The day began sharp with summer light, the kind that made the gulls louder, the colors harsher. Nets strung out to dry gleamed like wet skins; the tide breathed against the shore with a steady sigh.
Emma sat near the firepit, bow across her lap, humming as her fingers tested the string. She had a small knife in hand to trim loose threads of hemp, her movements quick and certain. The tune was half a memory—one of her mother's, maybe, or something she had once picked up in the woods—but it threaded through the camp like an anchor.
Victor hovered closer than he had in months. He fetched the small jar of oil without being asked, knelt at her side, and tried to pretend it was practical. But the way his gaze kept drifting to the curve of her cheek when the sun caught her braid gave him away.
"You keep fussing like that," Emma murmured without looking up, "and I'll think you don't trust me to mend my own bow."
Victor gave a crooked smile, one hand brushing her knee as if to steady it.
"I trust you. I just... like watching."
She huffed a soft laugh, cheeks flushing despite herself, and nudged him with the flat of the bow.
A few paces away, Édric was already awake in the way he always was: back straight, steel rasping under his whetstone. The sound cut through gull cries, patient and steady. His eyes flicked up once toward the younger pair, then dropped again to the blade.
"Don't expect me to go soft because the sun's shining," he grunted. "Training after supper. No excuses."
Victor groaned but didn't argue. Édric's mouth twitched—whether amusement or warning was impossible to tell.
Meanwhile, Rufus buzzed like a fly with too much sugar. He had stolen the last heel of bread and was darting just out of Adam's reach, biting triumphantly into the crust.
"Oi!" Adam barked, lunging after him with mock outrage. He caught the boy around the waist, slung him under one arm like a sack of flour, and wrestled the bread from his grip.
"Stealing from your elders, are you? That's punishable by death."
Rufus shrieked with laughter, kicking his bare feet, the sound echoing all the way to the dunes. Adam ruffled his hair until it stuck up like a haystack, then set him back down only to tackle his leg.
The morning spun out like that—domestic, easy, the road's weight lifting under summer sky.
By midmorning Emma had gone to the village with Bran, quiver strapped, bow slung. The fisherfolk had looked doubtful at first, but she'd dropped her pack, rolled her shoulders, and started talking lines and nets like someone who knew the sea the way she knew the woods. Soon enough she was gone with Bran to check snares, her braid bright against the dunes.
Back at camp, Rufus tried to imitate everything he saw. He filched a length of rope and wound himself into knots until Adam had to cut him loose. He stole Édric's whetstone when the man set it down for a heartbeat and crouched, tongue poking out, pretending to sharpen a stick.
Édric took it back with a look that made the boy's ears burn red.
"Not a toy."
Rufus scowled but nodded, clutching his stick tighter. He retreated toward the edge of the camp, where one of the villagers was heaving a basket of fish off a mule. Eager to prove himself useful, Rufus darted forward.
"Can I help?" he asked, voice too bright.
The man barely glanced down, sweat dripping from his temples. "Don't get underfoot, boy."
"I can carry smaller baskets—"
"Go on, then," the man snapped, sharp with fatigue. "Go find your mother. She can give you chores. Don't bother me."
The words hit like a slap. Rufus froze, breath caught in his throat. He had no mother to fetch. His mouth opened, closed again, eyes burning. The stick trembled in his grip. He turned away quickly, blinking hard, fighting the wobble in his chin.
Adam was there in three strides.
"Oi, careful," he said, voice pitched too casual, but his hand clapped the villager's shoulder hard enough to stagger him.
"This one's worth three of your lazy lads. I've seen him carry loads heavier than that mule's piss-bucket."
The man muttered something about meddling outsiders, but Adam had already steered Rufus away, broad palm warm and firm against the back of his neck.
"Hey," Adam murmured, crouching down to eye level once they were clear. "Forget him. Some people don't know treasure when it's staring them in the face."
Rufus sniffled, lower lip trembling despite himself.
"He said... to go to my ma. I..."
"I heard," Adam said softly, cutting him off before the wound could fester.
"Listen to me. You've got me, you've got Victor and you've got Édric if you want to scare the bastards. You've got Emma, and Aldous, and Bran. That's family enough. More than enough."
Rufus's breath shuddered, and Adam tugged him in under his arm, pressing his temple against his ribs.
When Rufus finally pulled back, Adam swiped a thumb over his cheek, wiping the damp away. Then he grinned deliberately, crooked and warm.
"Now. How about we sharpen that stick into a spear, eh? Scare off the gulls?"
Rufus hiccupped a laugh, the hurt softening under Adam's steady gaze.
By the time Emma returned from the hunt, sun warm on her shoulders and fish slung at her side, Rufus was brandishing his stick with all the pride of a knight, Adam cheering him on like he'd conquered the world.
---
The clearing smelled of sun-warmed pine and salt blown inland. Dust clung to their boots, lifting in golden clouds every time they shifted. Cicadas buzzed in the still air, a low drone under the sharper rhythm of steel.
Édric handed Victor a blunted blade, testing the weight of his own with a few practiced turns of the wrist. "Let's see what you've got."
Victor rolled his shoulders, set his stance. One good eye fixed steady, guard high. Sweat already slicked his palms though they hadn't touched yet, but his body felt steadier than it had weeks ago.
The bout began with a clash that rang across the trees. Édric pressed forward, relentless but measured—short thrusts meant to test balance, cuts that snapped like a whip then pulled back before they bit too deep. Victor braced, parried, shifted.
"Footwork," Édric barked, driving him back a step. "Don't drift left—keep the line."
Victor gritted his teeth, corrected. His boot slid, then planted firm. He jabbed out, felt the jolt as Édric caught the strike easily on his guard.
The rhythm built: steel rapped against steel, dust puffed at each sidestep. Victor's breath grew ragged but not panicked. He could feel the ground under him now, could feel where Édric's weight would land before it did. Twice he deflected fast enough to earn a grunt of approval.
They circled. Édric's eyes narrowed. He feinted high, twisted low, then snapped an order sharp as the strike itself:
"Guard high!"
Victor's blade rose instantly—instinct, reflex—and the words tore out with the motion, unthinking:
"Yes, Dad—"
The air cracked heavier than steel.
Victor froze a fraction too long, color rushing to his face. Mortification hit even before the mistake had finished leaving his lips. He stumbled back half a step, blade sagging, as though the word itself had knocked him.
Édric's eyes flickered. For one heartbeat the old walls threatened to rise—deflect, bury, move on. But instead he moved. He struck quick, light, rapped Victor's guard to keep him upright. His voice came quiet but firm:
"Keep going."
The command steadied more than it pushed. Victor blinked, swallowed, and raised his blade again.
They clashed once more, the rhythm sharper now, each blow ringing louder than the slip that hung between them. Édric pressed, but not to break him—just enough to test the steel in his spine. And Victor held. His guard didn't falter; his counters snapped true. For the first time, he wasn't just surviving Édric's teaching. He was fighting him.
"Good," Édric said through gritted teeth, circling again. "That's it. Faster."
Victor drove in, sweat flinging from his hair. He cut left, pivoted right, shoved Édric back half a step with a hard thrust that landed against his chest plate.
The man's lips tugged upward—almost a smile. "Better."
Victor's grin broke through, wild and breathless. "You'd complain if I wasn't."
"True." Édric knocked him back again, but the blow had less edge, more weight. "Now finish."
Victor lunged with all the control he could gather, blade sliding against Édric's and locking it tight. Dust rose around them, the cicadas buzzing louder, until Édric suddenly stepped back and lowered his weapon.
"That's it."
Victor bent over, panting hard, shirt clinging to his back. "That bad?" he rasped.
Édric shook his head once. His lips curved without restraint this time. "No. That good."
His hand came down on Victor's shoulder, heavy, grounding. He squeezed once. "You're getting sharp. One day you'll take me—and I'll be proud to fall."
Victor stared, chest heaving, throat too tight to answer. Édric gave his shoulder another squeeze, softer, then added—deliberate, this time, no accident:
"You're coming into your own."
Victor swallowed hard, a tremor breaking across his grin. He only nodded, single eye gleaming, and Édric's smile deepened for a heartbeat before he turned back toward camp.
Victor stood a moment longer in the dust, blade loose at his side, trying to steady the pounding in his chest.
---
The dream came back like fire always did—sudden, choking.
The Count's hand on his shoulder, hot as iron. Shackles biting his wrists. Emma's hair a flash of copper as she was dragged into the dark, her mouth open but no sound reaching him. Rufus calling his name and vanishing in smoke.
Victor thrashed against it, but the dream held him fast. He tried to scream—his throat tore raw—but the fire swallowed everything.
He woke with a cry, drenched in sweat, breath sawing like he'd run miles.
Emma startled awake beside him. "Victor?" Her hand found his cheek, then his chest, palm steadying against his pounding heart. "You're here. It was a dream."
His breath came ragged, wild. He pressed his face into her shoulder for a moment, but it wasn't enough. The heat, the voice, the chains—he couldn't breathe.
"I—just air," he rasped.
She nodded, though worry clouded her eyes. She tucked the blanket around herself and watched him duck out of the tent.
The night hit him like cold water. The camp was hushed, the fire burned low. Mist lay over the ground like a thin shroud.
Édric stood where he always did—half in the shadows, sword across his back, head turning at every small sound. His eyes caught Victor the moment he stepped out.
He didn't press. He stood nearby, silent, letting the quiet stretch until Victor's breaths began to slow, until the boy's shoulders stopped jerking with each inhale. Only then did he lower himself onto the same fallen log, close enough that their elbows nearly touched.
"Bad one," Édric said quietly. Not a question.
Victor dragged both hands through his hair, leaving it more disheveled than before. "It's always the same. Fire. Shackles. His voice in my ear. Emma—taken. Rufus—gone. I can't reach them. And when I wake..." His throat closed. "When I wake, I still feel the cuffs."
Édric grunted low in his chest. "Dreams don't let go easy."
Victor's laugh came out cracked. "Dreams? It feels more like prophecy. Like I'm just waiting to become him."
Édric turned his head, and though his scarred face stayed stern, his eyes cut through the dark. "You're not him."
Victor shook his head. "But what if it's in me? The blood. What if one day I—" He broke off, breath sharp. "What if I look at Emma, at Rufus, and all I can think of is control, possession, the way he looks at me? What if—"
"Stop." Édric's voice came hard as steel. He set a heavy hand on Victor's shoulder, grounding him. "I've watched you. I know you. You're nothing like him."
Victor swallowed, but his chest still heaved. "You can't know—"
"I can." Édric's grip tightened, as if to anchor the words in place. "Because I've seen what you do when you're given power. You shield. You carry. You break yourself before you let harm touch the ones you love. That's not his blood talking. That's you. You chose it. You keep choosing it."
Victor blinked rapidly, his throat thick. He wanted to argue, to push the words away, but they cut too deep—because they rang true.
He drew in a shaky breath, then forced out the thing that had burned in him since the sparring yard:
"Earlier. When we trained. I called you 'dad.' It... slipped. If it's not right—if it's too much—I'll stop. I don't want to push it on you."
For a moment Édric didn't move. Then, slowly, he shifted so he was facing Victor more fully. His hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, steady, warm.
"It's right," he said, voice low but rough with certainty. "If you need it, it's yours."
The words hit Victor like a hammer and a balm at once. His chest clenched so hard he nearly doubled over. His good eye burned, tears threatening. "Édric..." His voice broke into silence.
Édric didn't let go. He held him steady, hand firm at his nape, eyes sharp and unyielding. "Listen to me. Fathers of blood don't make men. They just give them bones. The rest—who you are, who you become—that's chosen. And you've already chosen. Every day, you prove it."
Victor tried to breathe, but it hitched again. "You don't know how much I—" He bit down, teeth tight. "I thought I'd never get to call anyone that."
"You can." Édric's thumb pressed, a subtle squeeze at his neck. "And you just did. Don't doubt it."
Victor let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. He scrubbed at his face, but the tears slipped free anyway. "You don't know how much I needed to hear that."
"I do." Édric's eyes softened—barely, but enough. "I've needed it too."
That undid Victor. His shoulders shook, his face dropped into his hands, and for a moment he was no soldier, no scarred survivor—just a twenty years old boy.
Édric stayed with him, hand steady at his back now, rubbing slow circles between his shoulders the way he hadn't done for anyone in years. He let the silence stretch, let the night carry their breaths.
When Victor finally lifted his head, his face was streaked, raw. But there was something steadier in his gaze now. "Thank you... dad." The word came softer this time, not by accident. Chosen.
Édric's chest tightened. He squeezed the boy's shoulder once more. "Aye. Son."
They stayed like that a while, the fire whispering low.
Then it came.
A cry, sharp and breaking.
"Adam!"
Victor flinched to his feet, heart hammering, before Édric's arm lifted, not to hold him back but to steady him. The older man's head was already turned toward the tents, his face shadowed but knowing. He didn't move. He had heard this before.
The cry came again, smaller, frayed with tears.
"...Ma..."
Victor's gut twisted. He'd never grow used to the sound of Rufus's voice cracking like that, the desperation of a child who had lost too much. He made a half-step forward, but Édric's low murmur caught him:
"Wait."
The canvas rustled. A muffled scuffle of blankets, then nothing more—only the ragged rhythm of Rufus's sobs tapering, breaking, catching again. The rest was swallowed by cloth and night. Whoever held him, whatever was being said—it was beyond their hearing.
Victor's jaw clenched. He wanted to storm in, to fix it, to take the weight from the boy's chest. But Édric stayed as he was, arms folded, eyes on the dark. He knew the sound of a nightmare being fought down. Knew it, and knew when to let it pass without breaking the fragile healing inside the tent.
They sat, listening. The muffled sobs came and went, uneven as the wind, until at last only silence pressed against the night again.
Victor swallowed hard. His voice was rough when it came. "It's like he's still in that cabin."
Édric's gaze slid to him, heavy, unblinking. "He is. Just like you're still in the mine. It doesn't let go that quick."
Victor looked at him, throat tight. For a moment, the fire between them flared brighter, and Édric added, voice low, resolute:
"But he's not alone in there. Neither are you."
Victor let out a breath that trembled on its way out. He looked back toward the tents, where the boy had quieted at last, and the words echoed inside him like an oath.
Two boys haunted. Two men holding them.
The embers gave one last crack, sparks rising into the dark.