The morning took its time breaking through. A pale, hesitant light filtered between the uneven slats of the window. The world still seemed asleep, frozen in a cottony mist. Victor opened his eyes slowly, surprised by the quiet. A dull headache throbbed at his temples, but he took it as a sign—the night before had been real.
The ceiling of the small house felt almost familiar. The scent of wood, dead embers, and warm fabric wrapped around him gently. It took him a few seconds to realize where the warmth pressing against his side came from.
Emma.
She was still asleep, her head resting on his shoulder, one hand loosely lying on his chest. Her hair had slipped over him, messy, tangled with his own loose strands from the night before. She breathed softly, her chest barely rising, and he felt each breath as a pulse against his ribs.
He dared not move. He stayed there, eyes lost in the beams overhead, body frozen but mind in turmoil. They had fallen asleep next to each other, he remembered. So how on earth had she ended up there?
Gently, so as not to risk waking her, he lowered his gaze to her.
She was beautiful. Even like this—rumpled, tousled, features still heavy with sleep. Perhaps especially like this. There was nothing hidden in that face. Just what she was: strong, tired, alive. And so close.
Victor felt something knot inside him. A strange mix of tenderness and dread, as if the night had shifted something essential, something fragile. Not a single gesture had gone too far, and yet...
He no longer wanted her to leave. He wanted to stay like this forever, fossilized in that cabin.
Emma stirred slightly. Her hand slid, unintentionally seeking support on his chest. She opened one eye, squinting against the light. Her face was still blurred by unconsciousness, then memory came slowly back.
She didn't move right away. Her eyes met Victor's. He smiled softly, wordless. She breathed in, then rubbed her eyes as she sat up.
"Damn..." she mumbled. "You're going to look pretty bad—not home all night."
Victor raised an eyebrow, amused. He feigned thought.
"That shouldn't surprise anyone. Among the Neri, we have a tradition of unexplained departures."
Emma stared at him, still half-fogged, then caught on. She smiled.
"How does that tradition work?"
He turned his head toward her, surprised at his own playfulness. "One disappearance at a time. My father started it. I'm carrying it on. Traditions are important."
A silence wrapped around them. Neither heavy nor awkward. Just there. Emma had straightened up a little, sitting half upright. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the other hand still resting on Victor's chest. She looked at him for a moment, attentive.
"Do you regret it?" she asked, not specifying what.
He took a moment to answer. He wasn't sure what exactly she meant. The almost-kiss? The drinking? Staying? The answer was the same for all. He shook his head slowly.
"No."
She nodded, eyes slightly narrowed, as if reading him more clearly. She seemed more alert, more present, despite the fatigue still shadowing her eyes.
"Neither do I," she said simply.
She finally rose, stretching silently, then went to fetch water from a jug on the table. She tilted it and drank directly from the neck, her shirt slipping off one bare shoulder. Victor watched without insistence, but without turning away either.
When she turned back toward him, she smiled. "You need to get back before the gossips start saying I kidnapped you."
He raised his eyebrows as he sat up. "They wouldn't be entirely wrong."
A soft laugh escaped them both. Victor ran a hand through his hair, feeling the dry leather of his old lace roll between his fingers.
"I'll come back," he said.
"I know," she whispered.
And that was enough.
---
Summer slipped by without fanfare, like a secret whispered in a low voice. Victor and Emma saw each other almost every day, gestures growing lighter, silences less heavy. They weren't bound yet, not quite, but a fragile barrier had fallen.
Since that night—when they had almost kissed but didn't—there was a new breath between them. A touch that wouldn't yet be called desire. Just a tacit promise that everything could change, without rush.
Victor often thought back to that suspended moment. Their eyes meeting, the shiver deep in his throat, the unexpected warmth flooding him as their lips drew near... but stopped, because the time wasn't right. Because the outside world was still too heavy, and nothing should be hurried.
They met in the mornings without speaking of what they truly felt. Sometimes Emma leaned a little harder on his shoulder as they walked. Sometimes their hands brushed in passing, neither stopping nor seeking. Sometimes their silences spoke louder than a thousand words.
At the river, Victor learned to see it differently—to listen to the rustling leaves, to feel life around them. Emma showed him the best spots, precise movements, never rushing. She laughed softly when he tripped over roots, offering him a smile that made him blush.
But the past did not fade. Dennis remained in shadow, in Emma's absences, in her sometimes distant looks. She never spoke of him, but Victor guessed the contained pain, the guilt weighing like an old cloak.
One day, as they sat side by side on a fallen trunk, Emma broke the silence, looking far ahead.
"Do you think we'll really be able to leave someday?" she asked softly, not looking at him.
Victor shrugged, fingers playing with a twig.
"Maybe. I wouldn't mind. Dunleigh's no flourishing town."
She sighed, her gaze locking with his.
"It never will be."
Their closeness thickened, but no hand had yet found the other. No touch had broken that fragile tension.
One July afternoon, as they returned to Dunleigh after the hunt, an unexpected sound cut the air: the town's bells began to toll, slow and heavy, like a death knell.
Emma stopped dead, her eyes turned toward the horizon.
Victor felt his heart tighten.
The bells were announcing the soldiers' return.