The sudden revelation hit Love like a cold splash of water, instantly piecing together the noblewoman's strange behavior outside the treehouse. The thorough inspection of her wrist, the unbuckling of her leather vambraces, the relief that had briefly softened the craftswoman's eyes—it hadn't been a search for hidden weapons or dark magic.
It had been a search for the unmistakable mark of corruption, the darkening of the skin that signaled a transformation into something the enchanted domain cast out without mercy.
Love stood frozen, her fingers tightening around the newly wrapped grip of her spear. The realization echoed in her mind: Willow hadn't simply run away or chosen the wilderness—she had been exiled by her own blood to protect her from a domain that would have hunted her down.
Although hearing this finally brought something to light, her paranoia also stirred a storm of questions in her mind. She wondered why the noblewoman had assumed Love knew nothing of dark elves, why she wasn't asking who Love truly was, and why she showed no curiosity about Love's presence in the enchanted domain or her purpose for being there.
These unanswered questions pressed heavily against her thoughts, yet she tried to soothe herself by reasoning that perhaps this was how trust manifested—through silence and acceptance rather than interrogation. Still, she refused to let complacency take root.
Love carefully balanced her unease, refusing to let paranoia drive her into rash decisions, but equally unwilling to silence it completely. Instead, she managed it with deliberate caution, extending trust to the noblewoman while keeping her instincts sharp. The enchanted domain itself seemed to hum with secrets, its shadows whispering possibilities of betrayal or alliance, and Love knew that vigilance was her only safeguard. She reminded herself that trust was a fragile bridge, one that could collapse at any moment, and so she walked it with measured steps, prepared for the ground to shift beneath her.
For now, however, Love set her doubts aside. She offered a few gentle words of consolation to the noblewoman, sincerely thanked her for transforming her crude spear into such an extraordinary, lethal work of art, and finally brought up her most immediate need:
"I'm looking for an inn or a place to spend the night. Do you know anywhere I can stay for just a few coins?"
Hearing this, the noblewoman's forlorn, grief-stricken expression vanished without a trace. Her demeanor shifted instantly, her gaze locking onto Love with an intense, penetrating scrutiny that caught the girl completely off guard.
Love felt a cold spike of alarm, but she forced her breathing to stay even, maintaining a calm, unbothered exterior under the woman's piercing eyes.
After a long, heavy pause, the noblewoman finally spoke:
"Yes, I know a place where you could spend the night for a few coins. However..."
She gestured vaguely toward the surrounding racks of unfinished weapons and raw materials.
"...it seems my workshop happens to have an opening for an assistant. What would you say to a free room right here in exchange for helping me around the shop for a while?"
The noblewoman couldn't see how Love's face had instantly brightened at the offer—a momentary flicker of sheer relief. But just as quickly, her expression withered like a dying flower. The proposal was simply too good to be true, and in Love's world, things that sounded too good were usually lethal traps.
Determined to pierce the fog, establish a hard boundary, and force this enigmatic artisan to lay her cards on the table, Love looked her dead in the eye and spoke with chilling bluntness:
"I would really like to stay here. But I don't really know much about you, and you don't really know much about me. I'm afraid vague trust isn't going to cut it going forward.
You need to give me a reason—a real one—why I shouldn't just slit your throat in your sleep and take this entire workshop for myself. You need to tell me why you won't murder me in my sleep and strip my corpse of whatever value you think I brought into your home.
And most importantly... why do you even trust me? For all you know, every single word I just told you was a lie."
The heavy silence returned to the workshop, thick enough to draw a blade through. Love didn't flinch, her fingers resting lightly against the leather wrap of her newly forged spear. She had hurled the raw, ugly truth of their mutual vulnerability into the open—now it was up to the noblewoman to prove if she was a savior, a fool, or a predator.
A thin, dry smile touched the noblewoman's lips, smooth and unbothered by the sharp edge of Love's threat.
"Spoken like a true hunter," she said softly. "However, contrary to what you might think... I know you."
Love's gaze intensified beneath the folds of the headwear obscuring her face, her eyes practically boring into the linen as her mind raced to tear the statement apart. She knows me?
How? Had the woman been stalking her through the dense, unforgiving woods, tracking her every footstep without leaving a single trace? If so, when had she picked up the trail? Or was she some kind of cryptic oracle—a seer playing the role of a humble craftswoman?
Love instantly discarded the seer theory. An oracle couldn't fake the thick, hardened callouses that lined the woman's palms, nor could magic mimic the fluid, lifelong muscle memory she had displayed while hammering, drilling, and re-shaping the saber fangs.
The craftswoman was undeniably an artisan of supreme skill. And while the elven noble had demonstrated an uncanny ability to slip past Love's senses—appearing at her blind side as if stepping out of thin air—Love found it hard to believe anyone could have stalked her continuously from the moment she crossed into this realm, or even since she had breached the borders of the enchanted domain.
So what, in the name of the gods, did she mean?
Love's jaw tightened beneath her headwear as she pressed for an answer. "How do you know who I am?"
The noblewoman locked eyes with Love. It wasn't an eerie or predatory stare, but a sharp, steady look meant to convey absolute, unshakeable confidence in her own judgment.
"By your actions," the artisan began smoothly. "You are predictable, and so far, every prediction I have made concerning you has been spot on."
She held up a finger, counting off her points with cool, clinical precision.
"First, you are who you say you are—Willow's friend. You are not deceptive or slanderous, nor are you a thief or a coward. You are exactly what you appear to be: a hunter."
She raised a second finger. "Second, I know without a doubt that your purpose for coming into this kingdom is not to murder me. You don't even know me.
True, acquiring my wealth might be a tempting factor that could prompt a lesser soul to kill, but I know you won't. Because you are a hunter. A hunter only kills to satisfy their immediate need, and remains content with what they have earned. A thief, however, is endlessly searching for what they cannot have. Based on my assessment, you lack the soul of a thief."
A third finger rose. "Third, I don't need to trust you. I simply need to understand you. Once I understand how you operate, I know precisely what you will do next. So, young woman, I know who you are. And as you have just heard, that is all I need to know."