The morning of departure was brisk and biting.
A dry wind slipped between the tattered cloths hanging from the carts, tugging at hems, nipping at fingers and ears. The sky, low and pale, seemed to herald an early winter. All around, the troupe was busy with preparations, swaddled in slightly thicker garb than in previous days. The laughter of the feast already felt far away.
Adam was carefully rolling his blanket onto the back of one of the wagons, glancing now and then toward the edge of the village. The round-cheeked girl he'd disappeared with during the festivities stood waiting there, arms crossed. At last, he walked over to her.
"So," she sighed, "you the type to vanish without saying goodbye?"
"Not really my style," Adam replied with a grin. "But I'm not the type to lie, either. You know I'm not leaving to come back."
She shrugged, half amused, half stung. "Shame. You were good."
"So were you. That's why I'm saying goodbye."
He kissed her hand with a lightness that veiled a flicker of tenderness, then turned back toward the camp. She didn't call him back.
A little farther off, Victor was fastening the straps of his pack. He adjusted a buckle, tapped the hilt of his sword against his thigh. Emma appeared beside him, tightening the ties of her own bundle.
"Did you sleep well?"
He turned toward her, and his smile spread gently.
"Not much. But well."
She returned the smile in silence, their gazes quietly sharing the memory of the night before. Then she stepped away toward the cart of the two old seamstresses—her usual place during the march. Victor watched her go for a moment, heart still slightly unsteady.
Édric, meanwhile, was closing his satchel with a precise motion. His eyes swept over the camp, making sure nothing important was left behind. He cast a glance toward Adam, who was whistling, then toward Victor, who gave him a nod.
"Ready?" called Aldous.
"Ready," the troupe replied in one familiar, rumbling voice.
And the march resumed. Two weeks lay between them and Briarhold—a larger town, livelier, more practical for winter than the hamlets they'd passed through. As always, Adam and Aldous led the way, trading jokes. Édric brought up the rear, and Victor often walked beside him despite his lingering fatigue.
"You're limping less," Victor remarked after a long silence.
"Still pulls a bit. But I've known worse," Édric grunted.
"You planning to start up serious training again, then?"
Édric shot him a look that said everything. And indeed, the fencing sessions returned with renewed vigor. Édric, more mobile, more demanding. Victor, sweating, sometimes cursing, but improving. He was no longer the clumsy boy of a few months ago. He was hardening.
The landscape, too, was shifting. More hills. Broader roads. Wealthier farms. And then, one morning, Briarhold appeared—massive and misty on the horizon. Grey rooftops, chimneys, bell towers. They had arrived.
As always, they set up camp on the outskirts, near a towpath, between an abandoned mill and a line of crooked trees. The first fires were lit, the tents raised. Aldous sent everyone off to wash, make themselves known, and sort the workload.
Victor and Emma were sent to the market to barter the fabrics and trinkets made by the two old seamstresses. Adam quickly drew attention down at the port, where his strong arms and easy grin made him useful for loading cargo. Édric spent most of his time between the forge and keeping watch over the camp.
City life wasn't for him—but he tolerated it. It was necessary.
One morning, Victor joined him at the market. He wanted to buy a new pair of gloves. As they walked between the stalls, Victor suddenly stopped. A tin box filled with dull trinkets had caught his eye. He leaned down, rifled through it absentmindedly… and then his fingers froze.
He pulled out a signet ring.
Édric, who had stopped a few paces ahead, saw his face fall. He stepped closer.
"What is it?"
Victor looked up at him slowly, dazed, then held out the ring. Édric took it, turned it over in his fingers. It looked Victor's. Same lines, same engravings. But this one was dull, scratched, older.
"That's impossible," Victor murmured. "What the hell is it doing here?"
Édric studied him carefully. He understood. He could feel Victor's blood pounding faster.
"Could've come from anywhere," he said quietly. "Everything ends up in a junk stall eventually."
"But—"
"Listen."
He placed a firm hand on Victor's shoulder. Victor flinched, but didn't pull away. The gesture wasn't harsh. It was protective.
"If you want to look into it, you will. But not alone. You tell me. Or Adam. Promise?"
Victor hesitated. Then nodded.
Édric dug in his pocket, tossed two coins onto the stall, and pressed the ring into Victor's palm.
"Come on. We've still got things to do."
Victor closed his fist around the ring. His heart thundered. He didn't yet know what it meant. But he knew something had changed.
They left the market side by side.
The cold bit a little harder that day, and the light seemed a little greyer.