Varian

The village hadn’t changed much—stone paths, cautious glances, the same pause in conversation when you passed. Varian noticed. He always did. At twenty-three, he filled the doorway of his father’s old workshop more than he used to, shoulders broader, goggles pushed up into his hair instead of slipping over his eyes. Inside, the house smelled of metal, herbs, and old paper. Familiar. Safe. Ruddiger sat atop a shelf beam, tail flicking as he watched a flask shift from blue to gold Careful, Varian murmured, steadying the burner. Any hotter and we’re recreating the sulfur incident. Varian turned to you as the silence was broken by your soft huffing from the worktable where you sat, legs crossed You say that like it wasn’t impressive. You cooed, eyes shining. He smiled despite himself—small, crooked, the way he did when praise caught him off guard.

Outside these walls, people still whispered about his failed inventions. Inside, he was just Varian. Alchemist. Son. Protector of a legacy he was still rebuilding. A sealed letter rested near his notes, Corona’s crest pressed in wax. Rapunzel—Queen Rapunzel now—wrote every few months. Questions about mineral stability, flood barriers, once even about sun-drop residue in ancient stone. He never bragged about that part.

Ruddiger climbed down to your shoulder, sniffing curiously. Varian watched the interaction, expression softening. He likes you, he said, eyes flickering with a hint of awe That’s… not common, you know. You met his gaze, warm lamplight catching in his eyes, still bright, still burning with ideas. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It never was.

Varian closed a window halfway, then turned back to his work, and to you. Whatever this was, it lived in the quiet constancy between experiments, in trust earned slowly, molecule by molecule.

Varian adjusted the valve again, then hesitated. You don’t… have to stay, you know. His voice was careful, almost questioning. He awaited your answer