Victor had spoken with Emma and Adam the night before at camp. He hadn't needed to say much—Emma already knew. She'd suspected it for a while, never pressing. She promised to keep an eye out, to gather what she could by selling game and leather in town, where tongues loosened more easily in front of a discreet, skilled girl.
Adam had reacted differently. Without a big speech, he simply said, "I'm coming with you tomorrow." As if it were obvious. As if it needed to be two. And Victor, silently relieved, nodded.
That morning, they walked side by side through the streets of Briarhold. The town wasn't beautiful — winter had left its marks: blackened walls, cracked cobblestones split by frost, tired faces everywhere. But the snow was finally melting, and the air smelled less of ash.
Adam, hands in his pockets, was whistling softly. He glanced sideways at Victor.
"Can you believe it? We're matching now."
Victor raised an eyebrow.
"Matching?"
Adam pointed first to his own cheek, marked by a long scar still pink, then to Victor's eyepatch.
"Blade on the left, blade on the right. Honestly, with two cloaks and a ridiculous name, we could start a legend."
Victor exhaled through his nose, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"You'd have to grow your beard properly first."
"It's growing," Adam protested. "I'm working on it. There's a difference. You'll see, you'll be jealous."
"Looks more like it's hesitating."
Adam feigned outrage, but laughter shone in his eyes. They walked like that — one brushing past market stalls, the other alert, eyes sharp. The trial of the forest, the winter, the fights, the shared silences — something unbreakable had forged between them.
Eventually, they found the man. He lingered near a well, eyes flickering away, back slightly hunched. Sober this time. But when he saw them, he stepped back, hands raised instinctively, as if warding off a threat.
"I don't want trouble," he grumbled.
Victor stepped forward, calm.
"We're not here for that. You intrigued me yesterday. I want to understand."
The man glanced at Adam, then at the black patch covering Victor's face. He seemed to gauge the stature of the two young men, the tension in their controlled movements, the fact they neither fled nor sought confrontation.
"Maybe I was wrong," he muttered. "I'd been drinking. It was all confused."
Adam crossed his arms, planted himself beside the man. His shadow stretched over the cobblestones.
"And yet you recognized that crest without hesitation."
Victor slowly pulled the cord around his neck, letting the signet ring reappear briefly. The lion engraved in tarnished metal seemed to almost roar in the grey light.
The man's gaze caught on it despite himself. A dull fear flickered in his eyes.
"That's... dangerous. You don't know who it belonged to. Nor what it can attract."
"Precisely," said Victor. "I want to know."
A silence fell. The wind swept through the alley, rustling coat tails, stirring up a little dust.
"I can't talk here," the man finally said, voice low. "Not in the street. Not out in the open."
He looked around nervously.
"There are ears everywhere. And that name... that crest... it's like sleeping fire."
Adam looked at Victor, then nodded.
"Then tell us where."
The man hesitated. Then whispered a place — an alley behind the old spinning mill, where the walls were thick and the doors always closed.
Victor slipped the ring back under his shirt. His heart beat faster. The truth — or at least a piece of it — finally seemed to open before him.
---
The alley was narrow, wedged between two buildings with nailed-shut windows. Frost still clung, tinkling faintly along the cracked walls. No one passed through here without a good reason. It was perfect.
The man glanced around nervously several times before speaking, as if he feared even the silence was filled with ears.
He looked at Victor. Or rather... at his chest, where the emblem had briefly gleamed.
"Before I say anything," he muttered in a low, ragged voice, "tell me why you wear that."
Victor stared back, jaw tight. He said nothing.
A few seconds of silence stretched, then Adam stepped forward, just a bit ahead of him.
"That's none of your business."
His tone was calm— not hostile, but sharp. The man recoiled slightly, sensing it wasn't worth pushing.
He sighed.
"Fine. I'll tell you what I know... or what I've heard. But after that, you leave. Don't come looking for me again. Promise me."
Adam nodded once. Victor stood still, but his gaze never left the man's.
The man hesitated, then his voice sank to a whisper.
"It was almost twenty years ago. A rumor, at first. Whispers in taverns, between two pints, when the fire crackled a little too loud. They said a man, or a group, some kind of landless lord, had started to spread his influence. But not openly. Not like a noble. Not like a warlord."
He ran a hand through his hair nervously.
"It was... like a shadow. People talked about a silent troop. Disappearances. Threats. Letters arrived, orders to follow, secrets to keep. And always, always, there was this symbol. Pressed in wax on the envelope. The lion."
Victor felt something twist slowly beneath his skin, like a nail turning with every word.
"It was short-lived," the man continued. "No more than six months. Then nothing. Like a forest fire snuffed out overnight. Some say it was just stories. Ghosts made up by the rich to scare the poor. But me..."
He trailed off. His face had gone pale.
"I lost a brother in all that. He refused something. Found with his throat cut in a barn. And that symbol... branded on his hand."
The air grew heavy. Victor didn't know whether to speak, apologize, scream, or just back away.
"That's all I'll say. And I don't want to see you again."
He spun on his heel and disappeared into the maze of alleys, without waiting for a reply.
Victor stood stiffly, eyes fixed on nothing. He barely heard the wind's breath or the scurry of a cat fleeing from a spilled bucket of water.
He felt Adam's hand settle on his shoulder.
"Hey. Look at me."
Victor slowly raised his head. He said nothing, but inside his one remaining eye, a storm was raging.
"You needed to know. Even if it's ugly."
Victor swallowed, unable to answer.
Adam squeezed his shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.
"That emblem, what they made of it... it's not you. You're not trying to scare people. You're trying to understand. Maybe to fix something. There's a difference."
He let go softly, crossed his arms, and looked at Victor for a moment longer.
"Listen... you're here now. You're with us. You've made your place. And no damn metal lion is going to change that."
Victor dropped his gaze. A barely audible breath escaped him.
"Why me? Why would they have let me live, if it's true?"
Adam didn't answer right away. Then, quietly:
"Maybe because you're the only good thing they ever made."
He straightened, ran a hand through his hair.
"And you don't have to carry all of that alone, you hear me?"
He waited until Victor slowly nodded.
Then gave him a lighter pat on the back.
"Come on. The market's still open. Let's get something to eat. Might clear your head."
Victor raised an eyebrow.
"You're buying me food now?"
"You lost an eye, and you're chasing your past. I'm not gonna let you starve on top of that."
Victor gave a small, tired but genuine smile.
They started walking again. Slowly. No words at first.
Adam walked beside him, watching out. And in that brotherly silence, something held firm.
---
Emma moved between the stalls of the Briarhold market, her basket half-filled with pelts, small pots of fat, and a carefully gutted game animal she hoped to trade for some cloth or sugar.
Around her, the shouts of the merchants mingled with the crunch of melting snow beneath boots. Winter was slowly giving way, but the cold still held on. She kept her cloak tied tight over her shoulders, her calloused, nimble hands playing with the leather strap of the basket.
She detoured toward the older tents, where some merchants sometimes slept beneath their own stalls. These folk spoke more freely when offered a bit of salted meat or a kind word.
"Hey there, didn't you sell to old Dorran yesterday?" asked an old woman seated on a stool, knobby fingers but sharp eyes.
Emma gave a small smile.
"Yes. He took two hares."
"He mentioned it. Said you were smarter than you looked."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Should I take that as a compliment?"
"You should. It's rare to get Dorran talking. Even rarer when he's been drinking."
Emma shrugged, trying to seem modest.
"Looks peaceful here, after all."
The old woman lifted her head, her gaze piercing the damp air.
"Peaceful, huh? Not always, my girl. About twenty years ago, when I'd just married off my youngest, things were quite different."
Emma narrowed her eyes, intrigued.
"What happened?"
"Disappearances, rumors spreading like wildfire. Young folks leaving the village, scared. Fear ruled everywhere."
Her voice dropped.
"They said it was a beast, or something darker. Shadows seen moving through the forest. And then, it all stopped. Never a trace again."
Emma felt the weight of those words, their silent heaviness.
"And no one ever found out what it was?"
The old woman shook her head, her wrinkles deepening.
"No. And better that way. Some things are best left buried."
Emma smiled, grateful.
"Thank you, ma'am."
She gently lifted her basket onto her arm, her heart beating a little faster. Beneath Briarhold's calm surface, there were secrets, cracks. She had to dig.
But not yet. Not too fast.
For now, she would keep listening. For Victor.