The frost hadn't quite left the ground, but something in the air had shifted.
That morning, the mist had risen earlier than usual. It already unraveled between the trees, pushed along by a warmer breath. The sky, a pale gray, seemed to hesitate between winter and spring. And in the puddles, beneath boots and hooves, the water trembled freely.
Victor had slept little. Even less well. The turmoil of recent days, the scattered shards of the past, Emma's words, Adam's... all tangled together in a taut thread, keeping him away from rest.
He rose early, to avoid thinking. Or perhaps to find them again there.
Emma was already outside, provisions bag ready, her eyes dark but bright. Adam was checking the straps on a mule, whistling softly. It was the day of departure. The troupe was to leave Briarhold early afternoon.
But in the air lingered a strange scent.
No smoke from cooking fires. No woodsmoke.
A harsher smell. Cold. Persistent.
The smoke of a fire that had burned too long, too fiercely.
Victor narrowed his eyes toward the north, where the hills rose just before the woods. A faint dark wisp still danced weakly, trailing between the trees like a scar in the sky.
— "Do you see that?" he said.
Emma had already looked up.
Adam stopped whistling.
— "Up there?" he said. "That's old wood, or a thatch roof."
A young boy passed nearby with a handcart full of bundles. He paused briefly to look at them, then said without being asked:
— "Enoch's barn. It burned down during the night."
He shrugged.
— "They say it wasn't kept up. Supposedly there were still papers there—some notary stuff, from before the plague. Well, it's all ash now."
The boy moved on without waiting for a reply. Victor clenched his fists, eyes fixed on the smoke slowly fading.
— "Enoch," he murmured. "Wasn't he the guy who kept the archives? The one who collected taxes before he retired?"
Emma nodded gently, a shadow crossing her eyes.
— "Yes. He kept things—old deeds, letters... Something he refused to let slip away, even after all this time."
Adam sighed, brow furrowed.
A cold wind blew, scattering the smoke into loose curls, carrying away fragments of what had been, and what must never be again.
---
The convoy had left Briarhold after the meal. Their course was set for an old abbey to the south. The group would camp within its walled enclosure—Aldous had insisted on that point—the memory of Edric and Victor's attack still too raw in their minds. The sky remained veiled, ash-colored, and the sodden fields stretched out in cold, slack lines beneath the slow tread of the beasts.
Victor walked at the rear, apart from the others, where the mud gave way beneath footprints already pressed into the earth. Edric walked beside him, silent, his right hand resting on the guard of his sword, his face closed off as usual. Occasionally his gaze flicked toward Victor—not intrusive, never—but watchful. Victor felt it. He knew. The eyepatch, the pain beneath the still-fresh bandage, the sudden bouts of dizziness... Edric remained alert, watching for any sign of weakness, ready to help.
Ahead, the convoy moved slowly. Adam led the way beside Aldous, both silent as well, but for other reasons. There was a tense vigilance about them—the wary kind the forest demands of travelers. Emma walked halfway along the line, holding one of the reins of the cart where the two elderly seamstresses dozed, their faces buried deep in thick cloaks. Every now and then, she glanced back toward Victor. He smiled, faintly disappointed each time to have to forgo his usual winks.
Suddenly, a smell rose, hanging in the damp air—inevitable and devouring. It was not the familiar scent of the forest, nor the campfire, nor sweat. It was a harsher stench, a blend of dead flesh, mold, and sour rot. A foulness that clung to the throat and gnawed at the gut.
Adam, walking at the front with Aldous, wrinkled his nose. He slowed, halted, frowning toward the source of the nauseating odor.
"Damn, that reeks of rotten meat," he muttered.
Aldous stopped too, breathing heavily. He pointed toward a narrow path veering off the main road, plunging into the woods.
"Up there," he said, "just beyond."
Without hesitation, Adam signaled to Victor, still at the back.
"I'm going."
Victor stopped dead, his eyes locked on Adam.
"I'm coming with you."
Adam gave a tired smile, a nod of shared understanding.
"Alright."
They slipped into the undergrowth together, the light dimming beneath the dense canopy. The air grew heavy, almost tangible, and the stench intensified with each step, until it became nearly unbearable.
At last, the cabin appeared—twisted and crooked, planted like a dead memory among blackened trunks. Its wooden walls wept moisture, the roof seemed ready to collapse, and the windowless panes revealed an interior drowned in shadow.
The door hung ajar, swinging on a single hinge. Around it swarmed clouds of black flies, buzzing and pressing like a living necklace.
They pushed the door open, which groaned a sinister lament.
Inside, the darkness enveloped them—thick, almost alive. The smell was worse—an amalgam of mold, filth, and above all... death. A dull, saturated stench that seeped under the skin. Victor pressed his sleeve against his face, a futile attempt to filter out the reek.
The rotten wooden floor creaked beneath their steps, the wind whistled through the wide gaps in the walls.
At the back, a rickety bed, half torn apart, seemed to smolder slowly in the shadows.
Under the tattered, stained covers, two bodies lay—frozen in a morbid stillness. One, a woman, faced the wall, shoulders slumped as if eaten away by absence, skin cracked in places. The other, a man, face fixed in a silent grimace, mouth agape, hands clenched on the sheet. The flesh, gray and soft, seemed to melt under the pale light filtering through a window thick with cobwebs. A swarm of black flies buzzed, swirling above their frozen forms—their mouths teeming with insects.
Adam looked away, nausea clutching his stomach. Victor, pale, tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade.
Victor turned his gaze away, heart heavy.
"How long...?" he whispered.
Adam pressed his lips together.
"At least a few weeks. The grime, the flies... death drags itself out here."
A cold shiver ran down their spines. Suddenly, a dull noise made both men jump.
Something fell from the rickety cupboard. An object rolled across the dusty floor, striking an old clay pot with a brief chime.
In the shadows, beneath the table, a movement.
A boy.
Maybe twelve, small for his age, terrifyingly thin. Half curled up, arms wrapped around knees. Grayish skin. Huge, feverish eyes. He was there, crouched in the gloom, ribs visible beneath a filthy shirt, face streaked with grime.
Adam knelt gently, hands open, voice soft and low.
"Hey," he said.
The boy did not respond.
Victor stayed behind, watching, heart knotted. His eyes swept over the scar slashing Adam's cheek, then to the black bandage hiding Victor's eye.
Adam, forcing a sad smile, tried a joke.
"I know, with my striped face and his missing eye, we look like we've lived a hundred hard lives. Life's worn us down a bit, you see?"
Still no movement.
Then Adam took off his coat—a long, worn leather garment, a little ragged but warm. He unfolded it gently and laid it carefully over the boy's shoulders.
A single tear slipped from the corner of the boy's eye, sliding slowly, carving a shining trail through the grime on his cheek.
Adam spoke again, at length, softly, without expecting a reply. He told him about their camp, the meals around the fire, an old gruff fellow who complained but had a heart as big as this. He spoke as if telling a story, as if placing words before the child so he might touch them with his fingers.
And then, without either Adam or Victor understanding why, the boy lowered his gaze... and slowly slipped out of his hiding place. He stood, unsteady, and followed Adam and Victor outside.
In the daylight, the boy looked even more fragile—almost ghostly. His gray skin stark against the clear sky. The troupe had stopped, watching the scene in silence.
Aldous approached slowly.
He squinted, cast a quick look at the boy, then at Adam and Victor.
Adam met his gaze and calmly explained:
"There's a cabin up there. His parents, I think—dead for a week or more, the stench carries for miles. And him... he was there, all alone. He's not speaking to us yet, but we can't leave him. Not a child."
Aldous grunted, stern but not angry.
"I'd toss a hundred men out if I had to. But a kid... never."
He turned abruptly.
"Find him a blanket, and let's move on."
Emma stepped forward quietly, her face shadowed by silent sorrow. She laid a frail hand on the coat still draped over the boy's shoulders.
Victor, still beside Adam, felt his heart tighten.
Emma whispered, low:
"It might take time before he talks... I've seen plenty like him in town. The body needs to heal before the mind comes back."
Adam handed the boy an apple, which the child squeezed weakly without eating. He was also given a flask, which he eyed with suspicion.
Gently, they helped him climb onto one of the carts, wrapped him in a thick blanket, and resumed the journey.