The night weighed heavy upon the search party as they made their way back through the forest. Their torches sputtered in the damp air, throwing long shadows across the gnarled trees, but none dared lift their gaze to the canopy. The memory of the clearing clung to them: golden fire, writhing darkness, and a child screaming as heaven and abyss tore at his soul.
In Guillaume de Braye's arms, Rogue lay limp, his small body shrouded in a cloak. A strip of linen covered his eyes, tied hastily by one of the priests to hide the unnatural glow. Yet even beneath the cloth, faint traces of light seeped out — flickers of gold on one side, shadows on the other. Every now and then, Rogue's body twitched, and Guillaume felt his gut tighten, fearing another surge of impossible power.
The guards who flanked him muttered low prayers. One could not help whispering, "The boy lives… but is he still a boy?"
Guillaume silenced him with a sharp look. "He is the baron's heir. Mind your tongue."
Behind them, the priests trudged in silence. Some clutched their talismans so hard their knuckles were bloodless, whispering fragments of scripture under their breath. Others stole glances at the child, their eyes glimmering with a mixture of awe and unease. No one could deny what they had witnessed: a miracle, or perhaps a heresy wrapped in divine fire.
The servants followed last, their faces streaked with tears. They spoke quietly of Madeleine, of how she had run without hesitation, how she had thrown herself into the abyss for the sake of the boy. Her name passed from lip to lip like a prayer. "Madeleine… brave Madeleine."
When the gates of Château de Foncé finally loomed out of the darkness, torches burning atop its walls, a sigh of relief swept through the column. The drawbridge groaned open, and the party crossed the moat.
Inside, the castle was not asleep. Word of the boy's disappearance had spread like wildfire. Servants lined the courtyard, pale and weeping, pressing forward to glimpse the returning party. The moment they saw Guillaume carrying Rogue, a murmur rose. Some gasped in relief. Others crossed themselves and turned away, unable to look at the shrouded child.
Guillaume did not pause. His boots echoed sharply against the cobbles as he strode straight through the crowd, the priests following close behind. He mounted the steps and vanished into the keep.
In his private chamber, Baron Henri de Foncé stood alone before the hearth. The fire crackled, but its warmth did nothing to ease the chill in his chest. He paced, his broad shoulders tense beneath his fur-lined cloak. His hands, calloused from years of swordplay, flexed and clenched uselessly.
He had sent his men. He had summoned the priests. He had prayed, raged, and begged the heavens. And now, at last, his son was returned — alive, but changed.
Henri closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his brow. He was a baron in name, but in truth, his power was dust compared to the dukes and counts of the Sun Empire. His lands were modest, his men few. His word carried little weight beyond his borders. He could not summon Witch Hunters, nor command the Church to bend its will. He could barely keep his fief safe from bandits and beasts, let alone shield his family from curses wrought by witches.
A bitter laugh escaped him. "The weakest of lords… and yet the gods saw fit to curse my heir."
The door creaked. Étienne, the steward, entered with a bow, his lined face pale. "My lord, they have returned."
Henri's head snapped up. "Bring them in. Now."
Moments later, Guillaume strode into the chamber, carrying the boy. He knelt, lowering Rogue gently onto a prepared bed of furs. The priests filed in after him, their faces grim.
Henri crossed the room in two strides. His breath caught when he saw the linen wrapped around Rogue's eyes. His son's cheeks were streaked with tears, his small chest rising and falling in shallow, exhausted breaths.
"What… have they done to him?" Henri's voice cracked, though he quickly mastered it, his tone hardening. He turned to the priests. "Speak."
The eldest priest stepped forward, bowing deeply. "My lord, there can be no doubt. This was the work of a witch. A curse, cast with malice and power beyond reckoning. But…" He hesitated, glancing at the others. "But the boy yet lives. He was shielded. The Light Origin itself answered him, warding him from death."
Henri's gaze darkened. "And his eyes?"
The priest swallowed. "The mark of what he endured. His right eye glows with the Light — a sun made flesh. His left… bears the Dark, yet bound within him, not without."
Another priest, younger and less cautious, stepped forward. "My lord, do not despair. Though cursed, the boy's survival is not heresy — it is providence. Do you not see? His state mirrors the Witch Hunters themselves. They, too, wield Light and Dark in balance. Perhaps the boy has been blessed with a power meant to surpass them all."
Murmurs rippled among the priests. Some nodded, murmuring assent. Others frowned, muttering prayers as though to ward off blasphemy.
Henri's jaw tightened. He looked back at his son, sleeping fitfully, his small fists curled. Pride swelled in his chest — pride, and fear.
A Witch Hunter…? No. A boy. My boy.
"Leave us," Henri said at last, his voice low but commanding. "We will speak of this again. For now, let the boy rest."
The priests bowed and withdrew, their whispers echoing down the corridor as they departed. Guillaume lingered only long enough to meet his lord's gaze. "He lives, Henri. That must be enough, for now."
Henri nodded curtly. "Thank you, old friend."
When the chamber emptied, Henri lowered himself to the bedside. He reached out, brushing a calloused hand against Rogue's hair. The boy stirred faintly, his lips parting in a weak sigh.
Henri closed his eyes. His heart was heavy with grief for Madeleine, for the servants who had suffered, for the weakness of his house. But above all, his heart was filled with a father's desperate love.
"You will live," he whispered, voice shaking. "Even if I must defy the gods themselves. You will live, and no witch, no curse, no empire will take you from me."
The fire crackled in the hearth. Beyond the walls, the night stretched deep and silent, but within the chamber, the vow of a desperate baron hung heavier than any shadow.