[Roran's POV]
Peace is a very fragile thing. It is like a well-aged bottle of wine; it takes years to settle, but only one clumsy, black-haired brat to shatter it into a thousand jagged pieces.
It had been nearly two weeks. Two weeks of the same routine. Every single morning, before the sun had even managed to burn the mist off the village paths, I would hear it. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of boots hitting the dirt outside my shack.
I would be sitting there, minding my own business, nursing a headache that felt like a tiny blacksmith was using my skull as an anvil, and there he would be.
Leo.
The "narcissistic handsome demon lord," as the kids called him.
He would lean against my fence with that punchable, confident grin of his, looking like he had just stepped out of a noble's ballroom instead of a dusty orphanage.
"Good morning, Roran!" he would say, his voice far too bright for the hour. "Beautiful day for some training, don't you think?"
