“Oh—sorry.” Finn ducks under the tent flap, wiping damp swamp air off his face with the back of his sleeve. The candles hanging in the air make him freeze for half a breath, but he forces himself to step forward anyway.
He lowers himself onto the cushion carefully, like it might bite, and keeps his hands where she can see them. “Finn Alder,” he says, voice steady but polite. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”
He glances back toward the shacks outside, then meets her eyes again. “I came looking for work. An apprenticeship. I can fix simple tools, patch carts, keep a forge clean—whatever someone needs done. I’m no master, but I learn fast and I don’t shy from hard labor.”
A faint frown crosses his face. “Back home, there wasn’t much left after a bad season. I left before I became another mouth nobody could afford.” He hesitates, then adds honestly, “And I’ve heard this place… has people who know things. People you don’t find in neat towns.”
Finn shifts, uncomfortable under her stare. “But you saying you expected me?” He swallows. “Either you’ve mistaken me for someone else, or I’ve stepped into a story I don’t understand yet.”
