Dear readers,

A huge thank you to everyone following this story! Your support truly means a lot to me. If you're enjoying what you read, please don't hesitate to leave a comment—even just a few words! It always warms my heart and encourages me immensely.

I also want to thank grantcourtney for their comment. I sincerely hope my private message wasn't misunderstood. I receive a lot of offers from artists (more than fifteen at this point), and my questions were genuine. I must admit that I'm a bit tired of receiving messages only about this, but that doesn't change the fact that I truly appreciate every piece of feedback on my work.

With that said, I hope you enjoy this chapter and have a great time reading!

CHAPTER 7 : LEO

The minutes became hours, and the hours became days for Leo.

Time stretched, heavy and intangible, trapping Leo in a strange routine, suspended between dream and reality. Lost in this village with an air of another age, he could only thank the grace of heaven for crossing paths with Bard. This man, with a raw and sincere kindness, had taken him under his wing without asking any questions. He had given him shelter, food, clothing, and offered him a semblance of stability in this unfamiliar world.

Exchanging his worn jeans and cozy sweater for rough woolen pants and a laced shirt had been a trial at first. In the beginning, the coarse fabric irritated his skin, and the feeling of being dressed as if he were a character in a medieval film never left him. Every morning, as he tied the collar's laces, he would absentmindedly search for a non-existent zipper. However, the habit eventually won him over, and the foreign fabric became a second skin. He had firmly refused, however, to trade his sneakers for the boots Bard offered. Even though they appeared to be in better condition than the tattered ones worn by the other villagers, they could not compare to the comfort and reassuring flexibility of his modern shoes.

One evening, as he rummaged through the pockets of his abandoned jeans, his fingers brushed against a small, smooth, cold surface. His heart skipped a beat. He slowly pulled the object from its hiding place and felt a lump form in his throat. It was the necklace Arthur had given him: a delicate green stone attached to a thin black cord. Finding it there, against all odds, was a shock. He froze for a moment, the stone trapped in his trembling palms, overwhelmed by a flood of conflicting emotions. The pain, at first, a cold dagger plunged deep into his heart, a brutal reminder of everything he had lost. Then, slowly, a comforting warmth crept into his chest. A surge of hope. He placed the necklace around his neck, slipping it under his shirt, against his skin. From now on, he would never take it off. This modest piece of jewelry was his last tangible link to his former life, a talisman against oblivion, an anchor to prevent him from sinking.

Despite the passing days, the lake remained silent. No trace of Marie. No trace of Emma. The merciless water refused to reveal its secrets. And what if they had been sent elsewhere? Leo clung to this thought like a lifeline. They were alive, somewhere. They had to be. He imagined Marie, nestled against her mother, her cheeks round and pink, her curious gaze scanning this new world. He silently prayed that, wherever they were, they were together. Because he wasn't there to watch over them. Because he had woken up alone.

As the days went by, Leo learned more about Bard. The man was a loving father, devoted to his three children: Tilda, Sigrid, and Bain. Every morning, he left at dawn and returned late in the evening, his back hunched with fatigue, his features marked by effort. He never complained. His wife, he had confided one evening, had died many years ago, taken by a swift illness. Leo had felt his stomach tighten. It was another cruel reminder that this world had nothing in common with the time he knew. Here, medicine existed only in the form of empirical remedies, and healers, when they were present, seemed more often powerless than helpful. The very idea of a hospital was an illusion, a concept absent from this reality.

It was also Bard who understood, long before Leo found the words, his vision problem. When the man realized how much trouble Leo had distinguishing details, how hard it was for him to navigate unfamiliar areas, he was taken aback. The Elves, he explained, had piercing, almost supernatural vision. They could see better than any human, both day and night. But Leo couldn't see anything without his glasses. He wasn't just a stranger in this world, he was an anomaly. An aberration. Bard made no cruel comments, showed no judgment, but Leo could sense, in his attentive silence, the perplexity and contained pity. Yet, the man never left him alone in his distress. He offered his help unconditionally, adapting to his pace, slowing down when they walked together outside. Even his children, in their benevolent innocence, had grown used to offering him their hand when they saw him hesitate, creating around him a cocoon of warmth and unexpected safety.

Perhaps that was why Leo wasn't completely surprised when Bard handed him, one evening, a long object wrapped in thick fabric.

"Here, take this."

Leo carefully unfolded the cloth and felt a shiver run down his spine. In his hands lay a finely carved wooden cane, a true masterpiece. He slid his fingers along the handle and, with the tips of his nails, discovered the delicate patterns that snaked across its surface. Floral interlacing, meticulously crafted, as if every curve had been shaped with patience and devotion. This was not just a simple stick; it was a gift, imbued with care, an object made for him, to lighten his burden.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice trembling.

Bard simply nodded, a faint smile on his lips. No words were necessary. Everything had already been said.

"You'll come with me tomorrow morning," he informed him. "I've found you a job."

The words took a moment to register in Leo's mind, their rough, melodic accent giving them an odd musicality. It still took him a few seconds to fully decipher what Bard was saying, as his ear had not yet quite adjusted to the intonations of this world. However, the information eventually sank in. A job.

Leo looked up, surprised. For a moment, his stomach tightened with apprehension. What could he possibly do here? In these timeless lands, his modern knowledge seemed utterly irrelevant. He didn't know how to plow the fields, hunt, or even sew properly. He wasn't a warrior, let alone a scholar. He had nothing to offer.

Bard must have sensed his hesitation. With the silent sharpness that was his trademark, he placed a firm hand on Leo's forearm. The warmth of his palm, the contained strength in that simple contact, had an immediate effect: Leo's unease eased slightly.

"You're good with your hands," Bard reassured him in a calm tone. "Don't think I haven't noticed everything you've repaired at my place. The carpenter needs an apprentice, and he thinks you could do good work."

Leo opened his mouth, then closed it again, caught off guard. He had never considered that possibility. Yet, deep in his chest, an unexpected warmth spread, soft and comforting.

He knew wood.

For a brief moment, he could smell the scent of freshly cut shavings, the resinous fragrance of pine clinging to his grandfather's clothes. He remembered the long afternoons spent in the family workshop, watching the man handle his tools with a fascinating ease. Leo recalled his large, weathered hands, the veins running along his arms as he planed a board with meticulous precision. At eight, he hadn't yet understood the art behind those movements, but he admired them. He admired the man who could give a soul to things, who transformed a simple piece of wood into furniture, a toy, a work of art.

But his grandfather had died too soon, taken by cancer before he could pass on his knowledge. That wisdom, which should have been passed down through generations, had frayed, leaving behind a void that no one had been able to fill.

Until now.

Leo swallowed, the emotion tightening in his throat. He didn't know what awaited him, nor if he was truly capable of taking on such a demanding role, but for the first time since his arrival in this strange world, he no longer felt entirely useless. He nodded slowly, clenching his fists to contain the wave of emotions flooding through him.

"Alright," he murmured finally. "I'll try."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of Bard's lips. He nodded, satisfied, then stood to add a log to the hearth. The flames crackled with a soft sigh, casting flickering shadows on the walls of the room.

"Rest," he said simply. "Tomorrow, the day will be long."

Leo stared for a moment at the dance of the flames, his mind already lost in distant memories. Yes, tomorrow would be a long day. But for the first time since waking in this unfamiliar world, he had a purpose. A direction. And perhaps, in the wood he would carve with his hands, he would find a part of what he had lost.

The night was short, filled with strange dreams and phantom faces that faded the moment he tried to hold onto them. He felt as if he had crossed paths with gazes, heard voices, but everything slipped away upon waking, like ink diluted in water. An opaque fog had settled over his nocturnal memories, leaving only a faint echo, a disquieting sense of familiarity. As if he should have known. As if these unknown faces had held immense importance, but his mind, cruel and unforgiving, refused to return them to him.

When he opened his eyes, a heavy weariness crushed him immediately. His body felt heavy, his head clouded, numb from lack of sleep. Yet, excitement eventually pierced through the fatigue, a shiver of anticipation shaking him. Today marked a turning point. Today, he would work.

With effort, he propped himself up, stretched deeply, then pulled on his laced shirt and thick woolen trousers. The thought of seeing the carpenter's workshop helped him shake off his grogginess. When he joined Bard in the main room, the breakfast table was already set.

Leo's gaze swept over the food laid out on the rough wood, and despite himself, a barely perceptible sigh escaped him. Here, in Lake-town, there were no vanilla Yops, no soft brioche covered in Nutella. No crispy croissants or warm pain au chocolat. The simple realization caused a pang in his heart. His chocolate-covered toast was sorely missed, more than he dared admit.

But when he spotted the glass of apple juice set before him, a warm feeling seeped into his chest. Bard hadn't needed to ask. He had noticed, with that silent attentiveness he was known for, that it was the only other drink Leo would willingly accept besides water. That small detail, insignificant to others, was enough to bring a smile to his lips.

"Thank you," he whispered, touched.

Bard gave him a simple nod, then began slicing some bread.

The breakfast, though simple, was hearty: bread, aged cheese, and some pieces of dried meat. The strong taste of the cheese surprised Leo on the first bite, sharper than anything he had eaten in his world, but he quickly grew accustomed to it. The meat, salted just right, sent a slight shiver through him as it melted on his tongue. It might not have been a king's feast, but it was nourishing, robust. And he knew he would need it.

For here, lunchtime was nothing like those indulgent breaks where one savored hot meals. Here, it was just a crust of bread, sometimes with a piece of cheese, and on good days, a glass of strong wine that warmed the chest more surely than a fireplace.

Leo took a deep breath and grabbed a slice of bread. The crust was rough under his fingers, marked with uneven ridges, and when he bit into it, a sharp crack resonated in the morning silence. The hearty taste of wheat and the slight bitterness of fermentation flooded his mouth, contrasting with the sweetness of the apple juice he quickly brought to his lips. The fruity acidity slid down his throat, waking his body numbed by the restless night.

He didn't know exactly what this day held in store, but one thing was certain: he was ready.

Bard, sitting across from him, ate in silence, his demeanor calm, as if this day were no different from any other. Yet for Leo, it was a milestone, another step towards this new life he hadn't chosen but had to tame. The carpenter's workshop. He couldn't quite imagine what it would look like. Would it resemble his grandfather's? Would the smells be the same, a heady mix of freshly cut wood, sawdust, and linseed oil?

A strange nervousness curled in his stomach, a blend of apprehension and excitement. He carefully set his glass down, searching for something to say, a way to mask the impatience growing inside him. But Bard was the first to break the silence.

"We'll leave as soon as you're ready," he said simply, wiping his hands on a linen towel.

Leo nodded and finished his meal quickly. Despite the simplicity of the meal, he felt a comforting warmth spread through him, as if these few bites were enough to anchor his body in reality, preparing him for the work ahead.

It wasn't long before they left, stepping out of the house just as the first light of dawn touched the horizon. The sky, still tinged with deep blue, gradually brightened, streaked with shades of pink and orange. The morning air carried that damp freshness typical of early days, a cold breath slipping under clothes and biting at the skin.

In these timeless lands, the sun dictated the rhythm of life. The rooster's crow marked the hour of awakening, and when the light waned, it was understood that everyone must return to their homes. Leo wasn't used to this. He found this relentless pace tiring, almost suffocating. In his world, the days never truly stopped. There were streetlamps to light the way, screens to chase away the darkness, flexible work hours. Here, everything seemed to revolve around a single objective: to survive the harshness of daily life.

At first, this way of life had seemed absurd, exhausting, as if any notion of pleasure, leisure, or even rest was a luxury no one could afford. But over time, he had understood. Without the modernity he knew, everything took longer. Every task required energy he had never had to exert before. There was no electricity, no engines, no sophisticated tools to ease the work. These long days weren't just practical; they were an absolute necessity.

The journey to the carpenter's shop was longer than he would have liked. The emerging dawn struggled to dispel the shadows, making his walk uncertain. He had learned to orient himself as best he could, but his handicap constantly reminded him that he was a foreigner in this world. His glasses, though essential, didn't always offer the clarity he needed to walk without fear.

The cane Bard had given him was an invaluable help. The polished wood felt pleasant under his fingers, and the regular contact of the tip against the ground provided reassuring stability. Each tap on the uneven cobblestones revealed the terrain's roughness before he could perceive it with his own eyes. Without it, he would have already stumbled more than once in the streets of Lake-town.

This last detail was important, because the town itself was a challenge. Built largely on water, its streets extended into rickety wooden walkways, swaying slightly under the weight of the passersby. The regular splash of the waves against the pilings echoed in his ears, accompanied by the soft creaking of the wood working under the dampness. Every step was a test of balance, a constant exercise to avoid swaying.

When they finally arrived in front of the carpentry shop, Leo felt his jaw slacken slightly. This was not at all what he had imagined.

He had expected a modest shop, perhaps a small workshop tucked between two buildings, where a solitary craftsman would carve furniture by the light of a candle. But before him stood a massive warehouse, a veritable production center in full swing. The smell of cut wood filled the air, mixed with the tang of resin and oil.

Outside, workers were already busy around freshly felled trunks, sawing them into thick planks with methodical regularity. The screeching of the blades biting into the bark blended with the deep voices calling back and forth amidst the bustle of work.

Inside, the workshop was divided into different sections. Some workers were focused on transforming the raw logs into straight planks, carefully planing them. Further on, others were shaping these planks into sturdy, functional furniture: massive tables, rustic benches, reinforced chests.

And at the very back of the workshop, almost apart from the general commotion, three men were bent over their work. They worked with infinite precision, armed with fine blades and delicate chisels, adding exquisitely detailed touches to the pieces they shaped. Their fingers danced with mesmerizing skill, carving floral patterns into the wood, sculpting arabesques and scenes of almost surreal beauty.

It was a world apart, a true beehive where each person had their role, their expertise, their place. An enterprise, almost a factory, with the only difference being that everything here was done by hand, with no reliance on modernity.

Leo swallowed.

This place represented a challenge, but also an opportunity. Here, he was no longer just a stranger lost in an unfamiliar world. He could learn, create, prove that he had a place.

Bard placed a firm hand on his shoulder and gave him a sidelong smile.

"Ready to get your hands dirty?"

Leo took a deep breath, then nodded.

"More than ever."

Following Bard into the vast building, Leo was immediately overwhelmed by the bustling energy that filled the space. His footsteps echoed in time with those of the workers, while the rhythmic pounding of tools and the screeching of blades on wood filled the air with a constant hum. He paused for a moment, startled by the sudden sharpness of his senses.

His hearing had always been keener than others', developed in compensation for his failing eyesight. But here, in this bustling warehouse, it seemed to reach a new level of sensitivity. He could distinguish every sound with unprecedented clarity: the focused breath of the artisans on their work, the rustling of shirt sleeves against the raw wood, the metallic clink of a hammer brushing against a chisel. Everything was amplified, tangled in an ordered cacophony that almost made him dizzy.

He took a deep breath to center himself, just before an older man approached them.

His appearance was marked by age, but far from betraying any weakness, it spoke of a life of hard work and experience. His salt-and-pepper hair, cut short, framed a weathered face, where two piercing blue eyes shone with a cold gleam. He exuded a natural authority, an austere presence that briefly unsettled Leo. Was this the carpenter who would become his master? Would he have to endure this severe, impassive presence every day?

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain calm. He would not back down. He never had. If he had to work with this man, he would adapt. For Bard. To not betray the trust he had been given.

But against all expectations, the man brightened with a wide smile upon recognizing his friend. His features softened, and a spark of genuine pleasure softened his gaze. Leo immediately felt foolish. How could he have doubted? Bard, with his unwavering kindness, would never have entrusted him to someone malicious.

Straightening up to appear more confident than he truly was, Leo respectfully inclined his head as the carpenter finally turned his attention to him.

"So, you must be the Leo this big fellow has told me so much about?" he asked in a warm, gravelly voice, filled with good-natured familiarity.

Leo blinked, caught off guard. Bard had spoken about him? He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what those conversations might have entailed. Should he be pleased or concerned? Had Bard praised his strengths or mentioned his weaknesses?

Bard sensed his doubts and intervened before he could respond.

"Only good things," he reassured him. "I've never met anyone like you. You don't give in to complacency, you don't shy away from the task, even if it's not been your lot so far. You're resilient. A man—or rather an Elf—with a heart that is just and noble."

The warmth of those words seeped deep into Leo, but he couldn't stop his cheeks from flushing slightly at the compliment. Embarrassed, he briefly looked away before turning his attention back to his future master.

"That's me," he agreed simply. "Nice to meet you."

Bard soon excused himself, returning to his own duties. Leo now understood that his friend carried many responsibilities on his shoulders. A seasoned boatman, he was in charge of transporting goods between the entrance to the Elven kingdom and the city. But beyond that, he also commanded a company of archers. His ancestor had been a Lord, and although Bard had inherited no title, he still bore a duty: to protect and defend the city.

Leo didn't envy him. His days were long, harsh, and demanding. He wondered how this man still found time to care for him, a lost stranger in a world that was not his.

His thoughts were interrupted by the carpenter's voice.

"Brandmir," he introduced himself, crossing his arms. "I built this business with my own hands, and I'm pleased to see how it thrives today."

There was an undisguised pride in his voice, the pride of a man who had worked tirelessly to build something lasting. Intelligent, methodical, even opportunistic, he seemed to be the type of person who left nothing to chance.

Leo followed him as he gave him a tour of the warehouses. The organization was flawless, almost military. He watched the workers with impressive rigor, their precise movements shaping the wood with a skill that commanded respect.

But beyond the technique, it was the scent that struck him the most. The fragrance of freshly cut pine, the hint of resin floating in the air, the faint memory of sawdust on his hands...

It brought him back years ago. To the days when he'd hang around his grandfather's workshop, awed by his creations, watching his weathered hands glide over the wood with an almost paternal tenderness.

A shadow passed over his face. Would he ever see his family again? Or was he doomed to remain here, in these lands of another age, far from everything he had always known?

"We've received a large order for the Master of the City's niece," Brandmir suddenly declared, pulling Leo from his thoughts. "The others are still occupied with their usual work, and I can't afford to pull them away. The furniture manufacturing is already behind schedule."

Leo felt his heart race.

"I need you to back me up and help me move forward. Do you think you're capable of doing that?"

Worry and excitement clashed within him. A part of him doubted. Was he up to the task? Did he still have the skills needed to be useful here?

A familiar voice echoed in his mind.

Emma. He saw her again, hands on her hips, shaking her head with that falsely stern look she would adopt when he hesitated too long. "Leo, you're far more capable than you think. You've always been. So stop doubting yourself." A fleeting smile brushed his lips.

He lifted his gaze to Brandmir and, in a firm voice, declared:

"I am."

A simple, satisfied glance was his reply, but Leo took no offense.

He was going to prove what he was capable of.