The road shimmered pale under the summer sun, cracked with old ruts, flanked by fields where weeds and wildflowers had crept back since the war ended. The air was thick with heat, buzzing with insects, heavy with the smell of dust and horse sweat. Every step scuffed up grit that clung to boots and coats, settling on skin like a second layer.
Victor walked in the middle of the line, the thrum of wagon wheels and mule hooves steady around him. A week had passed since the mine, since fire and blood and that voice—my son—and though his body had mostly mended, the words still dragged at him like iron weights. Sometimes he thought he still heard them when silence fell too long.
But Emma's voice kept cutting through.
She hummed softly as she worked her bowstring, the kind of tune that had no beginning or end, just little rises and falls like a bird flitting between branches. Her red hair caught the sun with every step. He found himself watching it, clinging to it, as though that glint could burn away the shadows inside him.
Ahead, Rufus darted from one side of the road to the other, kicking stones and nearly tripping on every root. Adam caught him by the collar with practiced ease, tugging him back into line.
"Oi, pup," Adam barked, though his scarred grin gave him away. "You trying to dig a new road with your face?"
Rufus squirmed and shot him a look. "I was tracking!"
"Tracking pebbles, were you? Careful, or the Great Hunter'll mistake you for one." Adam dropped his voice to a growl and made claws of his hands. Rufus yelped, laughed, then darted just out of reach. Adam let him go, shaking his head with exaggerated despair.
"Gods save me from orphans with too much energy."
Victor almost smiled—almost—but it snagged inside his chest.
Behind them, Édric's voice cut the heat like a blade:
Eyes on the road. Not on each other's heels."
He strode at the rear, shoulders squared, hand always near the hilt of his sword, gray eyes never still. He scanned the hedges, the ridges, every scrap of shadow. Even in summer light he carried winter with him.
At the head, Aldous marched like a boulder come to life, his broad back the marker for the whole troupe. Bran and two of the older veterans flanked him, muttering under their breath, watchful but not tense.
It could almost have been peace—dust and chatter, summer sky above, the creak of leather and rope.
Almost.
Victor brushed his hand against Emma's as they walked. She let it linger, warm and steady. His throat tightened at the simple weight of it.
The air changed before the land did. It carried something sharp, something restless. Not pine, not woodsmoke, but a taste that stung the nose and tongue like iron and left grit at the back of the throat.
Rufus noticed it first. He wrinkled his face, sniffed loudly, and trotted closer to Adam.
"Smells... strange."
Adam chuckled, ruffling the boy's hair with his broad hand. "That, pup, is the sea."
Rufus blinked up at him. "The... sea?"
"You'll see soon enough. Smells like a fishmonger's armpit, looks better."
"Adam!" Emma laughed, shaking her head.
They reached the ridge and stopped. And there it was.
The horizon split open. A sheet of water so vast it made the sky look smaller, silver-blue and restless, rolling against itself in endless shivers. The evening sun shattered on the waves, scattering light across the surface like broken glass. The smell hit fuller now: salt, fish, wet stone.
Rufus froze, then sprinted the last few steps, nearly tripping over his own boots. He stood at the very edge, wind in his hair, mouth open in pure disbelief.
"It... it doesn't stop! It just—keeps going!"
His voice cracked with wonder. He pointed furiously, hopping from one foot to the other as though he could catch every detail at once.
"There's boats! Look—tiny ones! And the water's moving, all of it, like it's alive—oh! It's so loud! Listen, listen!"
Victor tilted his head. Yes, there it was—the low roar, distant but steady, like a beast breathing in its sleep.
"Louder when you're close," Édric said.
Rufus whirled around, eyes bright. "Can we go close? Please?"
"Later," Adam said, smiling despite himself. "You'd drown before you got your boots off."
"I wouldn't!" Rufus protested, cheeks flushed.
"You would," Adam said flatly, but his hand never left the boy's shoulder.
The troupe moved down the slope, boots crunching on gravel. The village lay nestled along the bay's curve—low houses of stone and timber, their roofs thatched and bleached pale from sun and salt. Nets hung drying on racks. Smoke curled thin from chimneys. A few villagers paused their work, straightening to watch the strangers descend.
Children gawked openly. Women with baskets slowed their steps. Men leaned against doorframes, arms crossed, their gazes weighing each figure in turn. No open hostility, but wariness honed by habit: strangers always meant risk.
Aldous walked first, his heavy coat stirring the dust, the image of weathered authority. He raised a hand in greeting, voice steady.
"We seek only a place to rest by the well. We'll give work for water and space—repairs, lifting, keeping watch, whatever's needed."
A gray-bearded fisherman at the edge of the square answered after a long pause. His eyes swept over Édric's scars, Adam's height, Emma's bow, Victor's drawn face, Rufus clinging to Adam's coat. Then he nodded, curt.
"You'll have space. Keep to the edge of the square, near the well. Pay with your backs, not your blades, and we'll have no quarrel."
"Fair," Aldous replied.
The villagers dispersed, muttering, but no one barred their path.
The troupe filed into the square, their boots stirring dust, their shadows stretching long in the sea-tinged light. Behind them, the horizon still roared. Before them, wary eyes. But the deal was struck: water for labor, rest for effort.
They had a place, for tonight.
---
The sun slid down toward the horizon, painting the roofs in bronze and sending long shadows over the square where the troupe was allowed to settle. Their wagons were drawn near the well, mules unhitched, bundles and bedrolls spread in practiced order. Smoke rose quick from a small fire Bran had coaxed out of dry sticks, and the smell of fish and barley soon thickened the air as the pot bubbled.
Rufus had not sat still since their boots hit the village. He darted between Adam and the fire like a restless bird, chattering about the sea, his hands sketching waves as tall as mountains.
"It never ends! It's bigger than the sky, I swear!"
Adam caught him mid-flight by the back of his tunic and sat him on a log with a thump. "Sit before you trip into the pot and we all eat boiled Rufus for supper."
The boy squeaked but wriggled loose again. "But you promised tomorrow!"
Adam groaned, throwing his head back. "Yes, Rufus, tomorrow, we'll march into the waves like mad fools, frighten all the fish, and you'll freeze your toes off. Now sit." He pushed him gently back down, though his grin betrayed him.
Emma laughed under her breath as she unstrapped her quiver, running her thumb over the fletchings. "You'll spoil him," she said.
"Better spoiled than sour," Adam shot back. "Boy's seen enough sour." He winked at Rufus, who puffed up proudly at being defended.
Victor knelt beside her, laying their packs in a neat line, but he didn't move far once the task was done. His hand lingered at her back, his knee brushed hers whenever she shifted. Emma finally turned to him with an amused raise of her brow.
"You're very close tonight," she teased softly.
He ducked his head, muttering, "Is that a problem?"
"No," she admitted, her smile gentling, "but I could trip over you."
He let out a shaky laugh, then slid his arm around her waist openly, tugging her closer. His forehead pressed briefly to her temple, the gesture almost boyish in its need. Emma stilled, then leaned into him, letting him have the closeness he clearly craved. Since the mine, she'd noticed it: the way he reached more, held longer, as if anchoring himself with every touch. Not only with her, but Edric, Adam, Rufus as well.
The pot hissed as Bran stirred it. "It'll be ready soon. Don't let Rufus eat half the bread before we sit."
"Too late!" Rufus crowed, already gnawing on a crust. Adam swiped it out of his hands, tore it in two, and shoved the bigger piece back at him with a scowl.
Édric had been standing a little apart, his eyes on the streets around the square, but now he finally sat. With a grunt, he lowered himself beside Aldous, the firelight softening the harsh lines of his face. He didn't speak at first, just stretched his legs toward the heat. His shoulders eased a fraction, his hand straying from his sword hilt at last.
"Thought you'd keep pacing till dawn," Aldous muttered without looking up.
"Not tonight," Édric said simply. He reached for a ladle when Bran passed it, serving Rufus first without comment, then Adam, then himself.
Rufus grinned, triumphant. "See? He's not all stone."
Adam barked a laugh. "Careful, pup. He'll turn you into stone if you talk back too much."
But Édric only rolled his eyes and, shockingly, smirked faintly into his bowl.
The camp filled with the small music of evening life: spoons scraping, fire popping, Rufus slurping so loud Adam cuffed him gently on the back of the head. Emma leaned her shoulder into Victor's, murmuring something that made him smile crookedly. He kissed her hair without thinking, and when she swatted his chest in mock-annoyance, the others only smirked and let them be.
After the first bowls were emptied, the talk turned.
"This land," Aldous rumbled, "I fought over it years ago. Salt in the air, blades in the mud. Hard to believe we were spilling blood where children now chase chickens."
Édric nodded once, gaze distant. "We lost men in those fields." He jerked his chin toward the dark outline of the coast. "The sea carried the rest away."
Adam, never one to let silence grow too thick, clapped Rufus's shoulder. "I passed here later. Different war, same salt. Miserable months. Nearly froze. Nearly starved. And I still came back. Must be cursed."
"Or stubborn," Aldous said.
"As hell," Adam agreed cheerfully.
Rufus leaned forward, eyes wide. "And you won?"
Adam snorted. "No one wins. We just... keep walking after the others stop."
That silenced Rufus for once, his gaze slipping to Victor, who sat listening with a far-off look. Emma's hand covered his under the blanket.
"We'll work tomorrow," Bran reminded the circle, breaking the moment. "They've nets to mend, wood to split. If we pull our weight, they'll let us stay longer."
"Then we'll pull," Édric said firmly.
The fire burned low. One by one, bowls were scraped clean, cloaks pulled tight, places chosen to bed down. The camp shifted into softer rhythms: Adam showing Rufus how to tie his bedroll properly, Emma smoothing Victor's hair back from his eyes, Édric and Aldous sharing quiet words by the embers.
For the first time in days, laughter hummed through their little camp.
---
Later, when the campfire had sunk to glowing coals and Rufus was finally asleep, Victor still hadn't settled. He sat on the edge of his bedroll, staring past the canvas of the wagon at the faint lanterns in the village. He could still feel the stares from earlier—men pausing in their work to watch Emma pass, women muttering about her trousers, the flash of her hair in the sun.
She had walked head high, unfazed, but Victor's chest had knotted tighter with each glance. The memory of the count's men—of rough hands dragging her into the dark—had rooted itself too deep. Every look felt like a threat waiting to bloom.
Édric's shadow loomed before Victor even heard his step. The older man lowered himself onto the log beside him with a grunt, pulling a strip of jerky from his belt. He chewed once, twice, then asked, "What's gnawing at you this time?"
Victor hesitated, jaw tight. "The way they looked at her."
Édric followed his gaze to where Emma's silhouette lay curled under a blanket near the fire, her bow within arm's reach even in sleep. "And?"
"And I don't like it." Victor's fists clenched on his knees. "They stared, Édric. They—"
"They looked," Édric corrected evenly. "She's young. She's beautiful. She's walking into their square with red hair like fire and trousers instead of skirts. People will look."
Victor shot him a sharp glance. "You sound too calm about it."
"Because not all eyes are knives." Édric's tone was steady, but his gaze was sharp. "You think I don't see danger when it's there? I've lived longer than you've breathed, boy. If there'd been threat in those looks, you'd have felt steel before you saw it."
Victor's shoulders hunched. "I can't— I can't see her hurt again."
Something in his voice cracked, raw enough that Édric's sternness softened. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees. "Listen. What happened back there—filth. The world is full of men like him, yes. But it's also full of men who will glance and move on. Don't chain her to your fear."
Victor swallowed hard, throat tight. "What if I miss it next time?"
"Then I won't." Édric's gray eyes caught the firelight, steady as stone. "That's the bargain, isn't it? You watch her. I watch you. We cover the gaps. That's how we keep walking."
For a long moment, Victor sat silent, the knot in his chest loosening by inches. Finally, he let out a shaky breath and nodded once.
Édric leaned back, tearing another bite of jerky. "Besides," he added dryly, "if you jump at every glance, Emma'll tire of you faster than any enemy could."
Despite himself, Victor huffed a laugh. "She already does."
Édric's mouth tugged in a ghost of a smile. "Good. Means she loves you proper."