CHAPTER 45: ZOEY IN LOVE

"Hey little brat! How about showing a little more concentration here!"

The gruff voice cut through the rhythmic clanging of metal on metal, causing me to pause mid-swing. I turned my head toward old Henrik, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. The forge’s heat made the air shimmer, and the acrid smell of burning coal mixed with heated iron filled my nostrils.

Henrik stood hunched over his own anvil, his weathered hands still surprisingly steady as he worked. The village’s only blacksmith had seen better days—his once-broad shoulders now curved with age, and deep lines etched his face like the grain in old oak. Yet his eyes still burned with the same fierce intensity I’d known since childhood, and his voice could still boom across the workshop loud enough to wake the dead.

"I am concentrating, old man," I replied, lifting the hammer once more and bringing it down with a resounding clang against the red-hot blade. Sparks scattered across the anvil like tiny falling stars. "But how much longer until my spear is finished?"

I gestured toward the corner where two long, slim rods rested against the stone wall. The spearhead gleamed even in the dim light of the forge, its edges already honed to razor sharpness. Henrik had been working on the intricate engravings along the blade’s fuller for weeks now.

It had taken months of persistence to convince him to help me craft this weapon. When I’d first approached him with the request, he’d scoffed and waved me away like a bothersome fly.

"A spear? What does a boy need with a spear?" He’d grumbled, not looking up from the horseshoe he was shaping. "Planning to hunt rabbits with it?"

But I’d worn him down gradually and he was too fond of me to refuse me anything to be honest. I’d explained that I needed a weapon that would last, something I could rely on when the time came to fight. Though I hadn’t told him exactly what I expected to fight.

"Do you want a good spear or not?!" Henrik barked now, his hammer never ceasing its steady rhythm against the metal.

"Of course I want a good spear!" I shot back, punctuating my words with another powerful blow that sent vibrations up my arm.

We worked in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the ringing of hammers and the wheeze of the bellows. The morning had slipped away unnoticed, and now the afternoon sun slanted through the workshop’s single window, casting long shadows across the cluttered space. Tools hung from every available surface—tongs, chisels, files, and hammers of every size and weight imaginable.

After several more strikes, I felt my muscles beginning to protest. I’d been at this since dawn, and even my enhanced stamina had its limits. With a tired sigh, I set down the hammer and stepped back from the anvil.

"That should do it for today," I said, rolling my shoulders to work out the knots.

Despite being shirtless, sweat covered my torso in a fine sheen. The heat from the forge was relentless, turning the workshop into a furnace that would have been unbearable for most people. I’d grown accustomed to it over the months of training here, but it still left me feeling drained by day’s end.

I reached for the clay pitcher Henrik kept on a shelf near the door and poured myself a generous cup of water. The liquid was blessedly cool as it ran down my parched throat. While I drank, I watched the old blacksmith continue his work, seemingly oblivious to the heat and his own fatigue.

"You should take a rest before you collapse," I said, setting down the empty cup. "You’re too old to be pushing yourself this hard."

Henrik’s hammer paused mid-strike, and he turned to glare at me with eyes that still held plenty of fire. "Watch your mouth, little brat! I’ve got at least ten more years of good work left in these old bones!"

I couldn’t help but smile at his indignation. "Of course you do," I said placatingly. "But don’t forget to drink that potion I left for you this morning."

Over the past few years, I’d been experimenting with brewing stamina restoration potions similar to Isabella’s healing concoctions. The process was delicate—too little moonflower essence and the potion would be useless, too much and it could make someone violently ill. But I’d finally perfected a formula that could ease exhaustion and restore vitality for several hours.

Henrik had been skeptical at first, muttering about "newfangled magical nonsense," but he couldn’t argue with the results. The potions allowed him to work longer without the bone-deep weariness that had been plaguing him for years.

"I appreciate what you’re doing for me, boy," Henrik said quietly, his expression softening slightly. It was one of the rare moments when his gruff exterior slipped, revealing the genuine affection beneath. "Not many young folks would bother with an old codger like me."

"Someone has to make sure you don’t work yourself to death," I replied. "Besides, who else in this village knows how to forge a proper weapon?"

Henrik’s weathered face creased into what might have been a smile. "Now get out of my workshop, Harold. I’ve got real work to do."

"Not like I want to spend the entire day listening to you complain anyway," I snorted, grabbing my shirt from where I’d draped it over a stool and slinging it over my shoulder.

As I stepped outside, the afternoon sunlight hit me like a physical blow. I raised my hand to shield my eyes, squinting against the brightness. After hours in the dim forge, everything seemed blindingly white and gold. The contrast made my head pound slightly.

"As if I wasn’t sweating enough already," I muttered, feeling fresh perspiration break out across my skin.

The village square buzzed with its usual afternoon activity. Merchants hawked their wares from colorful stalls, children ran between the adults’ legs chasing a leather ball, and the aroma of fresh bread drifted from the baker’s shop. I really needed to find somewhere to wash off the grime and sweat before—

"Harold."

I turned to see a familiar figure standing in the shade of a nearby oak tree, her red hair catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves.

Zoey had grown considerably since she and Riley first arrived in Millbrook as frightened refugees. At thirteen, she was blossoming into a young woman. Her integration into village life had been remarkable—largely thanks to Lisa’s patient guidance and protective instincts.

In her hands, she held a fresh towel, the fabric clean and neatly folded.

"Were you waiting for me?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. This had become something of a routine over the past few weeks—Zoey would appear with a towel just as I finished my work at the forge, as if she’d been timing my sessions.

She stepped forward and offered me the towel without quite meeting my eyes. "Shouldn’t I have?" She asked, crossing her arms defensively. I noticed the slight flush that colored her cheeks and the way she deliberately kept her gaze focused somewhere over my left shoulder rather than on my bare chest.

I accepted the towel gratefully and began wiping away the sweat and soot. The fabric was soft against my skin, still warm from hanging in the sun to dry. "I appreciate it," I said. "Though you don’t need to—"

"Kyaa!"

"It’s Harold!"

"He looks so handsome as always!"

"I wish he’d notice me!"

The chorus of excited female voices interrupted my words. I glanced around to see a small cluster of village girls gathered near the fountain, all pretending to be busy with various tasks while stealing glances in my direction. Some were fetching water, others appeared to be mending clothing, but their attention was clearly elsewhere.

This sort of thing had been happening more frequently as I’d grown older. At fifteen, I was considered a man by village standards, and my combination of magical healing abilities, physical prowess, and—if I was being honest—uncommonly good looks had made me something of a local celebrity.

"You should put your shirt on," Zoey muttered, a bit upset as she watched the other girls whisper and giggle among themselves.

I draped the towel around my neck and studied her face. There was definitely jealousy there, mixed with something else I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to identify. "You know, if Riley saw you here with me like this, he’d probably have some strong opinions about it."

Riley had become increasingly protective of his younger sister as she’d grown older, much to Zoey’s obvious frustration.

"I’m old enough to make my own decisions," Zoey replied. "I’m not a little girl anymore."

I looked at her face. She was right, of course—thirteen might seem young by modern standards and mine, but in a medieval world like this, many girls her age were already considered marriageable.

"And what decisions are you making, Zoey?" I asked quietly, my voice pitched low enough that the gossiping girls by the fountain couldn’t overhear.

Zoey’s blush deepened to a shade that nearly matched her hair, and she fidgeted with the hem of her dress.

"I..." She began, then stopped, biting her lower lip. "I want to be able to choose who I spend time with. I want to be able to help people I care about without my brother treating me like I’m made of spun glass."

There was more she wasn’t saying—I could see it in the way she avoided my direct gaze, the way her fingers twisted nervously in her skirt. But pushing her to elaborate would only make her retreat further into herself.

Without thinking, I reached out and gently cupped Zoey’s cheek with my palm. Her skin was soft and warm beneath my touch, still carrying the flush of her embarrassment. She really was growing into a remarkable young woman—her red hair caught the afternoon light like burnished copper, and the spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks only added to her natural beauty. In a few years, she would undoubtedly turn heads wherever she went.

Zoey’s breath caught at the unexpected contact, her caramel brown eyes widening before fluttering closed for just a moment. When she opened them again, there was something vulnerable and hopeful in her gaze. Her small hand came up to cover mine, pressing it more firmly against her cheek.

"H...Harold, I want—"

"Hey! What do you two think you’re doing?!"

Riley’s sharp voice cut through the moment. Both Zoey and I turned and I lowered my hand slowly. Riley stood a few paces away, his face flushed with anger and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His protective instincts were clearly in full force.

"What is it, big brother?" Zoey asked, her tone shifting to one of annoyed defiance. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin, every line of her body language broadcasting her irritation at the interruption.

"I’ve told you before to stop... doing things like that with Harold," Riley said, his voice strained with barely controlled emotion. "He already has a girlfriend, you know!"

He was referring to Lisa, of course—my relationship with her wasn’t exactly official, but it wasn’t a secret either. We’d grown close over the months I’d been learning from her, sharing stolen moments and meaningful glances that the entire village had noticed.

"So what?" Zoey replied with a casual shrug that clearly infuriated her brother further. Her nonchalant attitude toward the situation spoke volumes about both her feelings and her understanding of the world we lived in.

Several other village girls had expressed similar sentiments over the past few months. Whether they believed they could compete for my attention or simply didn’t care about sharing, I wasn’t entirely sure. What I did know was that this world operated under very different social rules than the one I’d come from.

In my previous life on Earth, romantic relationships had been strictly monogamous affairs—at least officially. I’d had to carefully manage a series of relationships, moving from one woman to another as opportunities for advancement presented themselves. It had been a calculated dance of manipulation and ambition, leaving a trail of broken hearts in my wake. Not my finest moments, but necessary for climbing the corporate ladder.

Here, however, the social structures were far more flexible. Polygamy wasn’t just accepted among those with status and means—it was expected. A man who could provide for and protect multiple women was seen as successful and virile. The arrangement offered security to the women and strengthened family alliances. It was a practical system that acknowledged the realities of a harsh world where survival often trumped romantic idealism.

Riley stared at his sister in stunned silence, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "S...so... you can’t just..." He stammered, clearly struggling to find words that would penetrate her determined indifference.

"You’re being too controlling, big brother," Zoey said with a pout, though there was genuine hurt beneath her playful tone. She stepped closer to me and, before I could react, plucked the towel from my hands. To my surprise, she buried her face in the soft fabric and inhaled deeply, her cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red as she breathed in my scent.

The gesture was both innocent and boldly intimate, causing several of the watching village girls to gasp audibly. Zoey seemed oblivious to—or perhaps uncaring about—the scandalous nature of her behavior.

"Zoey," I said quietly, though I made no move to stop her.

She looked up at me with bright, defiant eyes, then spun around in a swirl of skirts and darted away across the square, clutching the towel to her chest like a treasured prize. Her laughter floated back on the afternoon breeze.

Riley and I stood in awkward silence, watching her retreat. The poor young man looked completely overwhelmed by his sister’s behavior, running a hand through his red hair in frustration.

"I don’t know what to do with her anymore," he muttered, his anger deflating into weary concern. "She never used to be so... bold."

"She’s growing up," I said simply.

"But that’s too quick!"

"You should be happy about it," I said walking off to home to take a shower.

"H..Hey, don’t tell me you want my sister as well?" Riley asked me.

I smirked glancing at him. "Not yet."

She was too young for my tastes but maybe in a few years if she still had feeling for me.