Morning came with the cry of gulls and the smell of resin—boats being tarred down on the strand. By the time the troupe rounded the last dune, the village lay below them like a handful of chalk houses spilled along a blue scythe of water. Nets hung to dry like dark skins. Men in rolled shirts hauled crates; women with kerchiefs rinsed baskets in surf that foamed like beaten milk.
Rufus forgot to breathe.
"Easy, pup," Adam laughed, steadying him with a palm to the chest. "It's not trying to eat you. It's saying hello."
Rufus swatted at him, grinning so hard his face hurt.
They followed the track down into the market proper. Summer made everything sharp—the fish stink, the tar, the salt. Stalls were set haphazard in a square of packed sand: baskets of small silver fish shining like coins; coils of rope; pots; coarse lengths of homespun; a boy with a tray of limpets; a man sharpening knives with a slow ringing scrape that raised the hairs on Victor's arms.
People looked up.
They always did. Édric was impossible to miss. Aldous wore authority like a coat he no longer cared to hide: back straight, jaw set, eyes that weighed and moved on. Emma walked with chin high, braid bright as a copper wire down her back, trousers dusty, bow unstrung but visible; she drew glances the way a brazier draws cold hands. And Victor—Victor with the patch and the silence and the blade at his side—saw the stallholders take him in, then take in the others, and choose curiosity over fear. Mostly.
"Keep it simple," Aldous murmured, not looking at anyone. "We need thread, salt, a whetstone. Offer help before we ask favors."
Édric grunted assent and peeled off toward a fisherman swearing under a cart that had sunk axle-deep. Adam ghosted after him with Rufus trotting hot at his heels. Emma stopped to talk nets with an old woman who clearly didn't want advice until she realized Emma knew what she was doing. Victor hung back, scanning without seeming to.
That was when he noticed the two men.
Not guards. Their clothes were ordinary—salt-bleached shirts, plain trousers—but they moved with a different kind of weight, an ease that said they were used to walking into places and being obeyed. One had a ledger tucked under his arm. The other had a cudgel tucked nowhere because he didn't care if anyone saw it. They went stall to stall. People paid—coin, fish, cloth. No one argued. The ledger man's mouth barely moved; the cudgel man didn't need to.
Victor's jaw tightened. Every coast has its carrion birds, Aldous had said once. He watched the arc those two traced through the square. They didn't look at the troupe. Good. Better.
"North star," Adam announced loudly, ruining the thought. He'd scooped Rufus up under the arms and set him atop the stuck cart like a triumphant flag. "You direct. I push. Captain Rufus, point your finger at our glory."
Rufus pointed at nowhere at all, laughing. Édric put his back to the cart. Adam braced. The fisherman grunted and scrambled. The wheels heaved free of the sand with a wet sucking sound. The cart lurched forward and settled on firmer ground. The fisherman stared.
"Good turn deserves a good price," he said gruffly, forcing dignity back over gratitude. "Take what you need at my stall. I'll not be cheated."
"We're not here to cheat," Édric said. It wasn't apology, exactly. It was a statement of law. The fisherman nodded anyway.
They made the rounds without ruffling feathers. Emma haggled for thread with a competence that made the stallholder laugh and shake her head. Aldous looked over whetstones like a bishop over scripture and picked one that sang true. Adam bartered a coil of rope down by the excuse of Rufus's smile. Victor carried and lifted and smiled when he had to, kept his one good eye on the two collectors and the way shadows tended to thicken around men like that.
At a potter's stand, a woman touched Emma's sleeve. "Not many girls shoot here," she said—not unkindly, but testing.
"Not many boys either," Emma said, easy. She leaned on the stall and asked about glaze, and by the time they were done they were laughing. Victor felt his shoulders ease a fraction—right up until a pair of young men by the fish stall cut their eyes at Emma and nudged each other, whispering.
He moved without thinking, stepping into their line of sight like a wall discovering itself. The boys flinched, then looked away deliberately, mouths hard. A prickle climbed Victor's spine. The cut on his brow from the mine still ached in damp weather. He felt it throb.
A hand, heavy and calm, closed on the back of his neck—Édric. "Leave it."
"They're looking," Victor said, too softly.
"They're looking because she shines," Édric reminded.
Victor made himself breathe. Emma had noticed nothing or chosen to ignore everything; she was holding up a length of cloth to see the light through it. He watched the world the way Édric had taught him—angles, distances, hands, mouths. The two collectors had finished their loop. The ledger closed with a soft slap. The cudgel tapped his boot, an idle rhythm. They drifted toward the alley between houses and were gone.
"Carrion birds," Aldous muttered when they regrouped by the square's edge. "Everywhere the war ended, they roosted."
"We're not a carcass," Emma said.
"No." Aldous's mouth moved, something like pride there and gone. "We aren't."
Adam, meanwhile, had accepted from some merciful soul a slice of bread slathered in fish paste, which he immediately offered to Rufus. Rufus bit and made a face like he'd chewed a tide.
"You'll learn," Adam said, solemn. "The sea is an acquired taste. Like me."
"That so?" Victor called over his shoulder.
"Sadly," Adam sighed. "The best things are bad at first."
"You were bad long after first," Emma said.
"Untrue slander," Adam declared, and Rufus laughed so loud he startled a gull into the air.
Midday, the troupe regathered at the edge of the square with their small winnings: salt, twine, soap, a cracked comb Emma swore she could mend, a wedge of hard cheese shared in thief-thin slices.
"Work tomorrow," Aldous said, ticking off with two fingers. "Smith wants help righting a beam. Net-mender needs strong hands to stretch line. And the well crank's stiff. We can fix it; they'll think of us kindly when the buckets don't scream."
"Good," Édric said. He pitched his voice sideways. "Keep clear of men who walk like they're quiet."
Adam followed the line of his chin. "Those two?" he murmured. "They look like they smell their own breath."
"Mm," Édric said. Which in Édric meant: yes.
Rufus tugged at Adam's sleeve until Adam bent in half. "Sea?" the boy breathed, as if the word itself might evaporate if spoken too loud.
"Sea," Adam granted. "Let's go teach your toes to swim."
Emma's eyes lit. "We'll come."
Victor glanced at Édric, half-expecting resistance. The man only gave a slow nod.
"Don't go past the pier. Keep him between you and the shore."
Victor's shoulders eased. Édric's gaze lingered a moment longer, steady, like a weight that held rather than pressed. Then, with the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, he added:
"Bring me back proof it exists."
"A fish?" Adam offered instantly.
"A shell," Édric corrected. "Fish rot. Shells remember."
Adam winked. "Hear that, pup? We're going to rob the sea of its memory."
Rufus lit up like a lantern. He took Adams's hand with his right, and pulled. The four of them a small bright knot in the salt-bright afternoon, while behind them Aldous and Édric watched—one counting tasks, one counting shadows—and decided, without saying it, that for today this would do.
---
Rufus was the first to reach the sand. He kicked off his boots halfway down the slope and tumbled the rest of the way barefoot, shrieking when the first lick of foam wrapped around his ankles. The sea breathed in and out, endless, loud, and Rufus looked as if he'd just stepped into a dream.
"Adam! It moves!" he shouted, splashing knee-deep, then backpedaling when a wave rose higher, laughing so hard he almost tripped.
Adam trudged down after him, slower, arms crossed as if unimpressed, though his grin betrayed him. "Careful, pup, it'll swallow you whole and spit you out as a crab."
Rufus gasped, wide-eyed. "You're lying!"
"I'm not," Adam deadpanned. "That's how we got Bran."
Victor barked a laugh despite himself. Emma rolled her eyes but couldn't fight her smile.
Rufus didn't care; he was already chasing gulls, stooping to scoop up clumps of seaweed only to drop them with another shriek when the slippery fronds brushed his skin. Each discovery sent him running back, eyes wide, grin feral with joy.
Emma followed at a slower pace, boots in hand. She knelt by a tide pool, calling Rufus over. "Look here. See them?" She pointed at a scatter of tiny shells, striped and pale, clinging to the rock like gems.
Rufus crouched beside her, nose nearly touching the water. "They're alive?"
"Yes," she murmured, smiling as he reached, hesitated, then gently brushed one with his fingertip. "You have to be gentle. See how they close?"
Victor hung back, leaning against a rock, watching. The sea breeze pushed Emma's hair back, wild and copper-bright. Her laugh carried, light and free in a way he hadn't heard in months. He found himself smiling too, awkward, soft, as if he'd been caught off guard by his own happiness.
Adam joined him, planting himself at his side with a grunt. He didn't speak for a while, only watched the two crouched figures by the pool: Emma showing, Rufus glowing. The surf hissed against the rocks, gulls wheeled, and for once, Adam was quiet.
When Rufus bolted off again toward the foam, arms outspread like a gull himself, Adam's voice finally broke the silence. Low, half to the waves:
"Never thought I'd end up here with you two. Not like this."
Victor turned, startled by the rough edge in his tone. Adam didn't meet his eye; he was staring out at the horizon, scar catching the light.
Victor said carefully, "Not a bad place to end up."
Adam huffed a laugh, but it wasn't his usual bark. "Not bad. Just... different. Rufus. Emma. You." His jaw worked as if the words scraped on the way out. "You're... you're mine, somehow. Didn't think I had that in me."
Victor's chest tightened. He searched for something steady to answer, found only honesty. "You do. You've been it all along. For Rufus. For me."
Adam finally looked at him, eyes rawer than Victor expected. "And Emma—she holds you. Keeps you from tipping over the edge."
Victor nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.
Adam gave a crooked smile, soft for once. "I've got two brothers now. Didn't see that coming when I first met you."
Victor surprised himself by laughing, shaky but true. "Neither did I."
The moment cracked when Rufus came pelting back up the beach, dripping, hair plastered to his forehead, arms overflowing with shells. They tumbled down around his feet as he beamed. "Look! Look what I found!"
Victor crouched, smiling helplessly at the proud little face. "It's perfect."
Rufus glowed brighter than the shells themselves, already diving back down to his pile, certain the sea had made treasures just for him.
By the time they trudged back into camp, the sky was purple with evening, the last rim of gold sinking into the horizon. Rufus was still vibrating from the sea, chattering at Adam's side, half-singing gull cries and half-tripping over his own feet.
"Still awake?" Adam asked, skeptical, as Rufus blinked hard against the weight in his eyes.
"I'm not tired," Rufus insisted, the lie so bold it cracked Victor's grin. Within minutes, the boy was slumped against Adam's side, head lolling, arms still clutched around his damp haul of shells.
The troupe ate simply—fish from the market, a pot of boiled greens, the last of their bread toasted on the coals. The firelight made the circle look smaller, tighter, like walls closing in safe instead of threatening.
When the meal ended, Rufus finally parted with his treasures. One by one, he pressed them into hands: a smooth spiral into Emma's palm, shining pale pink; a striped one into Victor's, presented with ceremony. The largest, rough and ridged, he thrust toward Adam.
"You'll break your back carrying this," Adam teased, but his voice softened as Rufus puffed his chest with pride.
Even Édric, watching with his usual quiet, was caught off guard when the boy trotted over and held out a chipped but gleaming shard. His scarred hand hesitated, then closed around it. For the briefest moment, the veterans's face cracked, a smile—small but real—tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Thank you, lad."
Rufus wasn't finished. He kept three shells back, tucked in his fist like secrets. Two large ones, smooth and pale, and one pearly shard that caught the fire's glow like a star. He held them up, whispering, "For my ma and pa. And Lyra." His voice trembled on the last name, but Adam was already there, taking the pieces gently.
From his pouch he pulled a strip of worn leather, folded it, tied the shells inside. When he was done, he looped the cord carefully around Rufus's neck, knot secure but loose enough to rest against his shirt. "There. Close to your heart. Always with you."
Rufus stared down, then launched forward, arms wrapping Adam's neck. His face pressed into his shoulder, muffled words breaking out: "Thank you."
Adam hugged him tight, his hand cupping the back of the boy's head. He didn't speak, but his jaw clenched hard, eyes fixed on the flames.
Around the fire, voices rose again—lighter, warmer. Emma hummed a tune as she mended her bowstring. Victor, closer to her than usual, leaned into her shoulder, cheek brushing her hair when he thought no one was watching. Adam loosened his grip on Rufus only enough to join in the banter, tossing barbed jokes at Bran. Aldous, weathered as driftwood, spoke of campaigns fought along this very coast when the world was younger and hungrier.
And Édric—Édric sat silent, the fire a line of light across his scar. When Victor shifted beside Emma, Édric reached across and set his heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. It was nothing elaborate. Just a solid weight, rough palm, fingers squeezing once.
"Son," he said.
Victor froze, throat tight. This time he didn't duck his head or blink the shine away. He let it show. His single eye gleamed, and he nodded once.
The moment might have held too much weight, but Adam cracked it with a bark: "What's next, Édric? You gonna sing him a lullaby?"
Victor shot back without missing a beat. "Better than your snoring, Adam."
That earned a rare rumble from Aldous, shaking his head. Emma laughed, the sound breaking like glass into the night air. Even Bran chuckled.
When the noise died down, the camp settled into quiet again. Rufus finally gave up his fight with sleep, limp in Adam's arms, the shell pouch rising and falling with his breaths. Adam's broad hand rested on the boy's back, holding him as if even dreams might try to steal him.
Victor and Emma curled together in their tent, under one blanket, her head against his shoulder, his arm tight around her waist. Outside, across the fire, Édric's gray eyes scanned the dark edges of the camp. Always watchful, always steady. But tonight, his gaze lingered once on the faces gathered close, and a softness crossed him like a shadow of peace.