper.

It was to repay his gambling debts that Elena Whitlow had humbly sought a loan from Madi.

On ordinary days, when the hunt proved fruitful, a semblance of peace prevailed; yet, should he return empty-handed, the house would invariably erupt into utter pandemonium.

Lev never raised a hand to her, yet neither had he ever truly shown her genuine kindness.

Instead, he seemed to view her more as a mere instrument for managing their meager existence, a face to be paraded as a symbol of his wife’s supposed virtue.

Elena Whitlow tried to endure, tried to appease—but each time, Lev would only push further.

The winter before last, Lev had suddenly fallen ill.

Heavy snow had sealed off the mountains, and his fever remained stubbornly high.

Elena Whitlow had implored the village chief, then the village physician, traversing such distances that the very soles of her shoes were all but worn away.

The doctor examined him repeatedly, yet Lev showed no signs of recovery.

The villagers whispered that Elena Whitlow was heartless, claiming she had “worn her husband down to his death.”

She offered no explanation.

She remembered that night, the hearth fire burning fiercely, as Lev, gasping for breath, cursed her, calling her “useless,” a “burden.”

The next morning, he was dead.

He had left her and her son saddled with a mountain of debt.

Unable to bear the daily visits from debt-collecting villagers, Elena Whitlow had borrowed money from Madi to first repay them.

And, in the process, she had buried Lev.

From then on, Elena Whitlow had lived alone with Noah.

Though she was beautiful and still young, everyone knew she had incurred a substantial debt to others.

No man was willing to marry Elena Whitlow again, nor was Elena Whitlow willing to debase herself.

She no longer trusted men.

“You don’t look quite well,” Adrian observed, having stepped out to stretch his legs while the contents of the pot continued to simmer.

Elena Whitlow shook her head, snapping back to reality.

Suppressing the stifling heat in her chest, she murmured, “How did you know where the firewood was kept?”

“Ah, Noah told me,” Adrian replied, turning back with a smile.

“Your firewood is truly excellent; it burns so fiercely.”

“Yes,” Elena Whitlow responded flatly, offering no further words.

A profound sense of resistance welled within Elena Whitlow’s heart towards Adrian; she harbored a strong aversion to anyone, particularly a man, utilizing her hearth.

Despite this, Elena Whitlow remained intensely curious about Adrian.

How could a young master of such noble standing, one whose hands seemingly had never known a day of toil, possess the remarkable ability to prepare such exquisitely fragrant dishes?