The stable's glow had bled into twilight, softening the world into gold and smoke. The smell of leather and hay hung heavy where they always met — half-shadowed, half-sacred, a hiding place carved out of stolen minutes.
Adam was already there, leaning against the wall, sleeves rolled up, his skin still streaked with soot. His grin came easy, boyish and sure, but his eyes softened the second he saw her running barefoot through the grass.
"Careful," he said, catching her by the waist as she reached him. "If anyone sees you—"
"They won't," she laughed, breathless, cheeks flushed from the run. "They never come out this late."
"You sound awfully sure for someone who's supposed to be the well-behaved one."
She tilted her head, teasing. "And you sound awfully concerned for someone who asked me to meet him."
"Guilty," he murmured, brushing a lock of her hair from her face. His thumb lingered near her cheek. "Can't help it. You make trouble look worth it."
She smiled up at him — that small, private smile that only existed between them — and the world shrank to the space of a heartbeat. He bent toward her, tentative at first, until her hand found the back of his neck and closed the distance.
The kiss was soft, clumsy, warm. For a few seconds they weren't the doctor's daughter and the blacksmith's apprentice. They were just two seventeen years old fools in love, tasting the heat of the forge still on his lips.
Then—
"LIVIA!"
The voice shattered everything.
Her father's shape filled the stable door, lantern light spilling around him. Two servants stood behind, faces pale in the glow.
Livia froze, her hand still at Adam's nape. Adam stepped instinctively in front of her, as if that could shield her from what came next.
Her father's face was thunder.
"What is this?" he spat. "You shame your family with some soot-covered gutter-rat?"
Adam stiffened but didn't step aside.
"Sir, please. We didn't—"
"You think I'll listen to you?" her father barked, rounding on him. "A boy from the forge, daring to touch what's above him? You filthy, presumptuous wretch."
Adam's jaw tightened.
"She's not a thing to touch or to keep. I know that."
Her father's gaze snapped to him, full of contempt.
"You'll speak of my daughter again, and I'll—"
"I am speaking," Adam cut in, fire rising under his voice. " I work every day to be something more than the boy you see. I don't drink. I don't steal. I earn my bread. I'd never bring shame to her name."
The man's face purpled.
"You already have!"
"We were talking," Adam pressed, desperate now but still steady. "That's all. I'd never hurt her."
Her father advanced, jabbing a finger in his chest.
"You are a distraction, nothing more. You will leave her alone."
The servants moved. Adam caught a shove to the shoulder, staggered but stayed upright.
"Don't—" he started, but the man's open hand cracked across his mouth. Blood welled on his lip.
He swallowed it down, breath ragged.
"You can hit me, sir, but it won't make you right."
Her father turned on Livia, voice dripping venom.
"You think this boy loves you? He'll ruin you and leave you to rot. You'll end up another tramp in the market, nothing more."
"Hey!" Adam snapped, voice cracking.
"You want to blame someone, blame me. But don't speak of her like she's dirt."
Her father seized Livia by the arm and wrenched her behind him. She cried out, pulling free.
"Stop! I love him!"
The world stilled on that word.
Her father's face went pale with fury. He gestured sharply. The servants seized Adam again. This time he didn't fight. He met her eyes instead.
"I'm sorry," he said — softly, clearly — before they dragged him back.
"Adam—!" she called, breaking past her father for one second before he caught her wrist.
"Get her out of my sight," the man hissed. "Tomorrow, she leaves for the convent. Let the Sisters wash the dirt from her soul."
Adam twisted one last time, trying to look back at her as they shoved him out into the courtyard.
"You deserve better than this, and one day you'll get it!" he shouted. "You hear me, Liv?"
But the door slammed shut.
The last thing she saw was the smear of blood on his mouth and the way he still stood tall, even as he was pushed into the dark.
By dawn, the carriage waited. She didn't cry until the village was a blur behind her — until she thought she saw him, just once, walking barefoot down the forge road, head high despite the bruise on his jaw.
---
The first bell of Lauds rang clear through the damp air, slow and solemn, shaking the sleep from the stone. The sisters filed into the chapel one by one, their habits whispering against the flagstones, their breath rising like mist.
Livia knelt among them, head bowed, fingers laced around the worn wood of her rosary. The words of the psalm rose and fell around her in practiced rhythm—Domine, labia mea aperies—but her own lips moved without conviction.
Because he was here.
Ten years, and still the sound of his laugh could pull her from prayer. Ten years since she'd last seen the boy with ash-streaked hands and a grin that dared the world to scold him. Ten years since that summer behind the forge, the smell of iron and hay, the heat of his palm against hers.
And now, by some twist of the divine—or its opposite—he had walked through her gate.
She kept her eyes closed tighter, as if that could push him out of her thoughts. But she saw him anyway: older, broader, the wildness tempered but not lost. Adam.
Even thinking the name felt dangerous.
Maybe this was a test.
Maybe she had remembered him too often in her prayers—his laughter when she meant to think of joy, his face when she meant to think of mercy. Maybe God, patient and amused, had decided to see what she would do if those thoughts took shape before her eyes.
She wasn't afraid of punishment. She didn't believe her God punished love—not the kind that had been pure once, foolish, unguarded.
But she was afraid, all the same.
Afraid of being seen.
Of what might flicker across his face if he recognized her after all these years—the girl he'd kissed behind the stables, now cloaked in black and bound by vows.
Did she want him to?
Her breath caught. She didn't know.
The candlelight trembled against the high stone walls, gold against gray. The chant swelled again, filling the hollow of her chest. She tried to lose herself in it, to let the voice of the choir drown out her thoughts, but Adam's name beat under every note.
She bowed lower, pressing her forehead to the wood of the pew.
If this is a test, she thought, then let me pass it with grace. Let him not look at me. Or—if he must—let it not undo me.
When she raised her head, her voice joined the others—steady, devout, almost calm.
But her hands trembled where the rosary met her skin.
---
The first morning in the convent yards dawned pale and cold, the kind of light that seeped through the canvas before the sun even cleared the walls. Dew clung to everything — ropes, cloaks, blades. Somewhere in the distance, the convent bells tolled for Lauds, the sound rolling over the cloister and into the camp like a slow heartbeat.
Rufus burst out of the tent before the last note faded, laughing already, hair sticking up in every direction. His bare feet slapped against the flagstones, and he nearly collided straight into Édric's leg.
"Watch it, lad," Édric grunted, catching him by the collar before he could topple face-first into the damp grass. "You'll break something before breakfast."
Rufus laughed breathlessly.
"Sorry! Can't find Adam's boots!"
A groan rose from inside the tent.
"Because you hid them, you menace!"
Adam emerged barefoot, squinting against the light, his hair flattened on one side and his shirt half-laced. He looked every bit the man wrenched from sleep too early, but there was a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he pointed at Rufus.
"You think it's funny till you've got to march without boots, pup. You trying to kill me?"
Rufus grinned wide, bouncing on his toes.
"No! You walk too slow with boots!"
"Slow?" Adam's mock outrage carried across the camp. "I'll show you slow—"
Before he could grab the boy, Rufus darted behind Édric's legs like a rabbit seeking cover. Édric only sighed, one hand still on his sword belt, eyes half amused.
"You two will wake the entire convent."
"That's the plan," Adam muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "Maybe the sisters will pray for patience on our behalf."
Across the small courtyard, Emma was fastening her quiver, bow slung across her shoulder. Victor stood beside her, adjusting the strap of his pack, the morning sun catching in his uneven hair. The smell of ash and damp pine lingered from the night fire.
"Off to hunt already?" Édric asked, tone half warning, half habit.
Emma nodded.
"The sisters offered us bread, but not much else. I thought I'd try the woods near the cliffs."
"Not too far," Édric said, voice steady but laced with that quiet protectiveness Victor knew well. He reached out, ruffling Victor's hair in passing — a gesture that still made the younger man bristle and smile all at once.
"And watch her back. She's quicker, but you've got reach."
Victor rolled his eye but grinned.
"Yes, dad."
Édric's brow twitched upward.
"Mock me again and I'll have you spar before breakfast."
Adam snorted from across the camp.
"He'll lose on purpose if it means skipping the chores."
Victor shot him a look.
"You're one to talk, old man."
"Old?" Adam feigned insult. "I'll remember that next time you beg me to fix your blade edge."
Emma's laughter cut through the banter, bright and easy.
"Children, please. At least wait until we've left to start fighting."
Before they could answer, Rufus bolted across the courtyard toward her. He had a wildflower clutched in his fist — some scraggly thing plucked from between the paving stones, petals half crushed from his run. He held it out solemnly.
"For you," he said.
Emma blinked, surprised.
"For me?"
He nodded fiercely, cheeks pink.
"You're the nicest person here. And the prettiest."
Victor laughed softly.
"He's not wrong."
Emma smiled, the kind that reached her eyes. She knelt to take the flower, careful not to crush it further, and pressed a kiss to Rufus's forehead.
"Thank you, love. I'll keep it with me."
Rufus glowed under the praise, his earlier hurt nowhere to be seen for the moment. He threw his arms around her neck, squeezing tight.
"Be careful, okay?"
Emma's hand rested gently on his back.
"Always."
When she straightened, Victor caught her hand and brushed his lips against her cheek in a brief, familiar kiss. It was tender, unhurried — the kind of gesture that belonged to people who had seen too much danger to take softness for granted.
Rufus, watching, grinned.
"You forgot me!" he cried, darting forward like a bolt.
Adam, quick as ever, intercepted him mid-run, scooping him up under one arm.
"Oh no, you don't. She already has one fool chasing after her, she doesn't need two."
Rufus shrieked with laughter, kicking the air.
"Put me down!"
"Not till you swear to give me back my boots."
"I don't have them!"
"Liar," Adam said, pretending to examine his pack. "I'll find them full of pebbles again, I bet."
Édric shook his head, but his mouth twitched.
"You're worse than the boy, Adam."
"Someone's got to keep him entertained," Adam shot back, grinning.
Rufus wriggled until he was set down, still giggling, and immediately darted to sit beside Édric, who was checking the edge of his blade. The boy's admiration was obvious — the way his eyes tracked Édric's every move, quiet and reverent.
For all his laughter and mischief, a faint shadow still lingered around him. Adam saw it — the way Rufus's gaze flicked toward Emma, clinging a little longer than usual, like he needed to see her laugh, to be sure she was really all right.
The words he'd overheard the night before hadn't fully left him. But he coped the only way he knew — with closeness, with gifts, with love too loud to ignore.
And the others, without quite knowing why, met him in kind.
By the time Emma and Victor vanished beyond the gates, Rufus was sitting cross-legged beside the fire, Adam's boots finally returned to its rightful owner, hair sticking out in every direction, chattering about what they might hunt next time.
Adam leaned back on his hands, watching him with a quiet smile that didn't quite hide the tenderness beneath.
For a band of wanderers, this strange place felt almost peaceful.
For now.