The camp had been set up at the foot of a steep cliff, whose towering shadow already covered them, though the sun had barely dipped below the horizon. The ground was dry, scattered with small stones, but the trees curved into a protective crescent and the wind barely touched them. The horses slept standing, hobbled a few paces from the fire. A few embers still crackled in the fading light.
The boy said nothing. He had curled up in a hollow between two packs, bundled beneath the coat Adam had given him. He clutched it like a shield, fingers clenched into the rough leather. The collar, far too big, rose up to his chin. His hollowed eyes stayed open, but blurred, distant—still somewhere else. He hadn't spoken a single word since they found him.
When Aldous, with a gesture as gruff as it was gentle, had handed him a piece of dried meat, the boy had lunged at it without a word of thanks, chewing with such desperate frenzy that everyone had looked away. No one knew how many days—or weeks—it had been since he'd eaten anything but moldy crusts or a sip of stagnant water. Adam had muttered a curse under his breath. Then the boy had curled up again, like a cornered animal.
Now, the night had swallowed the last glimmers of the sky. The veterans had drifted off. The two old women snored softly, tucked safely in their wagon. Emma, leaning against one of the wheels, kept her eyes half-closed, her face bathed in the fire's orange glow.
Victor approached her on quiet feet. She opened her eyes again, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips.
"I'll take watch," he whispered.
She nodded, saying nothing.
He leaned in and brushed her mouth with his, barely a kiss. Just long enough to mean more than nothing, not long enough to mean something else.
When he straightened, Adam looked up from his spot near the fire, a piece of wood in his hand. He chuckled into his beard.
"Don't mind me."
Victor gave him a mock-glare, then headed over to where Edric stood at the edge of the camp, leaning against the rock wall. The night breeze tugged a pale strand of hair across his forehead, but he didn't move.
"You're late," he said without turning.
"I had a kiss to steal," Victor replied.
Edric barely smiled—but he did.
They stood in silence for a while. Only the sounds of the night. Now and then, the hoot of an owl. Below them, the fire cast flickering light on the boy's small shape—still awake, still silent, eyes fixed on the flames.
"He won't sleep," Edric murmured.
Victor shook his head.
"No. But he'll survive another day. Maybe tomorrow he'll speak. Or the day after."
A pause. Then:
"It was the right thing to do. Not leaving him. You know that, right?"
Victor turned his eye toward him—the other, long lost, remained hidden beneath a dark leather patch. He saw Edric's jaw, tight in the shadows. And in his voice, something rougher. Older.
"When I was thirteen," Edric said at last, "we lived on my father's estate, up in the Daelor highlands. That was the year of the great famine. Rotting crops, dead animals in the ditches. Village kids dropping like flies. The grown-ups followed."
Victor listened, surprised—Edric rarely spoke of anything before the army. So that's where he'd come from. Daelor.
"There was a boy my age, Aedon, a cobbler's son. We'd started hanging out. Talking, swimming in the lake. Tried to flirt with the girls sometimes, too. I liked him. He was starving. One evening I snuck down with a sack of scraps I'd stolen from the kitchens. Didn't get a hundred steps. My father caught me."
A long silence. The fire below crackled faintly.
"He beat me bloody in front of the whole staff. Broke two ribs, split my brows open. Right there. My mother watched. And I never saw Aedon again. They found his body a week later in a ditch. Mouth full of dirt—like he'd tried to eat mud."
Victor's throat tightened. He had never imagined that.
"Today, you did what I couldn't," Edric went on. "And I'm not telling you this to pin a medal on you. Just because... I'm proud of you. You're a good man."
Victor said nothing. But he felt it, deep in his chest: a strange thud, a quiet warmth, something that had entered without a crash, but deeply. Like a steady, clear flame. Not the fire of battle. Not rage. Something else. A light.
He nodded, his jaw slightly clenched.
"That's the first time anyone's said that to me," he murmured, almost without meaning to.
Edric gave a breath—almost a laugh.
"Well, someone had to do it."
He paused, then added in a lower tone:
"It should've been a father who said it. Not some old warhound like me. But since neither of us had one worth a damn, I figured you ought to hear it from me. Because what I see in you—it's a man. A real one. You've got a companion. A purpose. You protect. You take hits and you get back up. That's all the definition I need."
Victor felt off-balance. He didn't know what to say. But Edric's words had sunk in. Deep.
He looked away, blinked once—unsure if it was the fire, the weariness, or something else stinging his eyes.
But he felt... seen. Not just tolerated, tested, or endured—seen. Esteemed.
They stayed there without speaking, the silence broken only by the wood's soft crackle and the distant sigh of a dreaming mule.
Then Victor allowed himself a crooked smile.
"Careful," he said. "Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you've got a heart under all that armor."
Edric raised a brow, mock-offended.
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm already wondering if I've come down with something."
Victor let out a laugh. Short, rough, but real. Edric chuckled too—a low, gruff sound that somehow felt good.
---
The next day, the troupe approached the abbey. The ancient structure, half in ruins, loomed over the plain like a weary giant. Its grey stone walls still bore the scars of old battles, but all around, wooden scaffolds clattered under the hammer blows of a handful of young monks. They had reclaimed the place, moved by a fervor that seemed almost tangible, rebuilding stone by stone this half-forgotten sanctuary.
Around the ruins, the troupe settled within the enclosure, sheltered—if only slightly—by the reassuring presence of the walls. The horses grazed on the short grass, the wagons were unloaded, tents pitched.
Victor, as always slightly apart, watched the quiet choreography of men and stone. He felt in the air a breath of renewal—but also the enduring trace of past wounds.
In the distance, he caught sight of a motionless figure on a stone bench. An old man, sitting with a fragile stillness. Beside him, a young monk with a serene face spoke softly, as if reciting a prayer in a low voice. The old man seemed blind, his face turned toward the grey sky.
Adam, walking nearby, was still speaking quietly to the young boy. Perched at his side, the boy said nothing, but listened. His gaze flickered now and then toward the ground.
"You'll see," Adam murmured with a faint smile. "This place—it's not like the forest. You'll sleep easy here. There are people around. People who build things, not tear them down."
The boy gave no answer. He clung to Adam's hand, as if trying to anchor himself in a world he'd only just discovered, and learned to fear.
"You should know how it works with us," Adam went on, his voice calm and even. "We're a troupe. We share everything. With you too. Nobody's gonna ask for anything you're not ready to give."
A silence followed. Then, in a hoarse voice, the boy whispered:
"Rufus."
Adam froze for a heartbeat, caught off guard. Then, gently, he ran a hand through the boy's tangled hair.
"Rufus, huh? That's a good name. Welcome, Rufus."
That night, as darkness fell, the troupe gathered around the fire. The dancing light of the flames threw long shadows over weary faces.
Emma, curled against Victor with her head resting on his shoulder, glanced toward Rufus with quiet ease. The boy stayed close to Adam, like a living shadow.
Across the fire, Edric watched them with a restrained tenderness.
The meal passed mostly in silence, carried by the crackling of the fire and the steady breath of the animals nearby.
After eating, Rufus drifted into sleep, his head resting against Adam's side. Victor smiled at the sight.
"You've got yourself a shadow," he murmured.
Adam nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"That boy's been through hell," he said softly. "Being left there, with the bodies... That's something you don't forget. And he's young too , he doesn't look more than twelve."
Then, quietly, he gathered up the remnants of supper and, with great care, carried Rufus to his tent, laying him down on a makeshift bed.
Victor watched from a distance.
And for a moment, he wondered if that was Adam's fate—to help people, wherever he went.