Morning was already well settled when Emma stirred beside him. Victor opened his eyes, still half-draped in a warm haze, and saw her stretching, hair tangled, eyelids still heavy. They'd fallen back asleep after dawn, without a word, just a few murmurs against bare skin, muffled laughter, kisses that lingered.
She rolled onto her side, reached for her trousers on the floor and pulled them on in one smooth motion, back turned. Her shirt—far too big for her, probably one of Robin's old ones—slipped off one shoulder for a second. Then she straightened, ran a hand through her hair in a vague attempt to tame it. He watched her without moving, still lying down, the sheet folded low around his hips.
A knock at the door made them both freeze.
They exchanged a glance—silent, almost amused. Emma raised an eyebrow and began rubbing her face as if trying to erase the last traces of sleep.
Victor stood and pulled on his shirt quickly, not bothering to button it all the way. He opened the door.
Adam stood on the threshold, arms crossed, clearly up for a while already. He took in the scene at a glance—Victor already there, shirt half-buttoned, Emma just behind, dressed but tousled, cheeks still pink. He raised his eyebrows and let out a small laugh.
"Didn't see you at the usual spot, so I figured I'd check if everything was alright. Seems like it is. Very alright, in fact," he said, putting a little weight on the "very."
Victor didn't flinch. No point in pretending. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed now too, a faint smile at the corner of his lips.
"You know us. We like to keep people waiting."
"Is that right? You weren't this cheeky yesterday," Adam snorted. "But I suppose that comes with the undone buttons and the bedhead."
Emma stepped up beside him, tying her belt around her waist. She greeted Adam with perfect calm.
"Good morning."
Adam raised his hands in mock apology, then turned back to Victor, who was already speaking again.
"We were just about to come find you," Victor lied. "If your offer still stands, we'd like to meet the troupe."
Adam's face lit up with a grin.
"Knew you would. I'll be just up ahead. Don't drag your feet—ten minutes and I'm off without you."
He winked and walked away at an easy pace, almost whistling.
When Victor closed the door, a laugh rose in his throat. Emma came closer, her gaze lifted to his, amused.
"So it's official now?" she whispered.
"Seems like it."
She pulled him to her, their foreheads touched for a second. They kissed—quickly, gently. Not out of need, this time. Like an agreement.
Then they dressed without rushing, but with purpose. When they finally stepped outside, the sun was already washing over the rooftops of Dunleigh. Adam stood waiting a little further on, arms folded, a smirk on his face like someone who'd just won a bet.
And the three of them set off toward the camp.
The camp wasn't large. It looked like it had grown there like a stubborn bramble—tough, rooted deep, built to last. Stretched canvas, oilcloth packs, figures moving slowly around a fire. Adam walked with a spring in his step, hands in his pockets like he was coming home. Victor and Emma followed in silence.
"Stick close," Adam murmured when he spotted a man near the fire. "He's not mean. Just... rough around the edges."
The man looked up as they approached. He was sitting on a stump, steam rising from a bowl in his hands, as though he'd never left this spot. In his fifties, with a greying beard cut like a hatchet edge, a worn leather jacket, and the kind of stare you knew had seen more corpses than sunsets.
Adam stopped, arms spread.
"Aldous. This is Emma, and Victor."
Aldous didn't answer. He set his bowl down slowly, stood, and studied them both. First Emma—simple clothes, knife well strapped, chin lifted. Then Victor—the shirt a bit too clean, his posture straight despite the tension under his collarbones.
"What do you want?" he asked bluntly.
Adam scratched the back of his neck.
"They're looking to join us. You said we needed extra hands yesterday—I thought of them."
Silence stretched. In the distance, the fire crackled. The sound of a blade being sharpened, hooves against earth. Aldous finally locked eyes with Emma.
"You. What can you do?"
She didn't hesitate.
"Hunt. Fish. Set traps. Stitch and mend. Keep a camp. I don't fear cold or mud."
A slight frown. No mockery, no admiration either. He turned to Victor.
"And you?"
Victor met his gaze without raising his voice.
"I can read. Write. Keep accounts, work with maps. I've no trade, but I learn quickly. I'm good with my hands. And I know when to keep quiet."
Aldous tilted his head slightly, caught sight of the signet ring.
"You're one of the little nobles, aren't you?"
His tone was dry, but not hostile. Just sharp enough to sting.
Victor didn't have time to reply. The wind caught a lock of his dark hair.
"So what?" said a voice behind them.
A man had arrived, wearing a pale coat, boots muddy, fair hair cut short. Maybe thirty-five, green eyes, a crooked smile.
"He's not the only one born on the other side of the fence," he went on, stepping forward slowly. "Doesn't mean he's useless. Or if that's what you think—well, I might take offence."
Aldous raised an eyebrow without turning to him.
"You'd already fought a war, Edric. That's different."
The man stopped short, arms folded.
"Maybe. But I'm not sure dried blood on your boots is a proper measure of worth."
He glanced at Victor, then at Aldous.
"And someone's got to give them a shot, right? You did say we needed hands."
Aldous grunted. His gaze swept over Emma once more, then lingered on Victor.
Then he jerked his chin toward an empty tent a little off to the side.
"One week. You help. You don't get in the way. You keep your mouths shut. If by the end it doesn't work, we leave you on the road. Clear?"
Emma nodded. Victor too, unfazed.
Aldous grabbed his bowl and sat down again without another word.
The blond man stepped closer, then stopped in front of Victor and held out a hand.
"Edric."
Victor shook it, noting the firmness of the grip, the steady, clear look in his eyes. He gave off something hard to define—a mix of quiet confidence and a weariness that fit him well.
Edric turned to Emma and, without exaggeration, dipped his head slightly—a leftover gesture from old manners, softened by a crooked smile.
"Miss."
He didn't say more, but his eyes scanned them briefly, already sizing them up.
Then, as he passed Adam, he clapped him on the shoulder and kept walking, hands clasped behind his back.
Adam looked at them with a satisfied air.
"Well... that went rather well."
Emma gave a short huff through her nose. Victor nodded, his gaze still fixed on the fire.