The tent was silent, warm with the heat of them. Only the rustle of canvas in the night, the distant murmurs of the camp. And Victor, standing with arms crossed, watching her enter as if he hadn't seen her in days.
A faint cut still marked his brow—clean and pink. His ribs ached beneath his shirt, every breath tugging at the pain. But the moment she stepped in, something in him eased.
When she approached, he raised a hand and rested it gently against her cheek.
"Are you alright?" he whispered.
She nodded—too quickly. He knew her well enough to sense the lie. But he didn't press. Instead, he slid his hand into her hair, drew her close. His forehead touched hers. For a long while, they stayed like that, breathing together, skin to skin.
"You know I'm supposed to take second watch?" he murmured. "Even though everything hurts. I think I deserve preferential treatment. Especially from you."
"You're with Édric," she smiled, arms around his waist. "I know you like that."
He let out a muffled laugh and sighed like a martyr.
"I almost died, Em. Two rabbits. One ambush. And Rufus just— I'm a survivor. You could at least give me a smile."
She laughed softly, and warmth flared in his chest. He wanted more.
"That's it," he breathed, gently nudging her down onto the blankets.
He settled beside her, an arm beneath her neck, then kissed her slowly—like he was learning her mouth with the edges of his own. His hand slid down to her thigh, brushing bare skin beneath the fabric. She shivered. He did it again.
His movements were slow, deliberate, never unsure. He knew exactly where to touch, how to graze, how to coax that low heat back into her limbs. He wanted her to smile, to sigh, to forget.
"Still cold?" he murmured, his hand beneath her shirt. He kissed the base of her neck. Her collarbone. Then lower.
"A little," she whispered.
"I'll fix that."
He undressed her slowly, eyes locked on hers, attentive to every shift in her breath. Emma answered not with words but with the way she moved, the way she arched into him, the way his name slipped from her lips like a prayer.
Victor wasn't in a rush. This wasn't hunger—it was grounding. He lingered like he didn't want to forget anything—the slope of her hip, the texture of her skin, the places where she tensed beneath his fingers. Every so often, pain tugged at his side, but he ignored it. Not tonight. Tonight was for watching her come alive.
When he kissed her lower, she whispered his name, eyes half-closed.
He climbed back up to kiss her mouth, then entered her slowly, eyes open, fingers buried in her hair. He paused there, just to see her. To feel her breath against his cheek.
"I love you," he said softly. "So much it feels like I forget how to breathe when you're not here."
She trembled beneath him, just slightly. Then he moved—steady, silent, within her. His forehead rested against hers, their fingers entwined. It was a dance—slow, reverent, more offering than desire. He wanted her happy. Safe. Alive.
She moaned softly, and he answered with a kiss at the corner of her mouth, a gentle word, a breath.
They were lost together—in warmth, in sheets, in love.
And later, when their hearts had slowed, Victor remained there. One hand resting on her bare stomach. The other still holding hers.
The outside world had vanished. There was only this silence. This cocoon, this world of theirs. He closed his eyes, arms around her like he was cradling a dream.
Then—a faint rustle. Footsteps. A silhouette paused outside the tent.
And a voice, low, rough, not trying to intrude, but unable not to:
"Victor?"
Édric.
He said only his name. No urgency. No judgment. But Victor understood. The watch. The world still turning.
He stayed one last second, forehead against Emma's. She barely stirred, but he felt the tension in her breath.
"I'll be right back," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple.
He slipped his shirt back on slowly, wincing as his ribs protested. He tied the belt, ran a hand through Emma's hair as she lay there still.
"Don't worry. I won't go far."
She nodded, eyes still shining from everything they'd just said without words.
When Victor stepped out of the tent, Édric was waiting—arms crossed, leaning against a tree. Moonlight etched hard lines across his face. He didn't speak at first. Just handed Victor a rolled-up cloak and gave him a grave look without harshness.
"Ready?" he asked simply.
Victor nodded and cast one last glance back toward the tent flap.
"Yeah. Let's go."
They walked off together into the night, side by side.
---
The sky was still pale above the trees when Victor grabbed his training sword. The air smelled of damp earth and cold ash, mist clinging to the undergrowth. In the clearing they used for sparring, Édric was already waiting.
He was slowly turning the wooden sword in his hand, his eyes sharp despite the exhaustion he hadn't quite managed to hide these past few days.
Victor approached, breath short. His ribs ached—a lingering pain rekindled by the ambush—and the sting of the thin cut on his forehead was still fresh. But he gritted his teeth. He hadn't slept long. Or well. Ever since he'd seen blood running down Adam's arm, he'd felt a weight lodged beneath his sternum. A weight he wanted to punch until it disappeared.
"Position," Édric said simply, lifting his gaze to him.
Victor obeyed. Feet apart. Knees soft. Weight balanced.
"Better," Édric noted, stepping closer. "Don't forget to breathe. You're holding that sword like it's about to bite you."
The fight started without warning—like it often did. A clean strike from Édric, downward diagonal. Victor lifted his blade and blocked. The impact reverberated through his arm, but he held. Pivot. Step back. He looked for an opening, but none came.
"You're thinking too much," Édric growled. "This isn't chess. It's a river. You glide or you drown."
Victor replied with a feint, then a strike aimed at the side. Blocked. Immediate riposte. He staggered back two steps, slipped in the dirt, but stayed upright. He was swearing silently—not at Édric, but at himself. At the helplessness that crept back every time he closed his eyes.
Adam on the ground. Rufus with a stone in hand. Blood.
He straightened. Advanced.
This time he attacked. A series of swift, well-linked moves—sharpened by weeks of grueling practice. Édric still parried every blow, but he wasn't speaking as much anymore. That was either a good sign. Or a bad one. Hard to tell.
"Mind your balance," Édric warned eventually. "Your back foot's too stiff."
Victor adjusted. Kept going.
The pace picked up. The clearing filled with the dry thuds of wood against wood, the scrape of boots, the rasp of breath. Victor was sweating. His shirt clung to his back. His arm was starting to tremble. The ache in his ribs flared, but he ignored it. This was all that mattered now—the moment. The movement. The blade. And Édric, steady as a wall in front of him.
Then.
He saw an opening. Brief. Fragile. Too perfect to be real. He hesitated for half a second. Then went for it.
A feint toward the left shoulder, followed by a low pivot and an upward strike aimed at the guard. He felt the shock. Saw Édric's sword spin through the air and hit the dirt at their feet.
Silence.
Victor froze. He couldn't believe it. His hands, still clutching the hilt, didn't move. He was panting, stunned.
"You let me do that?"
He looked at Édric like a kid caught cheating.
Édric stood still for a second. Then tilted his head slightly.
And burst out laughing.
A clear, unguarded laugh—one of the rare ones that made him seem younger. The kind of laugh that split the morning in half.
"Let you?" he echoed, grinning wide. "Hell no, son. That was clean. You read the motion. You struck true."
Victor opened his mouth, then shut it again. He felt like he'd imagined the whole thing.
"Seriously...?"
"Seriously," Édric said, stepping closer. He looked at him for a moment, chest still rising fast with exertion. "You can handle a blade. You can take a hit. And you've learned how to feel the fight. That's what counts."
Victor lowered his gaze, emotion rising thick in his throat.
Édric ruffled his hair—like you would a kid's—but without mockery. Then he clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, gaze locking with his.
"I'm proud of you. I'm not saying you're ready to take my place, but I'm starting to wonder if you might just pull it off one day."
Victor let out a breath of laughter, awkward, caught off guard. He didn't know where to look.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"You don't have to thank me. You earned it. You fought for it. You've got everything you need. Except the beard. That, I can't help with," he snorted.
Victor laughed too, eyes shining. The word —son—was still ringing in his head like a quiet thunderclap. He was about to respond when a scream split the air.
Sharp. Terrified.
Female.
---
Victor, sword still in hand, sprinted back toward the camp alongside Édric. Their boots pounded the ground—loud, urgent. And as they burst into the central clearing, the sight hit them like a blow.
There were men.
Masked. Armed. Four at least—maybe five. Panic flickered across the faces of the camp members gathered there. A thick, unreal tension, like in a dream too sharp to be real.
And Emma. Held by one of them—a tall, brutal man—his arm locked tight around her waist, a knife pressed beneath her ribs.
Victor froze. A gust of cold air caught in his throat.
"Emma..."
He took a step forward, but Édric held him back with a firm arm.
"Wait."
Emma wasn't screaming. She was staring at Victor—and in her eyes, he saw everything: the fear, the pain... and the fury of being there, powerless.
The man holding her leaned further into her. He towered over her, forcing her to stay pinned against him, arm crushing her in place, the knife now angled just beneath her chest. The blade kissed the skin, far too close to her heart. He murmured something in her ear—Victor couldn't hear the words, but he saw the way she stiffened, lips tight, jaw locked.
The man pressed in closer, radiating smugness, his grinning mask glued to his face.
As if he already owned her.
Victor felt a terrible void open inside him.
Emma moved. Her hand slid toward her boot—toward the knife. He saw it. The tiny motion. The spark of hope.
But not fast enough.
The man noticed. He yanked her back hard, grabbed her wrist, and twisted it without care. A sickening crack split the air. Emma cried out—not in pain, but in rage. She didn't give in.
So he struck.
A sharp blow to the stomach. Victor heard the impact.
Emma doubled over from the pain, her breath knocked from her—but she didn't fall. Her free hand clenched. Her legs stayed straight. She was still standing. Still holding on.
Victor almost screamed. He took another step. Édric held him back—again.
"Not like this, Victor. If you charge in now, they'll kill her."
"This is because of me, Édric. They're here for me. They're hurting her because of me."
"We can flank them. Plan something. Buy time—"
"We don't have time. She just got hit. Because of me."
He was shaking.
One of the attackers raised his voice—rough, clear:
"It's simple. Give us the one-eyed rat. The one who snoops. The boy. And we let her go."
Silence.
"No arguing. No tricks. Hand him over, we walk away. Otherwise... she bleeds."
The entire camp froze.
Adam, propped against a post, his sleeve still stained with blood, was trying to push himself upright—but his legs trembled. He hadn't recovered.
Rufus stood right beside him. He didn't move. Didn't make a sound. Just clenched fists and shaking shoulders. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks. He wiped them with his sleeve, his eyes locked on Emma.
And Victor... Victor felt the world close in around him.
His one eye took in everything. The knife under Emma's ribs, its tip beneath her shirt. The way the man held her, limp against him like a ragdoll. The grotesque mask. The glee in every move.
He heard his own breathing—loud, erratic, like a war drum.
"I'll go," he whispered.
"No," Édric said sharply. "You don't know what they'll do. You know nothing about them."
"I know they're hitting the woman I love. I know they're touching her. And I'm just standing here."
"You think I want to watch you die?"
"No," Victor breathed. "But I want to see her live."
He slowly unbuckled the sword at his belt. Let it fall. Then turned to the armed group.
"I'm here," he said. "I'm the one you're looking for."
He raised his hands. Palms open. Offered.
"But you let her go. You release her."
The man holding Emma pressed the blade deeper. She flinched. The bastard laughed.
"Come closer, one-eye. We'll make the trade. My way."
"Do I have your word?"
"You get this."
He dragged the knife higher, to Emma's sternum.
"Step up, or I open her ribcage."
Victor inhaled—the taste of metal in his mouth. One step. Then another.
Behind him, Édric growled. A sound from deep in his chest—ready to explode.
Adam shut his eyes, fists trembling. Rufus clung to his sleeve like a lifeline.
Victor kept moving.
In his mind, only one word: set it right. He had to set things right. It was his fault. All of it. The attack. The fear. The blade at Emma's ribs. They had followed the crest, followed the blood in his veins.
He was the poison.
So he would pay.
He looked at Emma one last time. She was still standing, face drawn tight, fists clenched, her eyes locked on his. She shook her head—barely visible. Pleading. No. Don't do this.
He walked on anyway.
The moment he crossed the invisible line—hands still raised, shoulders taut—one of the men lunged. Fast. Precise.
A swift kick to the back of his knees. Victor collapsed forward, legs swept out, air knocked from his lungs in a strangled grunt. The ground scraped his wounded knee, dust burned in his throat. Before he could recover, rough hands seized him.
A rope. Coarse. Yanked tight around his wrists.
Tied. In front of everyone.
He lifted his gaze, head low. Saw their faces. Adam—pale, jaw locked with pain and helpless fury. Rufus—mouth open, frozen. Still crying, silently. Aldous—ready to kill.
And Édric... Édric was rigid. Fist clenched. Eyes black. Jaw steel. That tight, deadly stillness before a storm.
The man holding Emma allowed himself one final act. He leaned down, pressed his face against her red hair. Inhaled. Slowly. Deliberately. Just under her ear.
Victor saw Emma stiffen all over. Disgust twisted her face. But she didn't break. Not even then.
"Go. Walk forward. And smile," the man hissed.
She took a step. Shaking. Another. One arm curled over her stomach, breath stuttering. She walked toward her people, alone, forced forward like something discarded.
Édric finally moved.
He stepped up to meet her—calm, measured—as if refusing to run, refusing to feed the chaos. He reached her just as her legs gave out. Caught her. Gently. Wordless. Held her against his chest, one hand on her back, the other cradling her head.
Not to hold her back.
To hold her up.
"It's over," he murmured. "It's over."
She clenched her teeth, shook her head, then clung to him with all she had.
"No," she breathed. "It's not over at all."
And she was right.
Victor, still on the ground, felt the rope biting into his wrists. A man grabbed his shoulder and yanked him upright.
His gaze met Rufus's. Then Adam's. Both looked like they were about to scream.
He said nothing.
Just held their gaze. Watched Emma until the very last moment—even as they forced him to stand and turn his back to the clearing. He didn't look away, not once. Not even when one of the men struck the back of his head to force him forward.
He wanted her to see he was still standing.
Rough cloth was pressed over his eye. A blindfold—tied too tight, biting into his temple and brow. He said nothing. Gritted his teeth. Felt his arms stiffen. His wrists burn.
Then they dragged him into the forest.
Without a word.
And the silence they left behind had nothing of peace.
---
It took the camp a few seconds to breathe.
Then Emma collapsed.
Not with a scream. Not with any dramatic fall. She clung to Édric for one more second... then her legs simply gave out beneath her, like a body surrendering—not a heart. She sank to her knees, her hands digging into the earth.
Her wrist was red and bruised. Her shirt, stained with dust and sweat. But her eyes stayed fixed ahead, on the spot where Victor had vanished.
"He's gone," she whispered. "He's gone..."
Rufus stood beside Adam, face turned toward the trees, pale as a sheet. He wasn't crying anymore. Just... not breathing. As if the air itself had left with Victor.
Adam, still injured, held one hand pressed to his ribs, but his gaze was dark, almost feverish. He trembled with rage and helplessness.
No one spoke.
Even Aldous, who was usually the first to roar, just clenched his jaw, fists buried in his pockets.
Édric stood still for a long moment.
He stared at the place where Victor had disappeared. His eye—fixed, faraway. Something had cracked in his stance—not his strength. His restraint.
He slowly looked down at Emma, placed a hand on her shoulder to ground her, then straightened.
His voice cut through the silence like a blade:
"We need horses."