Human Ancestor

The sound of gentle rustling broke the silence. My body ached as if I'd been shattered and pieced together haphazardly. When I opened my eyes, a simple wooden ceiling greeted me—so different from the grandeur of the palace. For a moment, I panicked, wondering if I had been captured, but the scent of herbs and the faint sound of humming put me at ease.

I tried to sit up, and pain shot through my side like a bolt of lightning. Clutching my ribs, I saw the faint glow of dried blood beneath the bandages. My powers—usually an endless reservoir of light—were gone, a hollow void where strength once resided.

"You shouldn't move yet," a soft voice said.

I turned my head. The girl couldn't have been older than I, though her hands carried the roughness of someone who worked the land. Her dark brown hair framed her face in gentle waves, and her green eyes—earthy and warm—held a determination I hadn't seen even in my knights.

"Where am I?" I croaked. My throat felt like sandpaper.

"You're in a small cottage on the outskirts of the capital," she said, placing a damp cloth on my forehead. "I found you collapsed near the stalls, so I brought you here. I've been taking care of you for two days now."

"You… saved me?" I asked, incredulous.

She smiled, her expression soft yet teasing. "No, I left you to rot. Of course I saved you."

Her words lacked formality, her tone too casual for someone speaking to a prince. Then again, I reminded myself, she didn't know who I was. The artifact still veiled my identity, my black hair and blue eyes betraying nothing of the golden prince I once was.

***

The days passed slowly, each one bringing a new sense of discomfort. Not just from my injuries—which were many—but from the tasks I found myself doing.

At first, I balked when she handed me a basket of laundry. "This is beneath me," I said sharply, only to see her arch an eyebrow.

"Your arms work, don't they? If you're strong enough to complain, you're strong enough to help," she said, shoving the basket into my hands. "Besides, it's not like I'm asking you to fight a dragon."

I relented, though bitterness sat heavy on my tongue. I helped dry the laundry, fetched water from the well, and even plucked weeds from her small vegetable garden. Every task felt like a bruise on my pride, yet something about her presence made it tolerable. Her laughter, her unyielding resolve—it softened the edges of my frustration.

The sound of water sloshing against a wooden bucket filled the air as Elira handed me a damp shirt to wring out. "Don't just stand there like a statue, Marcus. Use those fancy arms of yours."

I scowled, my pride bruised but my hands obedient. "This is beneath me," I muttered under my breath, twisting the shirt with more force than necessary. Droplets splattered onto my already damp tunic.

Elira, kneeling beside the tub, glanced up with an arched eyebrow. "You've said that about everything so far. Laundry, gardening, even fetching water. What exactly isn't beneath you?"

I hesitated. "Battle," I said finally, a tinge of pride seeping into my voice. "Leadership."

She snorted, shaking her head as she plunged another shirt into the soapy water. "Well, unless the laundry suddenly decides to rise up and rebel, I'd say you're stuck with this. Besides," she added with a sly grin, "you're not terrible at it."

"Not terrible?" I shot back, feigning offense. "I'm a natural, clearly."

She laughed, the sound light and melodious, cutting through the quiet monotony of the task. "Sure, Marcus. The prince of wringing shirts."

I didn't dignify her with a response, though I couldn't stop the corner of my mouth from twitching upward. There was a strange comfort in the simplicity of the task, in the rhythmic motions and the quiet companionship. As I worked, I found myself stealing glances at her. The way the sunlight caught in her hair, the ease with which she moved, her unguarded laughter—it was disarming.

"Why do you do this?" I asked after a moment, gesturing to the laundry pile. "You could hire someone, surely."

She shrugged, her hands busy. "Why should I? It's honest work. It keeps me grounded. Besides, it's not like I'm a baroness or anything."

Her humility was refreshing, a stark contrast to the scheming I'd grown accustomed to in court. "You're a strange one, Elira," I said softly.

She looked up, her expression unreadable for a moment before she smiled. "And you're not as insufferable as I first thought."

The exchange left me feeling lighter than I had in weeks. For the first time, the weight of my injuries and my hidden identity seemed less suffocating.

***

The sun beat down as I knelt in the dirt, a small spade in hand. The vegetable garden wasn't much—a few rows of carrots, potatoes, and some herbs—but to Elira, it was a treasure. She moved through the rows with an ease that spoke of years spent tending the land.

"Careful," she said, brushing past me to inspect my work. "If you dig too deep, you'll damage the roots."

I wiped the sweat from my brow, feeling an unfamiliar ache in my lower back. "I don't understand how you find joy in this."

Elira sat back on her heels, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "It's not about joy. It's about care. About putting effort into something and seeing it grow."

Her words lingered in my mind as I returned to digging. When I unearthed a particularly plump potato, I held it up triumphantly. "Is this satisfactory, or have I offended the soil gods?"

She laughed, the sound light and free. "You might actually have a knack for this, Marcus. Who knew?"

"Don't let it go to your head," I muttered, though I couldn't suppress a smile.

As we worked, she began to hum a tune—something soft and familiar.

Hush, my child, close your eyes,

𝄞 

Stars are twinkling in the skies.

𝄞 

Drift to sleep, soft and deep,

𝄞

Let the world around you sleep.

 🎶 𝄞 

Rest now, little one, rest,

𝄞

In your dreams, you are blessed.

𝄞 

Safe and warm, here you'll stay,

𝄞 

Until the light of dawn's first ray.

"What song is that?" I asked.

"An old lullaby," she replied. "My mother used to sing it. It always made me feel safe."

The admission caught me off guard. There was a vulnerability in her words that mirrored my own unspoken fears. "It's… nice," I said awkwardly.

Elira looked at me, her gaze steady. "You're not used to this, are you? Just… living."

I shook my head. "No, I'm not."

"You're doing fine," she said, her voice gentle. "Better than you think."

Her reassurance, simple as it was, struck a chord in me. For the first time, I wondered if there was more to life than duty and power.

***

"You're going to burn it," Elira said, her hands resting on her hips as she watched me stir a pot over the hearth. The stew inside bubbled ominously, and the smell of singed meat wafted through the cottage.

"I've fought beasts larger than this pot," I said, glaring at the offending stew. "Surely I can manage this."

"Fighting doesn't require seasoning," she retorted, stepping in to take the spoon from me. "Here, let me show you."

I stood back, arms crossed as she added a pinch of salt and a handful of herbs. Within moments, the smell transformed, filling the room with a rich, savory aroma.

"See?" she said, shooting me a smug smile. "Cooking isn't so different from gardening. It's all about care and patience."

I grumbled something unintelligible, but the truth was, I found her presence soothing. Watching her work, I realized there was an artistry to the mundane tasks I had always dismissed.

"Why do you put up with me?" I asked suddenly.

She paused, her hand hovering over the pot. "What do you mean?"

"You don't know who I am. I could be anyone. Why help me?"

Elira looked at me, her expression serious. "Because you needed it. Isn't that reason enough?"

Her answer left me speechless. In a world where kindness was often transactional, her sincerity was disarming. I felt something shift within me—a small crack in the armor I'd built around my heart.

***

The first time I met Elira's father, he filled the doorway like a sentinel. His armor gleamed even in the dim light of the cottage, and his eyes were sharp, assessing.

"So, you're the one my daughter's been looking after," he said, his voice steady and measured.

"Yes, sir," I replied, inclining my head slightly. The artifact hid my true identity, but I couldn't shake the feeling that he saw more than I wanted him to.

"What brings you to this part of the kingdom?" he asked, his gaze unwavering.

"I was traveling when bandits attacked me," I said, sticking to the story I had rehearsed. "Your daughter saved my life."

His expression softened as he looked at Elira. "That sounds like her. Always helping strays."

"Father!" Elira protested, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

He chuckled, then turned serious. "The capital's been in turmoil since the prince disappeared. Some say he's dead, others think he's in hiding. Either way, it's made things dangerous for everyone."

I stiffened but forced myself to remain calm. "Do you think he's alive?"

The knight's eyes narrowed slightly, but he shrugged. "Hard to say. The prince is… was… a strong young man. If anyone could survive, it'd be him."

"Let's hope for the kingdom's sake he does," I said quietly.

***

"Hold the ladder steady," I called down to Elira as I climbed up to inspect the leak in the cottage's roof.

"If you fall, it's your own fault," she retorted, though her hands gripped the ladder tightly.

The thatching was old and worn, and I frowned as I adjusted a loose piece. "This roof is as stubborn as you are."

"And just as reliable," she shot back. "Can you fix it or not?"

"Of course I can," I said, though I wasn't entirely sure. I spent the next hour wrestling with the thatching, my muscles protesting with each movement. By the time I climbed down, my arms felt like lead.

"Not bad," Elira said, inspecting my handiwork. "Maybe you're not completely useless after all."

"High praise coming from you," I muttered, though her laughter made the effort feel worthwhile.

***

Two months passed, and though my wounds had mostly healed, my powers remained dormant. I could feel the faint stirrings of light within me, but it was like trying to grasp smoke with bare hands. I stayed in the cottage, unwilling to risk revealing myself.

 Elira had grown used to my presence. She dragged me into town one day, insisting we attend the annual festival. The capital was alive with celebration, the streets crowded with merchants, performers, and families.

"You're missing out if you don't try it," she said, nudging me.

The city was alive with color and sound. Lanterns hung from every corner, their warm light casting a golden glow over the cobblestone streets. Musicians played lively tunes, and the air was filled with the scent of roasted meats and sweet pastries.

Elira dragged me through the crowd, her excitement infectious. "Come on, Marcus! You can't just stand there like a grumpy old man."

I followed, unable to suppress a small smile. She led me to a stall selling rice cakes, handing me one with a grin. "You've got to try this. It's my favorite."

I took a bite, the sweetness surprising me. "It's… good."

"See? I told you," she said, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at the fireworks exploding in the night sky.

For a moment, I forgot the pain, the loss, and the responsibility that weighed on me. All I saw was her—her joy, her strength, her unyielding spirit. It was then, as the firelight danced in her eyes, that I realized the truth.

I had fallen for her.