Rayan opened the door and stepped into the hut. His gaze landed on Aria—and immediately, a deep frown creased his brow.
"Why are you crying?"
His voice carried a rare edge of concern—so subtle he didn't even realize it himself. In that moment of worry, he completely forgot she wouldn't understand his language.
Aria looked up, eyes wide, fresh tears glistening as they slid down her cheeks. Her lips parted slightly in disbelief.
He didn't leave.
She took an impulsive step toward him—only to hesitate and retreat a step back.
"Kewie Hon Lan?" (Where were you?)
She wiped her tears with trembling fingers, her voice soft and uncertain.
Rayan shook his head in response, trying to indicate he didn't understand. Still, something in her tone struck him. Was it... accusation? Worry?
Had she cried because of him?
That strange tightness returned to his chest.
"I went outside," he said gently, gesturing toward the door. He had only meant to assess the terrain—see where they were.
Aria's shoulders loosened slightly at his tone, her breath exhaling in silent relief. Without another word, she turned and walked back into her room. The click of the lock was followed by silence.
Then came the soft sound of sobs.
Rayan's jaw clenched. He took a step after her—then stopped short at her door. No. It wouldn't be proper to knock on a lady's door for no pressing reason.
He hovered there for a moment, indecisive, then sighed deeply.
There had to be another way.
Inside the room, Aria stood frozen. She paced toward the door, reaching for the latch—only to lower her hand again.
She wanted to see him. But she was too afraid.
Just then, a knock echoed through the small space.
Aria jumped.
She backed away instinctively, heart thudding in her chest. Her wide eyes darted around the room, as though finding a place to hide.
Outside, Rayan stood with his lips pressed into a line, staring at the still-closed door.
He could force it open easily.
If it were anyone else, he would've.
But that was the strange part—if it were anyone else, he wouldn't even be knocking. He'd never had to consider gentleness, or decorum, around hardened soldiers.
But this wasn't a battlefield. And she wasn't a soldier.
He exhaled slowly and knocked again.
Inside, Aria bit her lip, glancing at the door. She knew she couldn't hide forever. They shared the same hut, after all.
With hesitant fingers, she unlatched the door and pulled it open.
Rayan exhaled in quiet relief at the sound.
When the door swung open, he lowered his eyes slightly and held out a plate of food.
Aria blinked at it, confused.
Rayan waited for her to take it, but when she didn't move, he looked up. Her red, swollen eyes struck him harder than he expected.
"This is for you," he said softly, nudging the plate forward.
Yesterday, she had cared for him and cooked. Today, feeling stronger, he had ventured out, caught a pheasant, and prepared a meal—for her.
But Aria averted her gaze and shook her head. "Na Wuya…" (No eat.)
He recognized the word "Wuya"—eat—and her refusal puzzled him.
Why won't she eat?
His frown deepened, and Aria mistook it as displeasure. His aloof expression already intimidated her, and now she feared she had somehow offended him.
"Na Howerie," she added quickly. (No animal.)
She stepped past him toward the stove, gesturing to the vegetables arranged neatly beside it. Picking one up, she held it out to him.
"Li… Wuya." (I... eat.)
Her tone was slow and careful, hopeful that he might understand.
Rayan stared at the vegetable, then at her.
"You don't eat animals or birds," he muttered, not needing a reply.
Suddenly, it made sense—her refusal as well as her fragile frame.
No wonder.
Without a word, he walked over and picked up the basket of vegetables. But as he reached for a knife, Aria quickly raised a hand in alarm.
He stopped immediately, eyes flicking to her hand.
Realizing she had startled him, Aria quickly pulled back.
Rayan cleared his throat and handed the basket to her instead. She accepted it silently, careful not to touch his hand, and grabbed another knife.
She would cook her own food.
He didn't argue. Instead, he stepped aside and observed. He had never prepared vegetable soup—only meat—but last night's warm meal had stayed in his memory.
Might as well learn from her.
As he sat with his plate of cooked pheasant, his expression turned blank.
Why had he gone through the trouble of preparing the bird?
Why did it bother him that she wouldn't eat it?
Across the room, Aria looked up and noticed his untouched plate. Her eyes brightened slightly.
Was he… waiting for her?
Rayan pulled a wooden chair back and motioned for her to join him. She hesitated, then nodded, a soft smile touching her lips.
They sat together and began to eat in silence.
Yet, it was a comforting silence—gentle and peaceful.
For Aria, it felt almost unreal. After her grandmother's passing, she had expected nothing but loneliness. But now, there was warmth.