Those were the nights when a poor boy and a forgotten girl dreamed aloud of the new lives they’d live far across the sea. Of good kings and gods’ magic. Tales where they were not hunted, where they were not afraid. The sort of tales where heroes never died, and pain did not exist. Those were nights when the girl told the boy he was valiant and steady like a raven, and he said she looked as pretty as a rose. The boy whittled them, a raven and rose, then tied the raven to her neck, the rose to his, and told her he’d always keep her secrets. Always.
