They entered Briarhold in the late morning. The cold wind bit at the skin beneath Victor's black eyepatch. His cloak was drawn tightly around him, but he could feel the weight of every glance on his half-marked face.
Édric walked at his side, hands ready to act at the first sign of trouble.
"I'm not letting you go alone," he'd insisted before they left.
Victor hadn't replied. He understood. He needed to come here, even if it stirred the memory of the assault—still raw in his mind.
They reached the market, where merchants were laying out their goods. Victor stopped in front of a stall with faded-colored fabrics. He brushed his fingers gently over a piece of cloth when a burly, unshaven man stumbled past, bumping into Édric.
"Watch it," Édric growled, turning sharply.
The man turned around, his gaze hard and slightly fogged by drink.
"Who the hell are you? Some boot-polished guard trying to act tough?"
Victor didn't move. His voice was calm.
"We're not looking for trouble."
But the man was staring at him now, scrutinizing his scarred face.
"What do you want? Walking around like some half-prince with a missing eye?"
Victor clenched his jaw, aware his posture invited disdain. He didn't want this to escalate.
"I'm none of that."
The man, itching for a fight, suddenly grabbed the collar of Victor's shirt.
"Then let's see what you've got."
The motion tugged at the chain around Victor's neck, pulling it into view. The two signet rings swung free in the open air. The man froze, eyes narrowing.
"Wait… Those rings… Those ain't just trinkets."
He let go of Victor abruptly, eyes locked on the rings, his jaw tight.
"That crest… I thought it vanished ages ago."
Édric stepped forward, hand close to his weapon, voice steady.
"Back off."
The man took a step back, visibly shaken.
"I know that seal… Not wise to wear it around here."
Victor's heart began to race. He looked down at the rings, then back at the man.
"What do you know?"
But the man only shook his head after a pause, growing nervous.
"Nothing good. Old stories. Best not to dig."
He turned and walked off quickly, leaving Victor and Édric standing alone in the middle of the market, silence falling around them like a shroud.
Victor raised a trembling hand to his scar.
Édric murmured, "You want us to follow him?"
Victor slowly shook his head.
"Not yet. He's drunk. But he recognized the rings. He knows something."
---
The tavern was quiet at this hour. Inside, the air smelled of damp wood, smoke, and the stale dregs of beer. Light filtered in through smeared windows, dim and dusty. They had taken a table off to the side, their backs to the wall. Édric had insisted—old habit.
Victor sat stiffly on the bench, hands folded in front of him. His hood had fallen back, revealing his face and the black patch that covered the left side. He no longer wore it with shame. But he knew it drew attention.
He pulled gently at the chain beneath his shirt and placed the two signet rings on the table. The metal was cold, slightly tarnished. The lion engraved on the surface seemed almost alive in the flickering light.
"The crest," he said after a moment. "It's from my father's family. An old bloodline… Italian. I know because my mother told me, once. Long ago. But she never really spoke of it."
He studied the ring he'd found in the market—the one that had started this aimless search. It was slightly dented. Damaged. As if it had been torn away from something—or someone.
"The man in the street… he didn't look at it like it was a relic. He looked… afraid. Like wearing this means something. Like it says something. Threatens someone."
Édric nodded slowly, arms crossed.
"He reacted too fast for it to be some distant memory. That was lived experience. A warning."
Victor lowered his voice.
"So who was it? Who used to wear this crest here? People from my family? And if so… why did I grow up alone with my mother? Why did we never hear anything from them? Did they even know I existed?"
He was speaking faster now. The questions burned in his throat, bitter.
"Or maybe they did know. And they left me there. Like dead weight."
Édric slowly laid a hand on the table. Not on Victor—not yet—just close enough to be felt.
"You don't know yet," he said calmly. "And if you start building a truth out of absence, you'll drift away from what's real. Look at what you have: a clear reaction, a recognized crest, a forgotten name. That's not nothing. That's a thread. But you need to follow it with your feet on the ground."
Victor closed his eye. He breathed in, deep. His fingers brushed the rings, as if reminding himself they were real. Solid.
"I feel… overwhelmed," he murmured. "Like it's too old. Too tangled. Too much."
Édric allowed his hand to rest on Victor's shoulder then. Firm. Grounding.
"That's normal. The past… it always seems bigger when it comes back. But you're not alone. I'm here. Emma. Adam. We'll dig it up if we have to. But not at any cost. You hear me?"
Victor nodded, more slowly now. His right eye was wet, but steady.
"You should tell them," Édric added. "Emma. Adam too. They deserve to know what you're searching for. What you're carrying. They can help you bear it."
Victor nodded again. The weight hadn't lifted—but it no longer crushed him. Édric's hand stayed where it was, and in his eyes there was no pity. No fear. Just a steady calm, the kind forged by surviving oneself.
Victor tucked the rings back under his shirt.
"Winter's ending," he said softly. "If we're going to learn anything here, we can't waste time. I can't leave without trying."
Édric nodded.
"Then we start tomorrow. Together."
They stayed there a while longer, silent, each lost in thought.
But the air felt easier to breathe now.
More alive.