The first night was short.
At dawn, Victor and Emma had risen in the pale, hesitant light of the camp. Fatigue stiffened their fingers. The wind carried the scents of leather, burnt wood, and metal. The troop stirred slowly, thick silhouettes around the central fire, moving with well-worn gestures, wrapped in habitual silence.
Emma didn't wait for orders.
She had spotted snares the night before, not far from the outer tents. At first light, she slipped away with her bow and returned with two rabbits and a coot, its russet feathers and limp legs swaying. She dropped them without a word near the makeshift kitchen, then grabbed a knife to gut them. One of the old women, bundled in thick shawls, watched in silence.
"You've got a steady hand, girl," she finally said.
Emma looked up. The woman's face was as weathered as old leather, lines carved deep around her eyes, but the gaze was sharp. The other, smaller one, kept knitting without glancing up.
"I'm Ellyn. That one's Brana. If you need thread or needles, this is the place."
"Thanks. I can mend seams if needed. Or patch up cloaks."
Brana finally looked up and gave a small nod of her chin. A quiet form of acceptance.
The rest of the day, between runs to the river, Emma mended a sleeve, patched a pair of trousers, and listened to their chatter without really joining in. That evening, they gave her a piece of lard and hard bread like they hadn't already made up their minds.
Victor, meanwhile, found himself seated on an overturned crate in front of a pile of dusty, long-forgotten ledgers. Aldous had handed them over that morning with a barely coherent grunt:
"Sort this. Organize the maps. Make some damn sense of this mess. If you know how."
Victor nodded without a word.
He spent most of the morning sorting ration notes, classifying maps by age, reattaching torn corners. He even found a sketch of a ballista at the back of a notebook, scribbled between a game log and a beer recipe. He hesitated, then filed it carefully.
When Aldous came by again at midday, he didn't say a thing. But he raised an eyebrow at the neatly ordered pages, then walked away at a slower pace. Victor couldn't help the smile that pulled at his mouth.
That afternoon, Adam came to find him.
"Come on, Vic. Maps are good, but you need to learn how to stitch leather, sharpen a blade, and not get your neck snapped in your sleep."
They spent hours together.
Adam showed him how to anchor a tent against the wind, how to judge the distance of a fire in the woods by the smell of smoke, how to read tracks in the mud. Victor listened, silent but focused. He fumbled now and then. He hadn't slept much, but his gaze was sharp.
One evening, as Victor cleaned his knife away from the others, Edric came to sit beside him without a word. He stayed quiet for a moment, watching his hands, then pointed at the leather sheath Victor was awkwardly stitching.
"Cross-stitch it. Otherwise it'll tear the first time it gets knocked."
Victor nodded and started over.
Edric stood, but before leaving, he added without looking at him:
"You clench your jaw too much. No one here'll fault you for letting go a bit. This isn't a court."
Then he walked off the way he'd come, cloak slung over one shoulder, a faint smile on his lips.
Victor watched him go without really losing sight of him — Edric never strayed too far. He wasn't watching over him. Not exactly. But he was there. Just in case. Like a quiet shadow keeping guard without stepping in.
---
Each day brought its own share of quiet tasks and small trials.
Emma roamed the woods, spotted new places for herbs, learned to lay better-hidden snares.
Once, she shot a fox through the eye. Aldous barely raised an eyebrow when she dropped it by the fire, but Adam, behind him, gave her a subtle wink.
Victor woke sore but with his head held high.
He pushed himself to keep up, to understand, to find his place. One evening, as he took notes by firelight, Brana set a bowl of soup in front of him. She didn't say anything. But she did it again the next night. He also noticed Edric was never far. He liked that.
The troop didn't speak much, but their looks began to shift.
The silences no longer meant judgment — they belonged to shared routine. Aldous no longer grunted when he passed Emma carrying game. Edric would nod when he crossed paths with Victor. And Adam… Adam might've smiled more than before.
The week passed.
No one asked any questions. But one morning, when Aldous tossed them two blankets and muttered, "Set up over there, if you're staying," they looked at each other.
Emma couldn't help but smile.
They had remained standing.
---
Night settled over the camp like a warm blanket.
The wind had calmed, the rain had held back for once, and someone had brought out the flasks. Aldous, to everyone's surprise, had even whistled, "They're not dead. That's worth a drop or two." No one dared disagree.
Fires were stoked higher, logs pulled into a circle. Brana had even cooked a flat grain cake in the pan. Ellyn added berries. The liquor, strong and murky, passed from hand to hand, burning throats and loosening tongues.
Emma, seated between Victor and Adam, grabbed the cup offered to her with a sly smile.
"Careful," Adam warned. "That's not tea."
"Don't worry," she replied, downing it in one go. "I'm a child of mist and roots. I was weaned on elderberry wine."
She wasn't lying.
She held her drink like a seasoned captain.
By the second round, she beat Adam at a game involving sliding a pebble down a tilted board without letting it fall. Then she floored him at a shell game, hands quicker than the eye.
"Knew it," Adam groaned, finishing another cup. "Redheads ain't human."
Victor, beside her, smiled.
He knew this version of Emma — lively, confident, almost cheeky. The same one who climbed trees without thinking. The same one who, when she felt safe, took up space without apology.
"Having fun?" he murmured.
She winked at him in reply.
He loved her like that.
---
Adam, meanwhile, was laughing loudly every time he lost. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glassy, but his laughter was real—thick, warm, contagious. The celebration was in full swing.
After a while, seeing Adam leaning dangerously forward, Emma stood.
"I'm getting him some water. He's going to catch fire at this rate."
She walked toward the barrels, arms still loose, stride steady. One of the men—early twenties, tall, with dirty blond hair—followed her with a drifting step. Deran.
"You're good. At everything, apparently," he said, posting himself beside her.
She filled the cup without looking at him.
"That's kind. But I think Adam's the one lagging behind tonight."
"You've got spirit. We should share more than just a fire, don't you think?"
He grinned, too close. She turned, met his eyes head-on.
"No, Deran."
She didn't raise her voice. She wasn't afraid. Not yet. But she had seen that look before. The one that doesn't listen.
Across the fire, Victor lifted his gaze. No grand gesture, no outburst. He stood slowly, as if going to fetch another log. He walked toward them. Emma saw him coming, and the tension in her chest eased. Deran, on the other hand, felt it. His face hardened.
"You got a problem?" he asked, not stepping aside.
Victor stopped a pace away.
"No. Just coming to see Emma. Am I interrupting something?"
His tone was calm. Too calm. Emma felt something stretch between them—not fear. Something like a decision.
Then, from behind, a voice cut clean through the air:
"Deran."
He turned. Edric had stepped forward, arms crossed, leaning against a tree. He wasn't smiling.
"You should sleep."
No shouting. No command. But it was enough. Deran stepped back. Barely glanced at him. Then turned on his heel and walked away.
Emma let out a quiet breath.
From where he was still half-sprawled near the fire, Adam raised his head.
"That one… don't like him. Ass-face."
Then he collapsed again. Emma burst out laughing.
---
They stayed a little longer, their laughter quieter now. Then Victor and Edric hoisted Adam up, one under each arm, and carried him to his tent. He mumbled something half-sung, half-drunk, then passed out the second they laid him down.
As they stepped outside, Edric gave Victor a pat on the shoulder.
"Well handled. But careful. Some dogs bite harder than they look."
Victor nodded. He wasn't afraid. Not yet. But something in the air felt suspended, waiting.
He returned to Emma. She was waiting near their tent, the empty cup in hand.
"Thanks," she said.
"No need."
They stepped inside. With the canvas closed behind them, the silence felt softer. It was cold, but not too much. She settled on the blanket, legs tucked beneath her, cheeks still a little pink from the wine.
"It's the first time we've really been welcomed," she murmured.
"You beat Adam in two rounds. I think you've earned their eternal respect."
"That's true," she smiled. "And you've already sorted through all their papers."
He sat beside her. She leaned her head against his shoulder. Her scent brought him back to the forest, to the river. To the first time he'd seen her, in the alley.
"He didn't scare you?" he asked after a moment.
"No. Not really. You came quickly."
A silence.
She lifted her head, brushed her fingers against his cheek.
"You're always calm," she murmured.
"Not always, inside."
"Me neither."
The kiss was simple at first, gentle. Then a little deeper. But they were tired, the fire's warmth still lingering on their skin, and their bodies sought comfort more than flame.
They fell asleep like that, wrapped around each other, his hand tangled in her hair, her breath warm against his neck. Outside, the party was fading. Inside, everything finally seemed in its place.