The horses slowed as they neared the camp. Silhouettes took shape in the glow of the fires, alerted by the pounding of hooves. Adam was the first to rise, his good hand resting on Rufus's shoulder, the boy pressed tightly against him. But Emma was already running.
She crossed the space between the tents almost blindly, her eyes fixed on the shadow sliding down from the saddle. Édric dismounted in a heavy motion, still covered in dried blood, and Victor, hesitant, pulled himself free of his grasp. His legs trembled, but his eyes searched immediately for Emma—and he hadn't taken a step before she was there.
"Victor…"
Her voice broke. Her fingers brushed his face, his shortened black hair, hacked off in uneven strands. A sharp breath escaped her, almost a cry, as she realized his hair had been cut in the struggle.
"Your… your hair…"
He followed her gaze, let her touch a stray lock damp with sweat. Then, with a fragile motion, he caught her hand. His eyes fell instantly on her wrist, crudely bandaged, the skin beneath already bruised purple.
"And you," he rasped, his voice low, rough. "They…?"
She shook her head quickly, as if to erase the worry.
"It's nothing. Not compared to—"
But he didn't let her finish. His fingers tightened around hers, and he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers in a raw, instinctive gesture, burning with emotion. Emma, trembling, rose on her toes and kissed him. At first it was brief, almost clumsy, but Victor responded at once, his lips finding hers with desperate intensity.
When they parted, her eyes were wet, his gleamed in the shadows.
"You came back," she whispered.
A breath escaped him, like a strangled laugh.
"Thanks to him," he said, glancing toward Édric.
Emma, unable to speak further, simply pulled him into her arms, holding his shaking body tight as if to make sure he would never be taken from her again.
They stayed like that, clinging to each other, until a shadow approached behind them. Emma reluctantly let go, just enough for Adam to set a firm hand on Victor's shoulder and pull him in without ceremony.
"Bloody idiot," Adam muttered, his voice low but shaking. "You scared the hell out of me."
Victor managed a broken smile against his chest, his body still rattled by the dregs of adrenaline.
"I survived, didn't I?"
"Yeah. And I won't thank luck for it."
He held him tighter, rough and protective, before letting him go with reluctance. Rufus, who had lingered half-hidden behind Adam, finally stepped forward. He still rubbed at reddened eyes, but he planted himself in front of Victor, lips trembling.
"Did… did they hurt you?"
Victor crouched immediately to his height. He hesitated, unable to lie to those wide, worried eyes.
"A little," he admitted softly.
He raised his free hand, palm open like a vow.
"But it's over, Rufus. It's over now."
The boy wavered, then suddenly threw himself forward, arms locked around Victor's neck. Caught off guard, Victor staggered but instantly wrapped his arms around him, as though that small weight anchored him back to earth.
Adam looked away for a moment, swallowing hard. Emma, lips pressed tight, watched them all three, her fingers brushing unconsciously over her bruised wrist.
Victor drew a deep breath, held in their tangled embraces. For the first time since the night began, he truly felt he was home.
The little crowd began to close in, voices whispering, eyes turning toward Victor. Édric straightened abruptly, his imposing shadow cut sharp against the firelight.
"That's enough," he said, his voice grave, slicing clean through the murmurs. "Let him breathe. He's back—that's all that matters."
Silence fell instantly. Even Adam stepped back, pulling Rufus with him. Aldous emerged from the dark, his coat damp with dew. He looked at Édric, then at the gathered camp.
"We can't just stand here," he said firmly. "Not after what happened there. We break camp at first light. For now, the watch is doubled."
His eyes settled on Victor, still taut and hollow-eyed.
"You, you're excused."
"No," Victor answered at once, almost too quickly. "I'll take my shift."
A heavy sigh escaped Aldous. But he didn't press—the quick glance he shared with Édric was enough to know the man would keep watch himself.
The camp dispersed, but Victor stayed where he was, sword in hand, his eyes red from smoke and exhaustion. His figure looked small in Édric's towering shadow, yet wound tight as a bowstring, refusing to yield to fatigue.
"You'll fall before your shift, son," Édric said, softer than he meant to.
The word, spoken without thought, vibrated in the air. Victor blinked, as if hearing it for the first time, truly. His lips parted, trembling, but no words came. Then suddenly, he closed the gap and hurled himself against him.
It was abrupt, awkward, almost brutal—a child's lunge, not a soldier's. His arms locked around Édric's torso, his fingers dug into the coarse fabric of his coat. His forehead pressed into his chest, where the heavy heartbeat thudded.
"Thank you," he whispered hoarsely, almost broken. "Thank you for bringing me back… thank you for not leaving me…"
The words tripped, strangled, but they forced their way out, heavy with everything he had never dared to say.
"I thought I'd never see anyone again."
Édric froze at first. He felt something wrench inside him, the walls he'd built straining all at once. His hand rose, hesitated, then settled at Victor's nape. And then he embraced him back. Not halfway. Not out of duty. With all his strength, with all he'd held in.
He held the boy like his own blood.
"You don't owe me thanks," he murmured, his voice rough, choked with emotion. "I'm the one who owes you."
Victor buried his face in his chest, and a sound close to a sob broke free. He no longer had the strength to hold it in.
Édric closed his eyes, throat tight, and let it last a moment too long. He wanted to say more, but no word felt enough. So he simply kept him close, until he felt the boy's shoulders sag, exhaustion finally stronger than will.
He eased him back, firm but gentle.
"Go. Emma's waiting. Sleep."
Victor nodded, unable to speak, and staggered toward the tent. Before ducking under the canvas, he cast one last glance at Édric, his eyes shining with wordless gratitude.
---
When the flap fell behind him, Victor's legs nearly gave way. The lamplight painted soft shadows across the blankets, across Emma's face as she was already rising. Her eyes locked onto him at once, bright and swollen with worry.
"Victor…"
He tried to smile, but it was a weary grimace. His clumsy fingers fumbled with the straps of his coat, but Emma was already there, close, her hands firm and steady. She undid the buckles one by one, her movements quick yet unbearably tender, as if each knot undone pulled a little weight off him.
The coat slid off. Emma gasped sharply. His skin bore the marks of the fight: cuts, purple bruises, scratches. Every scar screamed at her. She touched his arm lightly, her eyes fixed on the unevenly shorn locks of his hair.
"They put you through hell…"
Her voice broke. Victor gave a weak smile.
"I'm here. That's all that matters."
But his knees buckled. She caught him, her arms slipping under his. He let her guide him to the blankets, and his heart clenched when he realized she was trembling almost as much as he was.
Sitting, he tried to pull off his shirt, but the sleeves clung, stiff with dried blood. Emma laid her hands over his.
"Let me."
Carefully, she freed him from the fabric, exposing his battered chest. In the lamp's glow, every wound stood out stark. Her eyes filled, but she refused to let the tears fall. She fetched a vial, clean cloth, and knelt before him.
When the damp fabric touched his skin, Victor shivered. Not from pain—but from the tenderness that burned hotter than any blow. His eyes closed against his will, his breath uneven.
"You don't have to—"
"Of course I do. You think I could sleep if I didn't?"
She dabbed, bound, caressed more than she healed. With each motion, her hands said: you're alive, you're mine, you're not alone. Victor leaned forward, unable to contain it, and caught her free hand. His lips brushed her fingers, slick with salve.
"Emma…"
She lifted her head, her wet eyes meeting his. Then she kissed him—slow, lingering, longer than any word, steadying his lips, cooling the fire in his body. When she drew back, his eyes shone, almost childlike in their vulnerability.
"You came back," she said, like a prayer.
He nodded, throat tight.
Emma pulled him down, laying him against her, his body curled into hers. Her warmth, her scent, her steady breath wrapped around him. Victor anchored himself, his cheek pressed to her chest, his fingers gripping her side as if afraid to lose her still.
"Stay," he murmured, half-asleep already, the word trembling with confession.
"I'm here," she whispered into his hair. "Always."
---
Dawn barely filtered through the trees, pale streaks across the mist that still clung to the tents. The camp moved in silence: mules harnessed, packs heaved into carts, Aldous and the veterans murmuring orders. Every gesture carried the quiet urgency of those who knew they had to vanish fast.
Victor stumbled out of the tent, hair disheveled, the grey light sharpening his drawn features, the hacked locks sticking to his forehead. Adam spotted him immediately and seized his arm.
"Come here."
He dragged him behind a cart. Without a word, he drew a knife, wet with dew. Victor flinched.
"What are you—"
"Hold still, idiot. Your hair's a mess."
A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Adam raised the blade and, with steady hands, began trimming the jagged strands. His fingers parted them carefully, his touch oddly gentle for a man so used to steel and wood.
"There," he muttered, focused. "Better than that butchery."
Victor stood still, eyes lowered, a heavy silence between them. Then, in a low voice, he said:
"Yesterday… I met my father. He was the one who sent those bastards."
Adam froze, knife suspended midair.
"Your…?"
Victor inhaled, fists clenched.
"My biological father. He was there. A thug, a gang leader. When he found out who I was, he thought I'd follow him. When he saw I wouldn't… he tried to break me."
The words tore out, raw, rough in his throat. Adam put the knife away, eyes fixed on him.
"We don't know if he's dead," Victor went on, softer. "But… he had a troop. Men. Scattered, but… they may not stop. That's why Aldous wants us gone."
Adam set a broad hand on his shoulder, pressing down like an anchor.
"Listen to me, Vic. That man… he might've given you blood. But he has nothing to do with who you are."
Victor clenched his jaw, his eyes glistening. Adam shook his shoulder lightly, forcing eye contact.
"You already have a brother. And a father. And they're not with those bastards."
Victor blinked, startled by the fierce tenderness in his voice. Adam's lips curled in a half-smile.
"And anyway… you could've let me die a hundred times over, but you didn't. So quit thinking your blood decides for you."
Victor dropped his head, exhaling long. The weight in his chest eased a little. He only nodded.
"Thanks, Adam."
"Tsk, cut it out," the scarred man grumbled, picking up the knife to even one last strand. "Better say: Thanks, big brother, who saves my ass again—without your barber skills, how would I keep wooing my beloved?"
A strangled laugh broke from Victor, unexpected but real. Adam cuffed him lightly on the neck, rough but full of affection.
"There. Now go help. If you wanna prove you're solid, start by carrying a bag."
---
They were ready.
At the front, Adam had taken his place beside Aldous. His tall frame towered over Rufus's small one, the boy trotting at his side, sometimes clutching the hem of his coat. Adam bent to murmur something; Rufus nodded, focused, a timid smile stretching his lips. Aldous, rigid as stone, kept his eyes on the trees, his steady stride giving the group its anchor.
Further back, Emma checked her bow. She drew the string, inspected it, adjusted her quiver. The morning light caught her hair, setting it aglow. When she lifted her eyes, she saw Victor a few paces behind. For an instant, the world narrowed to just that. Their gazes met, and she gave that small smile—subtle, but burning with all they hadn't needed to say last night.
At the rear, Édric tightened his belt and kept watch on the path. Victor moved to his side, still stiff with fatigue and pain. The man sized him up with one glance, then, in a gesture both rough and tender, ruffled his hair. Not like to a fellow fighter. Like to a son.
Victor blinked in surprise. Then his lips curved in a rare, radiant smile, splitting through his exhaustion. Warmth swelled in his chest, and he let out a soft laugh, light and unburdened, long forgotten. He nodded once, silent promise, before striding forward to join Emma.
She was waiting. When his arm slid around her waist, she leaned against him without hesitation, her fingers clinging to his back as naturally as breathing. They walked in step, side by side, and Victor bent to murmur something that made her smile wider.
Behind them, Édric watched from the corner of his eye. His face stayed impassive, but a ghost of a smile brushed his lips. He straightened, eyes back on the trail, though the hardness had eased.
The convoy moved out. Wagon wheels groaned over drying mud, mule hooves struck a steady rhythm, and the group filed onto the path. Their shapes stretched into the rising light, still fragile, but steady.
For Victor, every step rang like release. Behind him, fire, blood, and the shadow of a father he'd never claim. Ahead, an uncertain road—but one walked with those who truly mattered. Emma at his side. Adam and Rufus, inseparable. Édric, steadfast, in the rear. Aldous, stone guardian at the front.
His family. Not of blood, but chosen—and who had chosen him in return.
He pulled Emma closer. She rested her head briefly on his shoulder. Their breaths mingled. And at the heart of this departure, Victor felt for the first time in years something fragile but fierce: hope.
The sun broke the mist. Their shadows stretched long across the path. They were no longer just survivors fleeing the past.
They were becoming something else.
A family on the move.