He was dreaming.
Or falling.
Or drowning.
He wasn't sure anymore.
Everything was dark, but not black — a greasy, dirty gray, like the world had been plunged underwater. The kind of water that churned up silt. There was mud. Lots of it. It clung to his ankles, sucked him down, made every step a struggle. He could hear his boots sinking with a sick, slurping noise. But he kept moving. Or sinking. Hard to tell.
And then… they were there.
His group.
But not how they should be.
Not alive.
Aldous stood off to the side, eyes white, his arm hanging at a wrong angle, dislocated. His mouth was full of blood, but he was trying to speak — no sound came out.
Édric was shirtless, a deep gash slicing across his abdomen. His insides weren't spilling out, but he was… open. Exposed. And still standing, stoic, as if he felt nothing at all.
Adam walked backward, his legs twisted, his hands on fire — real fire, burning away his skin. He was smiling. But it wasn't a human smile.
And Rufus. Rufus had no face. Just a smooth, pale void. No eyes, no mouth. Like an unfinished doll.
Victor tried to scream. Nothing.
His legs wouldn't move. His body was too heavy.
He saw Emma in the distance.
Walking away. Upright. Alone.
A red coat.
He didn't know why that detail froze his blood, but it did.
She walked through the mud, straight-backed. Heading for a void.
Toward something he couldn't see.
— "Emma!"
His throat burned. No sound.
He moved forward. Slipped. Fell.
And then the ground gave way.
Victor lurched back, terrified. A light went out behind him.
All the faces turned toward him. His companions. His mother.
Old memories. Dennis.
A younger version of himself. A filthy child. A blurred mother.
They all looked at him.
As if it was his fault.
He started to run.
Nowhere, really.
The ground was gone.
Just a void under his feet.
And a voice:
— "You already know."
He woke with a jolt.
Violent.
His torso shot upright like something had been ripped out of him. His ribs ached. His throat burned. His hands were clenched so hard they hurt. His heart thundered. His mouth was dry.
And worst of all — he was soaked.
Head to toe.
Sweat clung to his back, his neck, his chest, his temples.
His shirt stuck to him like a second, wet skin.
He didn't realize, not right away, that he was back.
He just sat there. Motionless. Staring.
Breathing like a man who'd barely made it to the surface.
Beside him, Emma stirred.
She blinked, already alert. At first, she only saw his silhouette — sitting, hunched forward, arms on his knees, head bowed.
— "...Victor?"
No answer.
She pushed herself up. There was barely any light, just a pale shimmer from the tent's canvas, but enough to see the line of his shoulders. The tension in his neck. His breath — too fast. Too shallow.
— "Hey… can you hear me?"
He nodded. Barely.
She moved closer. He didn't react.
So, without hesitation, she reached out and gently brushed her fingers through his hair, sweeping aside a damp lock clinging to his forehead. She felt the heat of his skin, the sweat. Her hand moved on its own — to his neck, his shoulder. She slid her hand under his soaked shirt, heavy like a shroud, and pulled it back slightly. Like lifting a stifling blanket.
— "You had a nightmare."
He nodded again. Still silent.
She waited a moment, then sat behind him, one arm wrapping gently around his chest, her chin resting on his shoulder.
— "You're here. You're not alone."
Her voice was low — more a breath than a whisper.
But it reached him.
He closed his eyes.
She continued, her voice slow, almost detached, but grounded:
— "You can breathe. Easy. I can stay. I'll stay as long as you need."
He nodded again. This time, she felt it. The faint drop of tension. The breath that came with shape again.
After a long pause, he spoke.
His voice was raw, scorched.
— "I saw all of you. Dead. Or worse. Twisted. Wrong. And you… you were walking away. You didn't hear me. I was… alone."
A silence.
He inhaled, unsteady.
— "And the voice. It said… 'You already know.'"
Emma closed her eyes against his shoulder.
She could feel the pain — not just from the dream.
Older. Deeper.
She combed her fingers through his hair again, slowly. Her hand slid across his back, over the still-damp shirt.
She didn't say anything.
She just stayed. Present.
Victor lowered his head. Let his neck rest against her shoulder.
And in that silence, he thought it — though he didn't say it out loud.
He thanked the sky.
For sending him Emma.
---
The sun was already high when Adam waved Rufus down from the scaffolding.
— "Come on up. I've got you if you slip."
The boy hesitated, but climbed carefully onto the planks, fingers gripping the wood, heart racing. Adam waited halfway up, one knee braced, hand extended. He helped Rufus up and guided him to a more solid spot.
— "Hey, look at you," Adam grinned. "You've got legs after all. Wouldn't know it from the way you drag your feet."
Rufus snorted, half proud, half spooked by the height. Around them, the worksite clattered and echoed: the clink of tools, the shouted signals, the creak of beams under men's weight.
Then Rufus stopped. Frowned. Pointed.
— "There. Next to the wall. Isn't that weird?"
Adam followed his gaze. Below, just outside the outer wall, a pale limestone block jutted barely above ground. It looked like a chunk of collapsed architecture — but a smooth surface caught the light oddly.
— "Looks like there's a pattern on it," Rufus murmured.
Adam stood up slowly.
— "Wait here. Don't move."
He climbed down fast, crossed the courtyard in long strides, and flagged down Victor mid-conversation with a monk.
— "You need to see something."
Victor followed without a word, frowning.
When they reached the stone, Adam pushed away some of the earth.
The carving came into view. A seal.
Old, but disturbingly sharp.
Too sharp.
Victor paled.
He dropped to his knees without thinking, fingers brushing the stone.
He knew this symbol.
The stylized crest.
The lion.
The Néri seal.
His father's seal.
The one on their rings.
On the letters.
On the family name.
His gut twisted.
What if… what if, by dredging through the mud, he had pulled something toward them? Something dangerous. Something awake.
His nightmare crashed into him again — the bodies, the fire, Emma's terror, Adam's bloodied hands, Rufus screaming…
He'd wanted answers. He'd wanted a name.
But at what cost?
His throat tightened.
His breath sped up.
He got to his feet, backed away. Once. Twice.
He needed air.
He needed—
He turned and walked off fast, not looking back.
Adam started to follow, but it was Édric who stepped in first.
He placed a hand on Adam's shoulder.
— "Let me."
He found Victor farther off, tucked into a corner of the crumbling wall.
Arms crossed. Eyes distant. Shoulders rigid.
He didn't see Édric arrive.
— "You wanna tell me what just happened, or should I guess?"
No reply. Not at first.
But then Victor took a long breath, and said, voice low:
— "It was the seal. The same as my rings. Exactly the same."
Édric stayed still. Waiting.
— "I'm scared, Édric. I…"
He trailed off. Shook his head. Then, even lower, almost ashamed:
— "What if I put everyone in danger? What if, by digging into the past, chasing this name, I dragged something toward us? Something we can't stop?"
He sank onto a low stone, hands over his face. His voice broke.
— "I had a nightmare last night. Horrible. I saw all of you… Emma, Adam, Rufus… dead. And it was my fault. Because I wanted to know. Because I couldn't stop."
Édric stepped closer.
Silent for a moment.
Then placed a hand on Victor's shoulder.
— "You're following your heart. And it's scaring you. That's normal. But you're not doing this for yourself. You're trying to understand where you come from. Why your world's broken. And we're here. We chose to be here. No one blames you."
Victor looked up at him, lost.
— "I chased a ghost, Édric. A father who never reached out. And in my head, I put all of that above what we have here. You. Emma. Adam. Even Rufus. I put all that at risk for a name carved into a fucking stone."
His voice cracked. Tears welled up.
He fought them. Then lost.
He bowed his head, racked by sobs.
Édric said nothing. Just knelt beside him, and slowly opened his arms.
— "C'mere."
Victor hesitated.
Then fell into them. Like a boy.
He clung to the rough coat, burying his face into the shadow of the collar.
The wool was coarse against his skin, stiff with dust and old sweat, but it was warm. Solid. Real.
It smelled of firewood, leather, something metallic — the scent of a man who had lived through things and never flinched.
And now, that man was holding him.
Édric's arm wrapped around him with quiet strength, steady and unshakable.
No awkward pats. No uncertainty. Just presence.
The other hand came up slowly, then settled on the back of Victor's head— warm, calloused, grounding, thumb streaking gently.
And something in Victor broke again.
Not like glass, not sharp. More like a dam giving way after too much silence.
The sobs tore out of him, raw and unstoppable, scraping his throat on the way.
He hadn't cried in years. Not actual sobs.
But now, for the first time, he let it happen.
Because for the first time, it felt safe to.
He held on tighter, fingers curled into the thick fabric like it could keep him from falling apart.
His forehead pressed into Édric's collarbone. His breathing came in gasps. He was twenty — too old for this, too young not to need it.
He'd never been held like this before.
Adam gave hugs, sure. Quick, brotherly squeezes. Familiar, warm — but light.
This wasn't that.
This wasn't a brother.
This was someone stronger, older, who didn't try to fix him or talk him down.
Just held him, like that was enough. Like that was what he needed.
And it was.
— "You're gonna be alright, son. I swear it."
The word slipped out quiet. But for Victor, it hit like thunder.
He stiffened. Then cried harder.
Because that word — son —
He'd waited for it all his life.
And it didn't come from the man who sired him,
but from the one who saw him.
Held him.
Trained him.
Loved him.
And it broke him.
— "I'm sorry," he whispered through tears. "I didn't mean to… I never wanted to put anyone in danger. Not you. Especially not you."
Édric held him tighter.
— "I'm not going anywhere. Got that? I'm here, and I'm staying. Chase all the ghosts you want. Just don't make yourself one of them."
Victor clung to him like he was holding on to shore.
And slowly, the sobs quieted.
Drained. Worn. But lighter.
And in that silence, he understood something.
He didn't need his father to become a man.
He had Édric.
And that was better.