The morning broke damp and gray, the kind of sky that flattened every color until the sea looked like hammered lead. Mist clung to the dunes, beading on cloaks and hair, and the gulls cried sharper in the heavy air.
The troupe stirred slow, boots dragging in the wet sand. Smoke from their fire curled pale against the sky, carrying the sharp smell of salted fish reheated in an iron pan. Rufus leaned against Adam's side, head drooping, gnawing listlessly on a crust of bread. The boy's eyes were smudged with weariness, as they always were after too little sleep. Adam nudged him gently, tucking the crust back in his hand when he nearly dropped it.
Victor rubbed at his face, trying to shake the last fog of the dream that had clung to him through the night. The Count's voice, the fire, the shackles—always the same. Emma's hand brushed his as she passed him the steaming pot of boiled water. The quiet squeeze she gave his fingers steadied him more than the heat in his palms.
Édric's voice broke the hush.
"Water. Wells don't draw themselves."
No one argued. The men gathered their empty buckets and made for the village in pairs. The track wound between nets hung to dry, salt stiff in their ropes, and mules stamping against flies. Fisherfolk moved about their chores, heads bent, voices low. A woman shook out damp linens that snapped in the sea breeze; a man with tar on his arms patched the hull of a small boat. Gulls swooped and screamed overhead, fighting over scraps.
The well stood at the center of the square, old stone dark with damp. Rufus, lagging behind with Adam, perked up at the sight of it, quickening his step. But the boy faltered when he saw what the others had already noticed.
Aldous swore under his breath.
It wasn't the water that made him curse.
It was the mark.
Painted in broad strokes of tar-black, big enough to be seen from any corner of the square. A jagged circle, broken by harsh slashes, and over it a streak of red paint still tacky at the edges, bleeding down into the grooves of the stone.
Victor's stomach dropped.
He had seen something like this before—back at the mine, carved into the timbers where the Count's men had left him tied. And though this one wasn't the same, the sight of it sent the same chill down his spine.
"What is it?" Rufus whispered, voice gone thin.
Édric's mouth tightened, eyes narrowing on the paint. "Trouble."
The word carried more weight than any explanation.
A woman filling her jug crossed herself before the well and hurried off, skirts swishing. A child pointed at the mark with wide eyes until her mother yanked her away, shushing her harshly. The villagers moved faster now, their glances quick and skittish, as though afraid of being seen even looking. Whispers spread like smoke: half-heard words about debts, warnings, retribution.
Victor's pulse thudded in his throat. He caught Édric's arm.
"Last time—last time it was him. The Count's mark."
Édric's gaze stayed fixed on the paint, but his voice dropped low. "And if it isn't his this time, it's someone worse. Whoever leaves warnings on wells isn't far away."
Victor's mouth went dry. The thought of another enemy tightening the noose around them made his chest squeeze.
Aldous spat into the dirt. "We can't stay. Not with that hanging over the water. It's a message—whether for us or for the village, it's the same. Danger close."
Adam set his hand on Rufus's shoulder when the boy edged nearer to look. "Back," he said quietly, steering him away. His grip was steady, but his jaw was tight.
They drew water quickly after that, eyes down, no one lingering. The chatter of gulls and market voices seemed sharper now, edged with a wariness that hadn't been there the day before. When they carried the buckets back through the dunes, the lightness of the past week was gone. Their laughter had fallen quiet. Every man's eyes kept straying to the horizon, to the paths in and out of the village.
The mood had shifted. Something had stirred, and the troupe felt it deep in their bones.
---
The mist had lifted by the time Emma, Adam, and Rufus reached the market square. The morning light had gone thin and gray, the kind that made faces look harder, shadows longer. Nets hung heavy from posts, fish gleamed silver in baskets, gulls wheeled low, shrieking for scraps.
Emma carried the basket today, trading fish for thread, bread for oil. Her stride was steady, her braid bright copper against the washed-out day. Adam walked beside her, sleeves rolled, scar cutting across his cheek, one hand on Rufus's shoulder.
The eyes came almost at once.
Yesterday she had been with Bran. The day before, with Victor. Now Adam, taller, scarred,charming. A different man each time—and to villagers already bred on suspicion, it was enough to stir talk.
The whispers coiled first from the women by the cloth stalls:
"Red hair. Trousers again."
"She struts like a man."
"Three days, three men—what do you call that?"
Emma heard it, of course. She always did. She kept her chin high, bartering thread with the stallholder as though nothing touched her. Rufus bristled at her side, his grip on her sleeve tightening.
But then the men added their weight. Two older fishermen, hauling nets, their voices pitched just low enough to cut without breaking the law of courtesy.
"No husband to keep her proper."
"Bet she's a handful at night with that fire in her hair."
Rufus stiffened like a bowstring. His cheeks flushed red; his mouth opened to snap. Adam's hand came down on his shoulder before the words could fly.
"Steady, pup," he murmured, low. Then he straightened, turned toward the fishermen with the kind of easy grin that usually disarmed a blade at his throat.
"You're right," he said warmly, startling them both. "She is a handful. Wouldn't want her any other way. You should see her shoot—puts half the lads I've trained to shame."
It was said so easily, so cheerfully, that for a moment the men faltered. One gave a forced chuckle, looking away. The other muttered something about "outsiders" but lost steam under Adam's too-bright smile.
The women by the cloth stall weren't done. Their muttering cut sharp as she and Rufus passed:
"Doesn't lower her eyes."
"Laughs with them like she's their equal."
"No shame at all."
Rufus whipped his head toward them, fury trembling in his jaw. "She's—"
Emma squeezed his hand hard, stopping him cold. Her eyes never left the road ahead, but her voice dropped, cool and certain:
"Let them talk. Words can't chain me."
Rufus swallowed, but his lip wobbled. Adam bent, voice pitched only for him, grinning as though the whole thing were a game. "She's just jealous, pup. None of them could pull a bow without hitting their own feet."
That earned a wet little laugh out of Rufus despite his anger.
At the butcher's stall, a man with thick arms eyed Emma openly, smirk curling. "Don't see many with fire like that around here. Brave to show it in trousers. Or foolish."
Emma tilted her head, gaze sharp enough to cut the smirk in half. "Better trousers than crawling in skirts," she said, voice clear enough for the square to hear.
The smirk faltered.
Adam clapped the man on the shoulder, laughing as though it were all friendly. "Careful now. You'd last five minutes in the woods with her before she left you crying for your mother."
The butcher blinked, caught between insult and discomfort. Adam's grin didn't slip an inch.
By the time they had their thread and oil, Emma's shoulders ached with the weight of stares. Rufus clung tighter to her hand, glaring openly at anyone who looked too long. Adam's charm never wavered—he tossed off smiles, jokes, half-truths, each one laid like plaster over cracks that kept widening.
Still, as they left the square behind, the whispers clung like smoke. Emma's cheeks were flushed, but her chin was higher than ever. Rufus muttered under his breath, words half-broken by the sting.
"They don't know you. They're stupid. I hate them."
Emma crouched, meeting his eyes. "No, pup. Don't waste hate on whispers. Save it for the ones with chains, not tongues."
Adam laid a hand on both their shoulders, his grin softer now. "She's right. And anyway, didn't you see their faces? We won already."
Rufus blinked at him. "We did?"
Adam winked. "Course we did. We walked out, heads high. They're still stuck here with their nets."
It was enough to pull Rufus into a fierce little grin, his anger tempered into pride. Emma smiled faintly, squeezing his hand again.
Still, the judgment followed them back to camp like a shadow—just as heavy, in its way, as the black mark at the well.
---
At camp, the air felt heavier, pulled tight by the mark at the well. The troupe gathered around the low fire, buckets of water set down between them. Rufus pressed himself to Adam's side, muttering into his sleeve, still bristling.
Emma set down her basket and crossed her arms, the firelight flickering against her hair. Her jaw was set. She hadn't said a word about the whispers yet, but Victor saw it the moment she returned—her shoulders stiff, her fire banked but not gone.
It was Aldous who broke the silence. His eyes had the same iron weight they always carried when something had turned.
"That mark won't wash easy. Whoever painted it will be back to check if it's still standing. And the villagers won't stop whispering until we're gone."
Bran scowled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "You're sure it's trouble?"
"Sure as I've ever been," Aldous said flatly. "I fought on these shores. Organisations and lot here. They leave marks like dogs leave piss—claiming ground. Villages that don't pay get burned. Villages that hide strangers get worse."
Victor's chest knotted. His hand itched toward the hilt at his hip. He glanced at Édric, searching for something steadier. Édric's face was stone, but his silence was answer enough.
Emma finally spoke, voice calm but sharp-edged. "Then we don't wait for them to come sniffing."
Rufus straightened, small fists curling. "We don't let them hurt you," he blurted, glaring at the flames like they were the gossips at the cloth stall. Adam's hand ruffled his hair, pulling him closer without a word.
"So we leave," Victor said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "As soon as we can."
"Sooner," Édric corrected. His eyes lifted to the horizon, gray and endless. "One more night, then we march. We keep south. Don't let the shadow catch."
Aldous grunted agreement, the sound final. "Pack light. The mark means we're already too close."
The fire cracked, sending up a thin curl of smoke. Around it, the troupe fell into a silence that was heavier than words. Even Rufus didn't protest. The mark on the well, the whispers in the square—together they were enough.
Tomorrow, they would be gone.
---
The sun had already dropped low when Adam and Emma finally told him.
They'd eaten, the little circle of firelight huddled against the damp, and Rufus was fighting sleep like always. His eyes still shone wide, restless with the day's sting. Adam had waited until the boy had slumped against his side before starting.
"Hey, Victor," he said, tone too light to be casual.
Victor looked up, half-distracted with scraping the last of his bread into the pot. Adam's gaze was steady over Rufus's hair. Emma was beside him, chin high as if braced for a blow.
"They were whispering in the square today," Adam went on. "About her. About trousers and red hair and—" His jaw flexed. "—things not worth repeating."
Victor froze. His fingers clenched hard around the crust. His pulse thudded. "They—what?"
Emma caught his wrist before he could rise. She'd expected this. Her grip was firm. "Victor. Just words."
"Words?" His voice came low, dangerous. "Words about you—"
"They don't matter," Emma cut in, calm but burning. "They're not chains, not blades. Just whispers. We're leaving anyway."
Rufus stirred at the edge of the tension, murmured, "They were mean." His little fist curled in Emma's sleeve.
Victor's jaw set. He looked ready to spit fire, but Adam shook his head across the flames. "She's right," Adam said, voice a balm and an anchor both. "They're stuck here with their nets and their small lives. We're moving on. That's the victory."
Victor's glare held another heartbeat, then eased. He looked at Emma, then Rufus, then dropped the bread into the dirt with a hiss of breath. "Fine. But if anyone—"
Emma's smile flickered. "I'll shoot first," she promised, wry.
Adam chuckled, easing the air. "Now that's settled, I've got a pup to wrestle into sleep. Come on, Rufus. Time for goodnights."
Rufus whined but allowed himself to be lifted. Adam carried him easily, grinning when the boy mumbled something about wanting to keep his stick-spear by his side.
Victor and Emma watched them vanish toward the tents, the fire popping low.
---
Their own tent held the day's warmth, canvas breathing faintly with the ocean wind outside. Emma sat cross-legged on the blanket, pulling at the laces of her boots, when Victor slipped in behind her. He didn't even try for subtlety—his arm hooked around her waist, hauling her back against him with a low, satisfied hum.
"Victor," she laughed, startled, though her smile betrayed her. "I can't even take my boots off without you ambushing me."
"You're too far away," he murmured into her hair, his nose brushing along the crown of her braid. "When you were walking through the village, everyone got to stare. Now it's my turn."
Emma twisted to look at him, amusement sparking in her eyes. "I was bartering fish, not parading."
"You could barter rocks and they'd stare," Victor muttered. His gaze dipped, lingered. "You walk like you own the ground under you."
Her lips curved. "And you walk like you're daring someone to challenge you."
"Good." His grip tightened on her hip. "That way they look once and stop."
Emma tilted her head, mocking, though her cheeks were already warm. "And what if I like being looked at?"
His single eye burned steady, and the answer came without hesitation, low and rough against her ear: "Then I'll remind you who gets to touch."
Her breath hitched. She shoved at his chest in reflex, but the laughter that spilled out gave her away. "You're impossible."
"Hopeless," Victor corrected, leaning closer until his lips brushed the shell of her ear.
The word melted into a kiss—quick at first, just a brush at the corner of her mouth. But Emma caught his collar in her hand and tugged, just enough to make him groan, and that broke the restraint.
Victor's mouth found hers again, harder, hungrier. He kissed like a man starved—like every second on the road, every shadow of the Count, had been pressing him down, and only here, with her, could he breathe again. Emma met him without hesitation, her fingers sliding into his black hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.
He shifted, pressing her gently back onto the blanket, his weight braced on one arm, the other hand trailing from her cheek down to her waist. She arched under his touch, the laugh that escaped her this time caught between affection and want.
"Victor," she whispered, half warning, half plea.
He broke away just long enough to press his forehead to hers, panting lightly. "I should go. Édric will have my hide if I'm late for watch."
Emma smirked, breathless, her hand still tangled in his braid. "Then go."
"Five more minutes," he bargained, dipping down to kiss along her jaw, slow and deliberate.
Her laugh caught on a shiver. "Victor—"
"Three," he murmured, catching her mouth again.
She melted, kissing him back until she had to break for breath, her lips red, her braid undone at the edge. When she finally shoved his shoulder, it was weak and reluctant. "Go. Before I keep you."
Victor groaned but obeyed, rolling off her with obvious reluctance. He paused at the flap, looking back once, the fire still burning in his eye. "I'll come straight back."
Emma touched her lips, still flushed, and smiled slow. "I'll be waiting."