The forest floor was soaked with water and dried blood.
The small group of men moved under cover, boots sinking into the mud, jaws clenched. The sky hung low, ashen and heavy, and each step felt heavier than the last. Adam led the way, Robin just behind him—silent, as always during patrols. The two had become fast friends: they came from the same region, were roughly the same age. The only difference was that Robin had enlisted to bring something back home. Adam, on the other hand, had little to return to after the war. His aunt's grave, maybe. A few debts. But they always stuck together.
Two more recruits followed them, Northerners too. But right now, Adam was only aware of his breath, the slippery grip on his sword, and the pressure in the air—this sense of imminence.
They were only meant to observe.
Just look, then return. A simple reconnaissance mission.
But the enemy never asked permission.
A short cry. A rustle. The slap of a boot.
And then everything exploded. Adam realized both scouting parties had collided.
An arrow thudded into a trunk right beside him. A shape surged on the right, arm raised. He turned his head, opened his mouth—too late.
The blade came down on Robin. It struck just above the collarbone, into the hollow of the throat.
Robin's body dropped like a puppet's. Not a sound. Not even a gasp. His eyes were still open when his head hit the mud.
Adam screamed.
He swung, staggered, stumbled. One of the attackers lunged at him, axe in hand. He tried to dodge, stepped back just an inch—the blade glanced him in an arc, slicing from his forehead down to his cheek. A line of fire.
He saw red. His ear rang.
He wavered, his face numb. His right eye filled with blood, warm and sticky, his socket pulsing with his heartbeat. He moved forward, driven by adrenaline. He struck again, felt his blade sink into something soft. Then it was over.
He heard the other two finish off the last man.
He stood there a while, among the charred trees, breathing hard, the taste of iron on his tongue.
Then he dropped to his knees.
Robin lay there, frozen in the same pose as seconds before, as if he were just sleeping with his eyes open. There was nothing to be done. Nothing to say.
Adam stifled a retch. His wounded face was burning now, fiercely, but he leaned over Robin.
He reached for his belt and unfastened a knife—the small one, pale-handled, the one he carved at the fire every night, a little obsessively. The only one he took seriously.
Without a word, he slid it into his boot, against his ankle.
Then he stood.
His wound throbbed with every heartbeat. Every step split his skull. But he walked, with the other two. They made their way back to camp.
---
In Dunleigh, the bells kept ringing.
A pause. Then a third toll. The deep chime rolled across the rooftops, echoed by stone walls, swollen by mist and waiting. It was an old call, a primal one—heard only for the great news: fire, mass, war... or the return of survivors.
Emma looked up at once.
Victor sensed more than saw the shift in her—something in her posture, a live tension, fragile and sharp. Her gaze had latched onto the skyline above the rooftops, where the bell tower rose. She said nothing. Her eyes shone, but no tears fell. And suddenly, she turned to him.
— Come.
She didn't give him time to respond. Her hand seized his, firm and quick, and she was already pulling him through the streets of Dunleigh. He followed, almost against his will, heart pounding—for her, for what she might find—or not find—and for that hand that hadn't let go.
They ran in silence. The low sky pressed down on the rooftops, as if it too was waiting. In the alleys, others were hurrying the same way, rumors on their lips. They reached the central square just as the first wagon rolled through the gates.
Victor and Emma stopped. Before them, a dense crowd had gathered—alive, restless, packed close. Children climbed onto posts to see better. Women rose onto their toes. A dog barked nearby. The bells had gone quiet.
Emma stood still for a moment, then tried to lift herself, but she couldn't see past the crowd. Without thinking, she placed a hand on Victor's shoulder for support and rose slightly. He felt her weight—light, like a wing—against him. He didn't move. If anything, he widened his stance, grounded his heels on the wet cobblestones. She had to be able to see.
His hand still held hers, and the other hovered at her back, steadying her just in case. He thought of that night beneath the canvas, the almost-kiss. The words they hadn't spoken. The fire they'd smothered. But now… this was different. Something had fallen away. A wall, maybe. Or just fear.
She said nothing, but he felt through her that quiet battle between reason and hope. She knew. She knew Robin wasn't coming back. But maybe—just maybe—some fragment of her heart still resisted.
The soldiers began to disembark.
The first were the oldest. Some wavered. Others had hollow cheeks, empty eyes. Then came the younger ones, scarred survivors with limps, with missing fingers, with haunted looks. A few smiled as they spotted family. Cries rang out: names, sobs, gasps.
A man threw himself into his wife's arms. A little girl shrieked as she recognized her thin, worn father. All around, reunions, collapses, breaths of soul.
Emma didn't move. Her fingers tightened a little on Victor's shoulder. He stood steady. Present. Silent.
He watched too. Watched the faces, the hope in other people's eyes, the sorrow that dropped like a blade when it was denied. Then, his gaze was drawn to the back of the second wagon.
One last soldier was stepping down. Tall. Thin, but solid. Just older than them. A massive scar slashed across his face, from brow to cheek. The eye had been spared—barely—but the rest told a story of fire, steel, or shrapnel.
He walked slowly. Looked around, expression unreadable. He seemed to be searching for something. Someone. But nothing came. No one called out. No hand lifted. No voice cried his name.
So, after a moment's hesitation, he turned away. And walked alone down a side street.
Emma slid gently back down. She didn't cry. But her eyes seemed heavy, ancient. Victor felt the void taking shape inside her—but also… a kind of release. As if, at last, the waiting had frozen. As if she could now set the weight down.
He waited a few seconds before murmuring:
— Do you want to go home?
She nodded, barely.
But she didn't move yet. So, after a silence:
— Are you alright? he asked gently.
She replied in a quiet, steady voice, just a little hoarse:
— I just needed to be sure.
He nodded, nothing more.
The crowd had thinned. The cries had faded. On the square, almost no one remained. The cobblestones shone under the drizzle, and the silence felt sacred.
Victor leaned toward her, just slightly. His shoulder brushed hers.
She turned to him for a moment. Their eyes met. There was something in hers—a mute gratitude. A deep, exhausted calm.
She squeezed his hand softly, without a word. And that touch, in the hollow of his palm, spoke a thousand.