The morning turned out unusually quiet.
In the Bennet manor, steps, voices, laughter, the clatter of dishes, and the creak of floorboards could always be heard. But on this morning, the silence seemed to thicken on purpose, as if the house knew that one of its sons was leaving and did not ask if he would return.
Anastas woke before dawn. It was an old skill, ingrained in his body—waking early in the morning. He lay staring at the ceiling and counting his breaths, just as he had done in past lives before campaigns, before battles, before decisions on which the fates of others depended.
Now the fate was solely his own. And Thomas's.
He rose quietly, almost soundlessly. The room was cool; it smelled of starched linens, wood, and books. These smells were part of his childhood, part of the life he was leaving behind.
His clothes were simple, suitable for the road. No family crests, no expensive ornaments. He consciously renounced everything that might betray him as an aristocrat. Not because he was ashamed, but because he wanted to be simply a man on the road.
As he packed, he thought about how strangely memory behaves: some faces are erased, while others remain painfully clear. He almost didn't remember the faces of his parents from his first life, but he remembered how he looked at Athit when he saw him for the first time. He had almost forgotten the names of his subordinates from his second life, but he remembered the blood on the stone slabs and Houwei's gaze before death.
He knew that if he stayed, he would begin to be overgrown with silence and oblivion. And if he left, it would hurt again. The choice was between emptiness and a wound.
And he chose the wound.
Thomas did not sleep all night.
He sat at the desk in his room, lit by a single candle, staring at the letter he never resolved to finish. A few lines, uneven from haste: "I am leaving. Do not be angry. I will return when I can. Love you."
He understood that this was not enough. But he had no words that could truly explain. No, rather, there were too many, but he could not put them together.
He loved his family. His mother—strict but caring; his father—silent, accustomed to expressing feelings through deeds, not speeches. He knew his departure would be a surprise to them. Especially sudden, and especially without permission.
And yet, he could not stay. Not after he learned that Anastas was leaving alone. Not after he realized that, perhaps, this was his only chance to be near.
Thomas was afraid. Afraid not of what awaited them on the road, but afraid that he would not be taken, that Anastas would close up again, push him away, disappear into his silent depths.
He rose before dawn, neatly folded his things, and lingered for a second at the door of his parents' bedroom. His hand rose and fell. He could not knock.
He left the letter on the table in the living room.
And walked out.
They met at the estate gates just as the sun was beginning to rise, painting the sky in pale, almost sickly hues.
Anastas was already there with the horses. He turned, hearing footsteps.
"You came after all," he said.
"Did you doubt it?" tried Thomas to smile.
"No."
Hooves clattered dully, as if the earth itself was trying not to make noise. The manor remained behind, first as an outline, and then as a memory.
Anastas did not look back.
He knew that if he looked back, leaving would become harder.
Thomas looked back once. He saw the roof of the house, the trees, the road. He gripped the reins and turned away, feeling anguish rising inside.
"They will be angry," he said suddenly.
"Mhm," replied Anastas.
"Mother will cry."
"Mhm."
"And Father… he won't say anything, he'll just understand in silence."
Anastas looked at him more closely.
"You can go back."
Thomas shook his head.
"No."
For a time, they rode in silence.
Anastas thought about the responsibility he had taken on by allowing Thomas to come. About the fact that now he was responsible not only for himself. In a strange way, this warmed him.
Thomas thought about the fact that for the first time in his life, he was making a choice not because it was right, but because he could not do otherwise.
"Do you regret it?" he asked quietly.
"No," replied Anastas.
They exchanged glances. And in that look flashed something known only to the two of them.
The road stretched forward, winding, disappearing behind the hills. At first, familiar places flashed by—well-tended fields, smooth tracts—then, increasingly overgrown, untamed lands. Neither of them knew exactly where it would lead. But both knew there would be no turning back.