The next morning, Victor woke long before dawn. Around him, silence still reigned—whole and unbroken, as deep as a windless lake.
Emma lay asleep against him, naked, one leg draped over his, a hand resting lightly on his chest. Her cheek brushed his shoulder. She breathed softly, lips parted, eyes closed.
He stayed still, unmoving, his gaze resting on her.
And for once, he allowed himself to truly look.
Her face first—calm, almost radiant despite the shadow. Her lashes barely fluttered, her brow smooth, her expression peaceful. Then her body. The lines of her form. Her skin dappled here with pale light, drowned there in shadow. He found her beautiful—but not only as he had the first time. There was something more now. A presence. A weight.
She had filled out again, he realized now. Her hips had softened, her belly was no longer hollow, her arms less thin. She had regained flesh, color.
Life.
And he? Did she notice the changes in him too?
He hadn't looked at himself in a long time. He knew he'd grown broader—days of walking, fighting, surviving had shaped him. And the lost eye. The dark patch across his face. His silence, heavier now.
Did she see all that?
Sleep would not return. So, slowly, carefully, he shifted Emma aside without waking her. He rose, slipped on his eyepatch, and dressed in silence, one garment at a time, careful not to disturb her sleep.
Then he stepped outside.
Everything was still. Mist clung to the short grasses. The sky was dark ink, paling in the east. No sound. No movement. He was the first.
He stood there a while, simply listening to the silence. Breathing it in.
Then he knelt by last night's fire pit, scraped at the half-dead embers, and breathed gently until they stirred. He added kindling. Bit by bit, the flames returned—timid, living.
He tended the fire like one tends a thought.
And at last, the dawn broke.
The monks began to emerge from their building, one by one. Silent, discreet, focused. They greeted him with a nod or a whisper barely heard, then set to work. Their movements were measured like prayer: repairing, cleaning, rebuilding. Victor watched them for a moment, then his gaze was drawn to the blind old man he'd seen the day before—seated once more on his stone bench, facing the sky.
He approached. The man spoke without turning his head.
"You're one of the travelers, aren't you?"
"Yes," Victor answered, hesitant.
The old man smiled faintly.
"You seem to like the silence. It can soothe, sometimes."
Victor nodded, though the man couldn't see.
"I think I needed to hear... something else."
A pause. Then the old man, as if he'd guessed it:
"They told me where you came from. You've seen Briarhold."
Victor flinched.
"You know that town?"
"Everyone who lived in this region before the war knows it. The disappearances. The deaths. The rumors. And then—nothing. As if it had all been erased."
He turned his face slightly toward Victor, more solemn now.
"But I don't think things like that ever really vanish. They move."
Victor was quiet for a long moment.
"I want to understand," he said at last, almost under his breath.
He didn't speak of his family. He didn't voice his suspicions. But the old man seemed to hear them anyway.
"Understanding doesn't always bring peace. Sometimes it only leads to more questions."
Victor nodded. He knew that already.
But the man, after a pause, went on:
"This abbey once had a great library. It burned, partly. It was looted, too. But some books remain. Records, perhaps. Traces."
He extended a slow hand toward the crumbling facade.
"Go look. Search. You may not find what you want... but perhaps what you need to see."
Victor murmured his thanks. Then he remained there a while longer, beside him, in the silence returned.
When the rest of the group began to stir, Victor was already back at the fire, hands stretched out toward the flames now burning bright again.
The sky had turned a pale grey, and the morning light clung coldly to the stones of the abbey.
Aldous emerged first, wrapped in his cloak, grumbling into his beard as usual. Edric followed close behind, his expression more composed. They exchanged a nod with Victor, then came to warm themselves by the fire. The wood cracked softly under new logs.
Emma came next, hair still tousled, cheeks pink from the morning chill. She gave Victor a soft, slightly sleepy look that said I saw you leave, but I understand.
She sat beside him, slipped her hand into his without a word.
Finally, Adam stepped out of his tent, with Rufus at his side.
And then, though no one could say exactly why, the air shifted slightly.
Rufus still had hollow cheeks and too-thin wrists, but he stood tall. And in his eyes, for the first time, there was something else. A spark. A kind of quiet.
He had slept deeply—that much was clear—and sleep itself was a victory.
Edric watched him approach and, without a word, handed him a flask of water.
Rufus hesitated only a moment.
"Thank you," he said, his voice still hoarse.
Silence settled around the fire.
Then Adam broke into a wide smile—sincere, proud. He looked at the boy the way a father might look at a child taking their first steps.
Even Aldous, chewing a strip of dried meat, looked up with something like approval.
And Edric, without speaking, gave a slow nod. He held his gaze on Rufus, as if to be sure he'd heard right. He didn't quite smile—not fully—but in the line of his mouth, in the weariness softening his eyes, there was relief.
No one spoke. Until, at last, Rufus raised his head.
"You already know where it was. Where you found me. The cabin."
His voice was raspy, but clear. Not childish—just tired.
"That was our home. It was small. We didn't have much. But it was ours. We were together."
He still held the flask in his thin fingers.
"This winter... it was too hard. My father... he said it was just a bad year. That the animals were dying, the cold lasting too long. He still wanted to believe it would pass. But there was nothing left."
He swallowed, eyes fixed on the fire.
"So... they gave everything up for me. They didn't eat. They pretended. Told me they'd already had something, or that they weren't hungry. I didn't see it coming."
He breathed in, as if every word tugged at something inside him.
"One night, they lay down—and they never woke up."
A stillness fell. Even the fire seemed quieter.
"I was scared when you came in. I'd heard you. I was under the table. I thought you were there to take whatever was left. Or worse. I didn't want anyone to see me."
He turned slightly toward Adam.
"But you... when you found me, you didn't say anything. You just put your coat over my shoulders. And in that moment, I felt like I was really there. Not stuck. Not in the emptiness."
His eyes glistened. Silent tears—but clear ones. He didn't apologize for them.
"I felt frozen. Like I'd disappeared. And suddenly, I was back. Because of that. The coat."
Adam slowly placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. The gesture was solid, grounding—like drawing a protective circle around him.
"It's over now," he said. "You don't have to hide anymore. We're here. You're one of us, as long as you want to be. But... if one day you want to leave, to find someone, to follow your path... we'll help you.
We won't let you fall, whether you stay or not."
Rufus turned to him, surprised by the gentleness in his voice.
"I want to stay," he said quietly, but surely. "If it's alright. I want to stay with you."
Adam smiled again, broader this time. He wrapped his arm around the boy's shoulders and pulled him close.
"Then you're in the right place."
Rufus nodded, cheeks still wet—but without shame.
"Thank you. You... and Victor. Thank you for not leaving me there."
Victor watched him in silence. His face was solemn, almost stern—but his eyes said something else.
He dipped his head, slowly.
And around them, the day was finally ready to begin.
---
The days at the abbey were far from idle. In exchange for the shelter they'd been offered, each member of the group had been given a task, and they all took to it without complaint.
The work was hard, but simple—almost soothing in its clarity, after weeks of wandering, wounds, and violence.
Adam had been assigned to the carpentry, where the monks needed young, sturdy arms. He spent the entire day high above the ground, moving beams into place, securing joints, measuring, adjusting. He had traded his blades for a hammer and a spirit level—and the change suited him.
Victor, glancing up, had seen him crouched along a beam, perfectly at ease, sure-footed.
Below, Rufus sat on a pile of planks, silently sorting wooden pegs, tongue slightly out, brow furrowed in concentration. He set aside those that were too thin, split, or damp. A neat stack grew at his feet.
"You know you don't have to climb around like a cat," Victor called as he approached.
"I've got good balance," Adam replied, the smile audible in his voice, though he didn't look up from his task.
"No kidding. Don't tell me you learned that at war?"
Adam sighed, straightened slowly, hands on his hips.
"No. Before that. I've done a bit of everything—blacksmith, butcher, roofer... Even hauled stone once for a cathedral mason, though not for long. He called me a coward, so I ran a wheelbarrow into his legs. Career ended there."
"And you're not afraid of heights?"
"I prefer this to standing ankle-deep in mud. And at least up here, it doesn't smell like wet hay."
He shrugged and went back to work. Victor gave a faint smile.
Beside them, Rufus glanced up briefly. He wiped his hands on his trousers, then held out a carefully chosen peg to Victor.
"This one's dry, I think," he said, voice still quiet—but clearer than it had been days ago.
"Perfect, Rufus," Victor replied gently, taking it from him. "Good eye."
The boy blushed, but pride shone through. They had found him new clothes, and his color had begun to return. The grey hue had left his cheeks. The air was milder now, the temperature rising. Breathing came easier, even in the abbey's cold corners.
Meanwhile, Emma spent her days in a side room near the refectory, working with the two elderly women from the troupe. One mended clothing, the other sorted herbs, and Emma wove between them—doing both at once, entangled in their gestures and chatter. Her hands were deft, her focus calm.
She seemed to find a kind of peace there, far from blood and shouting and watching eyes.
Sometimes, she hummed as she worked.
Edric and Aldous left at dawn each morning, bows slung across their backs, and returned around midday with game slung over their shoulders. Edric spoke little, but he seemed steadier now.
Since they'd left Briarhold, the tightness in him had begun to ease.
True to his word, Victor had sought out the blind old man at the first opportunity. The man had suggested he lend his hands to the abbey's archives, adding—almost cryptically—that he might "find what was looking to be found."
So that's what Victor did. He settled in a cool, quiet room lined with shelves, out of the way.
At first, it was mostly correspondence between abbeys, account scrolls, dry inventory records. Nothing worth the strain on his eyes. But he persisted—one eye sharp beneath the bandage, fingers nimble, and more than anything, his mind alert.
It wasn't until late on the second morning that he found it.
A yellowed folder, crudely bound, held a series of letters addressed to the abbot of the time. They spoke of unrest, of unexplained disappearances near the Briarhold region. Complaints from villagers, fragmented accounts, filled with alarm. Nothing concrete.
But then—in the margin of a letter dated fifteen years prior, scribbled hastily, nearly lost under an ink stain—he read:
"Neri? see county."
Victor froze.
His heart beat faster. He read it again. And again. A third time.
The name.
His father's name.
Neri.