They could feel the moment of departure approaching. The packs were closed, the supplies divided, the horses saddled.
Aldous stood still, watching Deran for a moment. The man was still tied at the base of the tree, his face sticky with sweat and dried blood. Aldous turned his gaze to Édric, a few paces off, arms crossed. Édric hadn't looked away once.
"Not you," Aldous growled.
Édric didn't respond right away. His jaw twitched.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't trust you not to open him up in the woods."
Silence.
Then Édric gave a slow nod, his lips drawn tight. He stepped back a few paces, arms still folded. He no longer looked at Deran.
Two men Aldous had called for stepped forward from the group. Without a word, they hoisted Deran, who struggled weakly, and began to drag him toward the trees. He was still shouting when they vanished into the forest.
"You can't! You can't do this to me, you cowards! I swear you'll regret this! I'll—"
His voice grew faint.
Then it vanished altogether.
And the camp breathed again.
---
The convoy set off, slowly, in the restored silence of the underbrush. Sunlight had begun to break through the leaves.
Victor walked beside Emma. His gaze drifted over the shadows, the ferns, the twisted trees—but a part of him remained elsewhere. He kept thinking about the stone he'd raised, the momentum in his arm, the dull sound of impact. He hadn't thought. He had acted.
He never wanted to be the one who arrived too late again.
He glanced at Emma. She was holding strong, as always. But something in her features had changed. The rigid mask from the day before was gone. She was moving forward. Steadfast.
So he slipped an arm around her waist and drew her close as they walked.
She looked up at him, surprised for a moment.
Then she nestled against him.
And this time, she let herself stay there.
---
The hunters' village appeared by late afternoon. A few low houses, thatched roofs, barns, and faint wisps of smoke rising between the trees. There were voices, tools clinking, dogs barking. Nothing hostile. Just... a simple life.
The welcome was modest. They were offered a spot on the edge of the hamlet, near the woods. Few questions were asked. They were simply asked whether they could hunt, repair, craft. They said yes.
So they were accepted.
Camp was set quickly. The horses watered. The fire rekindled.
And soon, everyone got to work.
Adam was among the first to lend a hand: he helped an old man fix a fence, carried sacks of grain, traded tools. He smiled, spoke little. But he drew attention—especially from a few young women of the village, who passed by a second time for no real reason, empty baskets on their arms.
With his solid build, the fine scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, and his sharp eyes—almost golden in the late sunlight—he wasn't hard to notice.
Victor joined him near the end of the tasks, his arms still dusted with sawdust.
"Need help carrying your conquests back to camp?" he asked with a smirk.
Adam raised an eyebrow without turning.
"Not me. It's the scar," he replied.
Victor chuckled.
"I should get a matching one. Gives you that tragic hero look, doesn't it?"
Adam arched a brow, amused.
"Or the look of a lucky fool. Subtle difference. Crucial, though."
Victor laughed and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder.
"You've always had a way with words."
Édric, meanwhile, had found a post by the village's makeshift forge. He offered to fix buckles, help rivet arrowheads. His left shoulder made him wince, but he kept going. He didn't complain. He wanted to help. It was a kind of peace.
Emma had offered her help in the village kitchen. She sorted herbs, washed vegetables, exchanged careful smiles with a few local women. She seemed calm, almost gentle. As if the air itself warmed around her.
---
By evening, they gathered around the fire, slightly apart from the villagers. A familiar circle. More at ease. The wood crackled. Bowls were passed around. A rabbit had been slowly roasted. Local ale made its way from hand to hand.
Emma was seated with her back to Victor, her spine resting against his chest, between his legs. He held her with his arms crossed over her stomach, like the night before—but this time it was easy. Natural.
She had one hand resting on his forearm, absentmindedly caressing the worn fabric of his sleeve.
Aldous was telling a story from the war, full of mud, cold, and invisible enemies. Adam chimed in with exaggerated gestures and voices, making the others smile and laugh.
Édric sat quiet, expression unreadable.
Adam threw him a glance, teasing:
"You know, Édric, you should smile more often. Might do you some good."
Without warning, Édric tossed a pinecone straight at his head.
"Hey! And you aim for the scarred side?!" Adam cried, rubbing his forehead.
"I was aiming for the intact part," Édric replied, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.
Adam snorted.
"Bloody hell, so that's it—you need to hit me to crack a smile. Sadist."
Emma let out a small laugh nearby.
Victor leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple, gently. She smiled sideways, eyes still on the fire.
Adam turned toward them, amused.
"You two are going to fuse into one being at this rate."
Victor raised a brow without letting go of Emma.
"Jealous? Go find your own."
Adam burst out laughing.
"Easy to say when you've got someone glued to you."
Emma chimed in with a sly smile:
"Half the girls in the village won't stop staring at you, you know."
Adam grinned crookedly.
"I never mix business and pleasure, madam."
She laughed softly, curled against Victor.
Victor was truly smiling. His eyes glowed—not just for Emma, but for this moment, for the group, for this rare, peaceful evening.
Without needing to say it, they had all decided to turn the page on Deran.
And maybe, that was the best choice they could have made.
---
The sun had long passed its zenith when the peddler arrived, dragging behind him a weary donkey jingling with dusty bells. He stopped at the edge of the camp, met with the calm suspicion of those accustomed to hardship. The members of the troupe, curious despite themselves, gradually drew nearer. Édric leaned against a post, arms crossed, listening with a distracted ear.
The peddler spoke loudly, used to holding crowds captive.
"— And I tell you, in a town east of here, a young noble has vanished. Just disappeared. Poof. Not a word. Nothing. Seems his father vanished too, some years back. The family keeps quiet, but around here, folks whisper of a curse. Old noble families like that — it's always tangled up in strange stories…"
A faint shiver ran down Édric's neck. He lifted his head slightly.
A young noble gone missing.
A father before him.
Whispers of a curse.
That was all it took.
He knew.
He knew without needing to hear a name.
Victor.
He was still in the village, busy hauling crates for some craftsman, or fixing a wheel — he wasn't sure. Emma wasn't there either — gone hunting with Adam at dawn. The camp was peaceful, but the calm they had earned was not meant to last.
When Victor returned, a little while later, dust covered his face and his sleeves were rolled up. His eyes held a tired, yet quiet calm. Édric approached.
"— A peddler passed through," he said simply.
Victor narrowed his eyes.
"— And?"
"— He spoke of a young noble gone missing. From the East. Your father's disappeared, right?"
Victor's heart skipped a beat.
"— Years ago… How do you know that—"
"— Because I listen. And because it fits too well to be a coincidence."
Victor said nothing. His throat tightened, an uncomfortable heat rising to his cheeks. He didn't want to think about that life. That name. What he'd run from.
But he understood what Édric implied.
He lowered his gaze. His hand almost mechanically went to his signet ring.
It caught the sunlight faintly. Discreet, but not enough. A dark silver loop, engraved with his house's lion. He wore it without thinking. Out of habit. Out of refusal to forget completely.
"— I'm not telling you to get rid of it," Édric said quietly. "That's not what I'd do."
He pulled a small leather cord from his pocket and held it out.
"— But keep it beneath your shirt. How you hold your blade, your stance — that can be trained. But this… this draws eyes."
Victor took the cord without a word.
His fingers were stiff, but he managed to slide the ring onto it, then slipped it over his head, hiding the jewel beneath his tunic. A weight lifted… and yet still there.
He raised his eyes.
"— You had one too? Before?"
Édric gave a faint smile. He answered in a confiding tone, leaning a little closer.
"— I still have it."
He pulled back the collar of his shirt just enough for Victor to see, against his skin, a thin, tarnished silver ring suspended on a worn cord. Engraved with a wolf, stylized. The emblem of his house, no doubt.
Victor felt his chest loosen slightly.
He was not alone. Not the only one to have left a life behind. Not the only one still carrying a piece of the past against his heart.
"— I know I don't want to go back," he murmured. "But I don't want to… forget either."
"— No one's forcing you," Édric said. "You keep going, that's all. The rest… it's part of you. Nothing to prove."
He looked at him.
"— But stay careful, kid."
Victor nodded.