Victor walked through the manor's corridors, an old book under his arm, his gaze skimming past the large family portrait hanging in the hall. The canvas was torn where his father's face should have been. He knew nothing of this man—only that painful, silent void carved into the story of his family.
He descended the wooden staircase slowly, his long black hair tied back in a low ponytail that swayed gently down his back. The manor's walls were cold and oppressive, heavy with memories he hadn't chosen.
Beyond the grand doors, the moor stretched out—vast and wild. The morning fog wrapped the damp air in a pale mist, and despite the chill, the outside felt a thousand times more alive than the stone walls. The moor, with its low grasses and uncertain paths, was the only place where Victor felt free.
Below, the small town of Dunleigh lay under a low sky. It wasn't a prosperous place, far from it, but it had the harsh charm of places that weather storms without ever breaking. This was where Victor lived—between the moor and the manor, between an absent mother and a father he'd never known.
He remembered nothing of the man. All he knew was that he'd left before Victor was old enough to keep a memory of him. Just gone. His mother, fragile and distant, had withdrawn into a silence made deeper by illness. Victor had always thought it was his father's disappearance that had broken her—that she'd been sinking into grief ever since.
He placed a hand on the stone railing, feeling the chill of the granite under his fingers. The weight of silence wrapped around him—heavier than any secret.
---
Victor hadn't meant to enter the town. He had wandered down like one flees—his thoughts elsewhere. He passed through the gates of the estate, then along the moss-covered walls lining the road to Dunleigh. He had stopped, as always, at the edge. The town unsettled him. Or rather—the stares, the whispers, the air that felt a little heavier there.
A faint sound had broken the stillness—a muffled sob. Down below the path, half-hidden behind a stopped cart, a little boy stood—maybe four years old—dirty hands, tear-streaked cheeks, but his back straight. He didn't cry out. He simply looked lost, his eyes fixed on nothing, as if waiting for something to bring him back.
Victor watched him for a moment, hesitant. He had never known what to do with children. Still, he approached, walking carefully, and leaned forward without daring to touch him.
"Are you lost?"
The boy looked up at him with a pale face, but didn't answer. Still, he stopped crying. A long moment passed. Then he reached out his hand, wordless, and Victor, caught off guard, took it.
They walked together down the cobbled street. The child didn't speak, didn't even look at Victor. He just walked—as if he knew where he was going—and Victor, not quite understanding, followed, hoping the boy truly knew.
They had just reached a small square when a figure rushed around the corner, breathless. A young girl, red-haired, fine-boned and a little too thin, freckles scattered across her pale face. Her brown eyes shone with sharp light. She wore men's clothes, too big for her, emphasizing her slight frame. In her arms, a single loaf of bread, held like a fragile treasure.
She froze when she saw the boy, then dashed toward him.
"Dennis! What the hell were you doing?!"
She dropped the bread, grabbed the boy and pulled him into a quick hug before straightening up—breathless, wary—facing Victor. She looked him over—tall, dark, unfamiliar. He opened his mouth to speak, but a sound of footsteps interrupted.
Running. A man, broad and red with anger, burst around the corner.
"Thief! You think I didn't see you, you little brat?!"
The girl paled. She snatched up the bread, seized Dennis's arm, and took a step back. Her eyes searched for cover—a niche carved into the church wall, barely wide enough. Without thinking, she pulled the boy with her and pressed herself into the shadow. Victor was left standing alone in the street.
The baker was closing in. Panting. His boots thudded against the cobblestones.
Victor straightened.
"Down that way," he said calmly, pointing to the opposite alley.
The baker stared at him, unsure. The aristocratic accent, the upright stance, the signet ring and cold bearing of this strange young man were enough to make him hesitate. He grumbled something and moved on, muttering under his breath.
Once the street had fallen quiet again, the girl stepped out of hiding, still holding Dennis close.
"You're completely mad," she whispered, a relieved smile on her lips. "He could've decked you too."
"It was nothing," Victor murmured, avoiding her gaze.
She studied him a moment, suspicious, as if expecting something more. Then she exhaled softly.
"Thanks anyway. It's not every day you can count on someone around here."
She held out her hand.
"I'm Emma."
Victor shook it, unaccustomed to such gestures.
"Victor," he replied. "I found Dennis… at the village's edge. All alone."
Emma frowned, surprised.
"What was he doing all the way out there?"
Victor shrugged, uneasy.
"He didn't say much. He was crying…"
She nodded slowly, her expression unreadable.
"Yeah. He's a bit… quiet."
A silence settled. Victor had expected more of a reaction—something grander, maybe. But Emma remained calm, still speaking to him as though he were just anyone, not a nobleman.
"Do you come here often?" she asked, casually.
Victor hesitated. She knew who he was—he might as well be honest.
"Not really. I usually stay near the edge."
She shrugged.
"Can't blame you. Folks don't take kindly to people from up there."
Victor looked down.
"No. They don't."
Emma gave him a small smile.
"Well, if you ever come back to town, come find me."
Victor felt a mix of surprise and awkwardness.
"All right."
She picked up the loaf still in her hands, then turned without ceremony, leaving Victor standing alone.