The hallway felt colder than the room they left behind.
Damien didn't walk fast. He moved with quiet certainty, like someone who didn't need to hurry because everything already belonged to him.
Aurora followed.
No one stopped them. The director didn't reappear. The other staff kept out of sight. Maybe they'd been told to. Maybe they knew better.
They stepped out into the winter air. The sky was grey, the ground half-frozen. Carriages were lined up along the front road, most already gone. Only one remained.
It was black, with silver trim. No family crest. No symbols. Simple. But clean. Shiny. Too clean for the dirt and mud around it.
The horses were still, tall and sleek. The driver gave Damien a quiet nod, then stepped aside.
Aurora stared.
The carriage didn't look like anything special at first. But the closer she got, the more she saw. The detail in the trim. The polish on the wood. The shine on the steps.
Damien opened the door for her himself.
"Go on," he said.
She climbed in slowly, like the seat might vanish when she touched it.
It didn't.
It was soft. Deep. Warmer than she expected. The walls were lined with dark velvet, and the windows had small silk curtains tied with silver strings. The whole thing smelled faintly of cedar and something she didn't recognize—something expensive.
She sank into the seat slowly. Not leaning back. Not yet.
Damien climbed in after her and shut the door. The space was quiet, warm. Like its own little world.
Aurora ran her hand over the armrest. She'd never touched anything like it. Not even close.
After a moment, Damien looked at her.
"You don't have to be quiet," he said gently.
She looked at him, startled, like she'd forgotten he was there.
He smiled a little.
"I know this is a lot. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. But you can."
Aurora looked down at her lap. Then out the window, where the orphanage was already fading behind them.
After a moment, she whispered, "It's really soft."
Damien let out a quiet breath—half a chuckle, half a sigh.
"I'm glad you think so."
She looked at him again. Careful. "What should I call you?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then he leaned back, resting one arm on the seat.
"You can call me Damien," he said. "Or you can call me Father. Either one."
Aurora nodded once, slow.
"But not 'Lord,'" he added. "Please. I'm not your master. I won't be."
She sat still for a few seconds. Then she leaned back into the seat for the first time. Carefully.
"…Okay," she said.
And for a while, they rode in silence. Not the cold silence of the orphanage.
The warm kind. The kind that didn't need to be filled.
The wheels hummed beneath them. The carriage swayed gently as they moved down the road, away from the orphanage, away from everything Aurora had ever known.
She didn't speak much. Just watched the outside roll by through the little window. Cold trees. Stone fences. Empty fields. All of it looked different somehow, even though she'd seen these roads before.
Maybe because this time, she wasn't walking.
They'd been traveling for maybe half an hour when she heard the soft drumming of hooves.
At first, she thought it was just another passing rider. But then there were more. Rhythmic. Controlled. Purposeful.
She sat up straighter and turned to look out the other side.
There, riding alongside the carriage, were knights. Four of them. Clad in black and silver, light armor shining in places, each bearing a blade and a small crest she didn't recognize.
They weren't surrounding the carriage. Just riding near it. Like it was natural. Like they belonged there.
"Who are they?" Aurora asked, voice quiet.
Damien looked out the window beside her, then back.
"They're the family knights," he said. "Silverwood's personal guard."
Aurora blinked.
"…They follow you?"
He nodded. "They've followed our family for generations. They'll keep us safe."
She didn't know what to say to that.
One of the knights glanced in her direction through the window. A younger one. His helmet was off, hanging at his side. His hair was blond and a little wind-tangled. He caught her eye—and smiled.
Not smug. Not mocking.
Just warm.
Aurora looked away fast. Her ears burned.
She stared down at her hands and gripped the rosary a little tighter.
Damien noticed.
He didn't comment. Just leaned forward slightly, reached for the carriage window, and slid it open.
The wind rushed in for a moment. The nearest knight rode closer, his horse calm and well-trained.
"Sir?" the knight asked.
"Reserve a clothier in the next town," Damien said. "Preferably one that won't waste our time. My daughter needs proper clothing."
The knight nodded. "Yes, my Lord."
"And have the others spread the word ahead," Damien added. "She's to be treated as kin of Silverwood. No exceptions."
"Yes, my Lord." The knight saluted, then pulled ahead to carry out the order.
Damien slid the window shut. The wind vanished again.
Aurora looked at him, unsure. "…You didn't have to."
"I did," he said simply. "You're wearing scraps."
She glanced down at her dress. She had no argument there.
Still, no one had ever said that kind of thing like it mattered.
Not with the intent to fix it.
She leaned back in the seat again. Not fully relaxed. But not stiff anymore, either.
"…Thank you," she said.
Damien didn't say anyth
ing right away.
Then he gave her the smallest smile.
"You're welcome."
The carriage rocked gently as it rolled through the countryside. Outside the windows, the world blurred past — pale skies, bare trees, little patches of frost. Inside, it was quiet. Warm. Almost peaceful.
Aurora had stopped sitting so stiff. Not fully relaxed, but not on edge anymore. Her fingers still traced the rosary now and then, like they needed something to do.
She looked at Damien.
"Can I ask something?"
He turned his head toward her. "Of course."
"…Do you have a wife?"
The words came out quietly, like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to ask. Her eyes didn't quite meet his.
Damien was quiet for a moment.
"No," he said. "She passed away. Years ago."
Aurora glanced up at him.
"I'm sorry," she said.
He nodded once. "Thank you."
The silence hung for a few seconds, not heavy — just honest.
"But I do have children," he added. "Three boys."
Her expression shifted, just slightly.
He smiled faintly. "They're good boys. And they know about you. I told them you were coming."
She hesitated. "Are they okay with it?"
"They're more than okay. They've been waiting."
She looked out the window, voice barely above a whisper. "Are they older than me?"
"Yes. Alec is seventeen. Rowan's fifteen. Silas is fourteen."
She repeated the names under her breath. "Alec. Rowan. Silas."
"They've never had a sister," hae said. "But they want one. And they want you."
That stopped her for a second.
"Even though I'm not…" She didn't finish the sentence.
Damien looked at her gently. "You are. Now."
Aurora sat back in the seat again, her fingers curled around the rosary.
The road went on.
Aurora sat quietly, her head resting against the velvet-lined window. Her fingers still touched the rosary, but only loosely now. The warmth of the carriage, the soft motion, the steady silence — it all pulled at her eyes like a lullaby.
Damien didn't speak. He just watched her with a quiet sort of care.
And after a while, she drifted off.
Her breath slowed. Her hand fell gently into her lap. Sleep took her.
---
In the dream, she was standing in a forest — but it didn't feel cold. The trees were silver. The light between them pulsed gently, like breath. Everything shimmered softly, like it had been dusted in stars.
And then she saw him.
A figure. Not quite human. Not quite anything else. Tall. Gentle. His body was made of light — soft and glowing, shifting with color like dawn breaking through fog. No face, not exactly. But not faceless, either.
And somehow, she knew him.
He didn't speak at first. He just knelt down in front of her, like someone greeting a child they'd missed for a long, long time.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"My daughter," he said.
The words didn't echo. They settled. Warm and deep, like they'd been waiting to be said.
Aurora didn't run. Didn't question. She just stared, eyes wide.
"You are safe now," he said. "Silverwood will hold you. You may rest."
She opened her mouth, but no sound came. She wasn't afraid. But her chest ached, like something inside her remembered and didn't know why.
The creature of light reached out — not to touch her, just to let her see.
"You are watched over," he said. "Even when you forget."
The forest shimmered brighter for a moment, as if the whole world breathed with him.
And then—
The dream faded.
---
Aurora blinked awake, the carriage still rocking gently beneath her. Her head was resting against the window. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes.
Damien noticed but didn't speak. Just waited.
She didn't say anything at first. Then, still groggy, still trying to hold on to whatever that had been, she whispered:
"…Someone called me daughter."
Damien looked at her gently.
"You are."