An old man opened the door to his house, his movements slow and cautious. He peered into the dark street, where Ambre, tears streaming down her face, was hurriedly approaching him. His shoulders sagged slightly when he saw her, as if his body carried the weight of decisions not yet made.

  — "Please, help me," she begged, her voice broken by emotion.

  The old man stared at her for a moment, his squinted eyes scanning her face as though searching for the truth in her words. His calloused hands rested on the edge of the door, hesitating between closing it or opening it further.

  — "Two men… attacked us," she managed to say, her voice strangled by sobs.

  She pointed shakily toward Rouis, her fingers trembling with uncontrollable spasms.

  The man followed her gesture, squinting as he took in Rouis’s lifeless body sprawled across the cobblestones. His features briefly hardened, but then he nodded slowly, a sigh escaping his lips.

  — "This way," he said at last.

  With awkward yet resolute movements, they lifted Rouis. His limp arms and dragging feet scraped heavily against the ground, each step punctuated by muffled groans of pain. Ambre struggled to support him, her legs buckling under the strain, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to let go.

  The house’s door, low and narrow, was made of uneven wooden planks reinforced with tarnished iron bands. It creaked loudly as it opened, breaking the oppressive silence of the night. A modest yet comforting warmth emanated from within, carried by the crackling of a fire in the hearth.

  They laid Rouis on a straw mattress placed in the corner of the room. The old man straightened slowly, wiping his wrinkled forehead before glancing at Ambre.

  The room was modest yet imbued with an odd sense of serenity. The rough stone walls exuded solidity, and the packed-earth floor was scattered with straw mats.

  A low table, a few wobbly chairs, and a battered chest occupied the space, while dried herbs hung from the ceiling, diffusing a soothing yet slightly acrid aroma. An oil lantern cast a flickering light across the room.

  — "I’ll fetch water and bandages," the old man said.

  Ambre sat beside Rouis, her gaze fixed on his pale face, marked with blood and bruises. She placed a trembling hand on his, her fingers gently squeezing his as if trying to transmit a fragment of strength she barely had herself.

  — "Hold on," she murmured, her voice barely audible, broken by tears.

  The old man returned shortly after, a basin of clear water in one hand and a worn first aid kit in the other. He set them down near the mattress, kneeling with a weary sigh.

  — "This won’t be pleasant," he warned, soaking a clean cloth.

  He began to clean Rouis’s wounds, carefully wiping away the blood and embedded dirt.

  The cloth brushed against a deep gash, drawing a rough groan from Rouis as his face twisted in pain. His fingers twitched, as if searching for something to grip.

  — "Breathe slowly," the old man murmured as he applied antiseptic to an open wound, his movements precise yet filled with care.

  Ambre, still standing, watched every movement with palpable anxiety. Her hands trembled, but she refused to look away, even as Rouis’s groans tore at her heart. The lantern’s light danced across her face, illuminating the tears that continued to stream down her cheeks.

  In one corner of the room, the fire crackled softly, filling the oppressive silence with a comforting sound. Yet every noise from outside made Ambre whip her head toward the door, as if expecting to see the shadows they were fleeing burst through at any moment.

  *****

  The room, cluttered with mismatched trinkets, seemed frozen in another time. The yellowed floral patterns on the wallpaper created an almost oppressive frame, as if the walls themselves were observing his pitiful state. A deep, muffled, and menacing voice echoed in his mind:

  — "You are so weak."

  Rouis opened his eyes with difficulty, each heartbeat pounding painfully in his chest. His entire body protested at the mere thought of movement, his muscles stiff and his joints feeling rusted from the pain. Lying on the canopy bed, he stared for a moment at the heavy, faded red velvet curtains, which seemed to press down on him like a silent weight, holding him captive.

  He inhaled deeply, but the air he drew in ignited a sharp burning in his bruised ribs, triggering a wave of pain that radiated to his side. A grimace twisted his face as he attempted to move, but his broken arm, securely bandaged against his chest, cruelly restricted his motions. His free hand weakly slid across the mattress, searching for support.

  The coarse fabric of the mattress offered little comfort, and the mere effort of pressing on his palm made his arm tremble. Each movement seemed to rekindle the memories of the blows he had endured, his body still bearing the marks of violence. He slowly bent one knee, but even that small motion unleashed a dull ache in his hip, climbing up to his back. He froze, panting, eyes shut tight to hold back the surge of pain.

  — "Come on..." he murmured to himself, his voice rough and broken, as if willing himself to keep going despite everything.

  This time, he grasped the wooden frame of the bed with his uninjured hand, his fingers slipping slightly on the polished, worn surface. He clenched his teeth and pulled with his still-functional arm, but the imbalance caused by his immobilized arm drew a groan from his lips. His torso rose laboriously, every muscle protesting the effort. At last, he managed to sit upright, his breath coming in short gasps, sweat beading on his temples.

  A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him, blurring his vision. He remained still, gripping the edge of the mattress, waiting for the spinning world to settle. His free hand clutched the bed frame so tightly that his knuckles whitened.

  The wooden floor creaked faintly as he placed one foot on the ground, then the other. His legs trembled under his weight, a prickling discomfort coursing from his calves to his toes. Each attempt to steady himself sent a sharp pain shooting through his immobilized shoulder. He gritted his teeth, taking shallow breaths to stave off another wave of agony, his face etched with a mixture of effort and frustration.

  With agonizing slowness, he shifted his weight onto his feet, though his body remained hunched. The tension in his chest and back, compounded by the awkward position of his broken arm, prevented him from fully straightening. Every movement, no matter how small, awakened a new surge of pain.

  The silence in the room was almost oppressive, broken only by the faint creak of the floorboards and his labored breathing. The antique frames hanging on the walls, depicting peaceful and idyllic landscapes, stared back at him with cruel indifference. Their tranquil stillness stood in stark contrast to his struggle to remain upright.

  He staggered slightly and caught himself against a nearby piece of furniture, gripping it tightly to avoid falling. His uninjured hand slid across a cluttered shelf, nearly toppling a porcelain figurine. Grimacing, he slowly straightened his back as much as the pain would allow. His eyes swept the room, taking in the objects frozen in oppressive stillness: books piled haphazardly, silent music boxes coated in a fine layer of dust, and vases scattered about like remnants of another life.

  Rouis drew another breath, this time more cautiously, and took a tentative step toward the door. His legs trembled, his chest seemed to pull in opposing directions, and his ribcage protested with each inhalation. But he pressed on, hunched over, his eyes fixed on the distant goal of the exit.

  Step by step, he moved forward, though each motion was an ordeal wrested from pain. The door handle seemed to retreat further with every step, but he refused to stop. His thoughts, blurred and chaotic, were a mix of anger, frustration, and a relentless instinct to survive. Each step echoed in the room, a defiant challenge to the silence and the suffering that weighed on him.

  When he finally reached the door, Rouis placed a clammy hand on the rough wood, his fingers slipping slightly over its uneven surface. He paused, his breath shallow and labored, his bruised ribs protesting with every gasp. His legs quivered under his weight, threatening to give out at any moment. Clenching his teeth, his muscles taut with effort, he slowly pushed the door open. A sharp creak shattered the silence, reverberating like a warning into the darkness beyond.

  A steep staircase revealed itself, descending into oppressive shadow. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, pressing against him like an invisible wall. Rouis gripped the banister with his uninjured hand, his fingers digging into the rough wood to keep his balance. He paused, his gaze fixed on the abrupt descent before him. The thought of falling flickered through his mind, a brief flash of panic he pushed aside with a slow, deliberate breath.

  He placed a hesitant foot on the first step, the creak of the wood breaking the oppressive silence.

  A sharp pain shot through his side, traveling up to his immobilized shoulder. His breath hitched, but he pressed on, gripping the banister like a lifeline. Each step echoed in the stairwell, amplified by the acoustics, an unintentional announcement of his presence. The wood groaned beneath his weight, one creak after another, and each step seemed to drain him further of his strength.

  A wave of warmth drifted up from below, brushing against his face, offering a fleeting promise of comfort. The distant crackle of a fire resonated softly, a sound that might have soothed him if not drowned out by his pain and exhaustion. Even this warmth couldn’t lift the oppressive weight bearing down on his shoulders.

  Rouis briefly closed his eyes, his hand sliding along the banister as he moved step by agonizing step.

  The metallic taste of exertion filled his mouth, and bursts of light danced before his eyes with every motion. Yet he continued, his body bent under the weight of suffering, driven by a force he struggled to identify.

  The staircase seemed to stretch endlessly, each step becoming a challenge unto itself. And still, he moved forward, step by step, like a man refusing to bow to the storm.

  Finally, Rouis reached the bottom of the staircase, his legs trembling from the effort. His ragged breathing filled the room, mingling with the soothing crackle of the fire in the hearth.

  Before him, an old man sat on a couch draped in worn fabric. Long gray hair framed his oval face, etched with the marks of age, and a thick beard streaked with silver strands added to his solemn demeanor.

  Rouis’s eyes narrowed slightly, his instincts urging him to remain cautious. Every muscle in his exhausted body was tense, ready to react.

  — "I’m the one who treated you," the old man said, his deep voice laced with kindness.

  — "What happened to me?" Rouis asked, still dazed, his thoughts drifting between hazy memories of the attack and the present.

  — "Two men assaulted you," Luc replied.

  The memory of the blows came rushing back: the weight of the iron pipe, mocking laughter, and the searing pain that split his skull. Rouis clenched his teeth, his numbed hands trembling slightly.

  — "Without that damn iron bar, I would’ve beaten them," he muttered, a flicker of anger in his eyes.

  — "Where’s the girl?" Rouis asked, instinctively searching for Ambre.

  — "She went to run some errands," Luc said, nodding slightly toward the door.

  The old man rose carefully, his measured movements betraying a fatigue deeply rooted in his bones. He took a ladle from near the hearth and filled a bowl with steaming soup. The comforting aroma of onions, vegetables, and broth filled the room, wrapping Rouis in an unexpected warmth.

  — "Here, eat," Luc said, handing him the bowl.

  Rouis took the bowl with his uninjured hand, lifting it slowly to his lips. The hot, savory liquid slid down his throat, soothing his battered body slightly.

  — "Do you want some bread?" Luc offered, glancing toward the table where a rustic loaf rested.

  — "No, thank you," Rouis replied, though an involuntary growl from his stomach betrayed his need.

  Luc shrugged with an amused smile and sliced two thick pieces of bread. He topped them with generous chunks of golden-crusted cheese, placing them on a plate.

  — "You sure?" he asked with a sly smile, holding the plate out toward Rouis.

  Rouis hesitated for a moment before nodding, a resigned sigh escaping his lips.

  — "Fine," he said at last.

  Luc sliced two more pieces of bread and added chunks of cheese, setting them down in front of Rouis. Taking a piece, Rouis dipped it into the soup, the simple, rich flavor awakening a buried memory. He thought of his mother, of the herb concoctions she used to prepare—some of them inedible, especially the ones with nettles. A fleeting smile crossed his face.

  — "It’s good," Rouis murmured between bites.

  Luc nodded, a satisfied smile softening his features.

  — "Glad you like it. My wife used to make this soup," he said in a gentler tone, tinged with nostalgia.

  Silence settled between them again, broken only by the sound of spoons scraping bowls and the steady crackle of the fire. Rouis, his gaze lowered, ate slowly but with appetite, savoring every bite.

  — "What brings you to this town?" Luc finally asked, breaking the calm with a curious but unintrusive tone.

  — "I’m escorting Ambre to the capital," Rouis replied, biting into his cheese-covered bread.

  Luc furrowed his brow slightly, thoughtful.

  — "Does that have anything to do with the attack you suffered?"

  — "None. Pure coincidence," Rouis replied without hesitation.

  Luc remained silent, his eyes briefly scrutinizing Rouis, as if weighing the truth of his words. Meanwhile, Rouis finished his meal, hungrily emptying the bowl of soup and the bread that accompanied it. Without a word, Luc refilled the bowl, adding two more slices of bread.

  Rouis ate just as eagerly the second time, but even as his stomach gradually filled, a gnawing hunger lingered—a reminder of the hardships of the past hours. Finally, he leaned back against the chair, a sigh of exhaustion escaping his lips.

  Luc, on the other hand, suddenly seemed older. His face, illuminated by the flickering firelight, was lined with deep wrinkles, and his figure appeared frailer than before. He sat down slowly, as if weighed down by an invisible burden.

  The silence stretched again, punctuated only by the murmuring fire and the now-relaxed breaths of Rouis, who finally felt the warmth of comfort dull, for a moment, the pain that consumed him.

  — "I’m going to take a nap. You can stay here or take a walk outside," Luc said, gesturing to a chair before heading upstairs.

  On the chair rested a pair of keys bound by a wrought iron ring, their tarnished surface bearing the marks of time. Beside the keys, simple clothes were neatly folded: an off-white linen shirt, slightly worn at the elbows, and a pair of sturdy brown canvas trousers, practical for long journeys. A supple leather belt, adorned with a polished metal buckle, completed the ensemble, silently awaiting its future wearer.

  When Luc left the room, silence fell like a heavy blanket. Rouis, still somewhat dazed, slowly made his way toward the kitchen, his thoughts still swirling around the recent events.

  The kitchen walls were covered in floral-patterned wallpaper, some corners peeling slightly to reveal layers of purple paint beneath. The low ceiling, yellowed with age, was supported by dark wooden beams. Beneath his feet, wide wooden floorboards creaked intermittently, adding a subtle soundtrack to his steps.

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  In the center of the room stood a small formica table surrounded by mismatched chairs. A plastic-coated tablecloth adorned with fruit motifs covered the surface, atop which rested an unlit oil lamp. The solid wood cabinets, painted in chipped white, revealed shelves filled with mismatched plates, bowls, and glasses, each piece carrying its own character.

  At the far end of the kitchen, a heavy wooden door caught his eye. Its timeworn surface bore deep scratches carved into the wood with brutal precision. The gashes, irregular yet unmistakably violent, slashed diagonally across the door, as if a determined creature had once tried to force its way through.

  Each groove etched into the wood seemed to tell a silent story, a frozen moment where an uncontrollable force had been unleashed upon the door. The edges of the scratches, slightly frayed, revealed the thickness and sturdiness of a wood that had once been inviolable.

  The flickering light of the oil lamp accentuated the texture of the scratches, casting sinister shadows that danced on the surrounding walls, as if echoing the fury of the past.

  Rouis stood motionless for a moment, his gaze fixed on the marks as if hypnotized. A question formed in his mind, heavy and inevitable: What had left these traces?

  When he opened the door, a cold breeze greeted him, unveiling a small, well-kept garden.

  The vegetable patch, sheltered by the surrounding trees, thrived despite the season. Rows of carrots, tomatoes, and herbs stood in near-military precision.

  A paved path wound gently through the garden, leading to a wooden bench placed under a towering oak tree. Though its bare branches had shed their leaves, the tree retained an imposing presence.

  After a moment of observing the snow-covered garden, Rouis decided to return inside to get dressed. The shirt and trousers folded neatly on the chair seemed harmless enough, but with a broken arm, every movement became a trial.

  Opening the door once more, a sharp, icy breeze seeped through to his skin, carrying with it the unmistakable chill of winter. Before him stretched the same small, well-tended garden, now blanketed in a pristine layer of snow.

  The vegetable patch, protected by the surrounding trees, revealed crops resilient to the winter. Rows of cabbages with thick, frosted leaves stood proudly, while leeks, their slender, dark-green stalks, pierced the snow. Farther along, root vegetables like carrots and turnips hinted at their presence beneath a thin layer of frost. A few hardy herbs, such as thyme and rosemary, added a touch of green to the landscape, their leaves releasing a faint fragrance even in the cold.

  A paved path meandered softly through the garden, its edges softened by the fresh snow. It led to a wooden bench placed under the grand oak tree, its bare, skeletal branches seeming to stand watch over the serene space.

  Rouis lingered for a moment, taking in the snow-draped landscape. Winter’s breath seemed to slow time, and the silence—broken only by the faint rustling of wind through the trees—deepened the sense of isolation.

  He grasped the shirt with his uninjured hand, brushing his fingers over it as if trying to figure out how to proceed. Sliding his first arm into the sleeve was a calculated effort, the fabric dragging awkwardly over his skin.

  But threading his bandaged arm through the other sleeve ignited a sharp, throbbing pain that radiated all the way to his shoulder. He froze for a moment, teeth clenched, his breath shallow and uneven.

  — "Come on," he muttered through gritted teeth, as though trying to will himself forward.

  He resumed with painstaking care, his movements slow and deliberate. The shirt’s fabric grazed against his battered chest, amplifying the pulling sensation in his ribs. Each button became its own battle, a clash between his determination and his body’s protests.

  Putting on the trousers proved just as arduous. Bending slightly to pull them on triggered a painful tension in his hip, drawing a grimace as he straightened up. The belt, though simple, required additional effort to fasten, each movement pulling at his strained muscles.

  When the clothes were finally on, Rouis stood still for a moment, his breath shallow, his fingers gripping his thigh. The pain lingered—dull and unyielding—but he had pushed through. He raised his head slightly, a faint glimmer of determination flickering in his tired eyes, and moved slowly toward the door.

  As he stepped outside at last, an icy gust bit at his face, seeping deep into his bones. He shivered despite himself, instinctively pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders to shield against the biting cold that blanketed the town. Above him, the gray sky stretched endlessly, flurries of snow drifting lazily down to add to the already thick layer covering the streets.

  The rooftops of the houses, whitened by snow, formed a uniform, muted landscape. The bare branches of trees, heavy with powder, bent slightly under the weight of winter. The cobblestones of the alleys, hidden beneath the pristine mantle, muffled the usual sounds of the town. An eerie tranquility hung in the air, broken only by the hurried steps of its inhabitants.

  Passersby, bundled in heavy coats, thick scarves, and knitted hats, rushed through the alleys. With every step, they left deep footprints in the fresh snow, their breaths forming fleeting clouds that rose into the icy air.

  Not far away, the distant chime of church bells echoed at regular intervals, adding a soft melody to the wintry atmosphere. Shop windows, adorned with candles, glowed warmly, casting an inviting light onto the snowy streets.

  Across the square, children in colorful outfits played in the snow. Their laughter rang out like cheerful echoes, warming the frosty air. Some, armed with snowballs, engaged in lively battles punctuated by bursts of joy, while others meticulously shaped snowmen. Snow swirled around them, sparkling under the diffuse rays of weak light.

  Rouis walked slowly, his boots sinking slightly into the fresh powder, each step producing a muffled sound, almost soothing in its quietude. The cold air bit at his cheeks, and his breath turned to vapor before his lips. His gaze, however, was distant. He scanned the scene around him absentmindedly, but his mind remained fogged, mired in the fatigue and memories of the past few days.

  At the corner of a street, Rouis finally spotted a café with a modest sign. Through its lit windows, he could make out figures seated inside, their hands wrapped around steaming cups. The interior seemed bathed in soft light, offering a warm refuge from the biting winter.

  Seeking some respite, Rouis made his way to the entrance.

  The café's floor shone under the dim lights, the black-and-white checkered tiles reflecting subtle gleams. Persian rugs in rich colors added contrasting warmth, while the walls, adorned with geometric wallpaper, seemed to hum softly under the gentle glow of brass sconces.

  The counter, imposing and majestic, was crafted from dark wood topped with polished marble. Behind it, a coffee machine exhaled plumes of steam, filling the air with the aroma of freshly ground beans. The servers, dressed in green silk uniforms, moved with measured elegance, their precise gestures contributing to the café's hushed atmosphere.

  In one corner, dark wooden shelves held ceramic jars filled with loose coffee and tea, their handwritten labels lending an artisanal touch. Nearby, glass cases revealed golden biscuits and cakes, inviting patrons to indulge.

  Rouis sat by a slightly fogged window, watching bundled-up passersby navigate the snowy street outside. The falling snowflakes danced in a silent choreography, blanketing the world in an immaculate cover. For a moment, he lost himself in the tranquility, but a cold, scornful voice shattered his peace:

  You are so weak.

  He started, his eyes darting nervously around the room.

  — "Who said that?" he murmured, but no one answered.

  The other patrons continued their conversations, though some cast brief, curious glances in his direction. He clenched his fists.

  You are so weak, the voice repeated, louder and more insistent this time.

  Rouis stood abruptly, his chair toppling over with a loud clatter.

  — "Show yourself!" he hissed, his voice slicing through the café’s muted ambiance.

  The murmurs stopped. The patrons froze, staring at Rouis, their gazes tinged with disbelief and unease.

  The server, alarmed by his outburst, approached quickly.

  — "Calm down, sir," he said firmly.

  The voice echoed again, sharper, more precise. A surge of uncontrollable anger exploded within Rouis, and before he could think, he struck the server in the stomach. The man collapsed with a dull thud, his breath knocked out of him.

  The silence that followed was suffocating. Conversations, the clinking of spoons, even the faint music—all had ceased. Every eye in the room was fixed on Rouis, whose chest rose and fell rapidly under the weight of anger and adrenaline.

  Suddenly aware of what he’d done, a wave of shame and confusion crashed over him.

  He took a step back, his eyes darting around for an escape. Then, without a word, he turned and left the café in haste, bumping into a table on his way out.

  Outside, the icy air hit him like a brutal shock. He walked quickly through the snowy streets, his heavy, uneven steps leaving chaotic imprints in the powder. The snow muffled the sound of his footsteps, but his heart pounded so loudly it seemed to echo in his head.

  Why? Why that voice?

  He barely felt the biting cold against his face; an internal storm raged within him. Shame, doubt, and a simmering anger tangled together, clouding his mind.

  When he finally saw the old man’s house, he slowed. His shallow breaths formed small clouds of vapor in the frigid air, but his thoughts remained turbulent, far from finding the calm he so desperately sought.

  As he entered, a gentle aroma of vegetables and herbs filled the air. Ambre, focused, was slicing carrots with precision, her knife moving in a steady rhythm. When the door creaked open, she lifted her head, her eyes widening in surprise. She immediately abandoned the knife and rushed toward Rouis, arms outstretched.

  — "Rouis! You’re finally awake!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up.

  Before he could respond, she wrapped him in an embrace filled with warmth that caught him off guard. His body, still sore, protested under the pressure, but he said nothing.

  — "You’re kinder than usual," he joked, a tired smile forming on his lips.

  Ambre quickly pulled back, her cheeks flushing pink. She lowered her gaze, nervously twisting the edge of her apron.

  — "I thought you were going to die," she murmured, her trembling voice betraying emotions she struggled to hide.

  She took a deep breath before continuing:

  — "It’s a good thing Luc saved you. He stitched up your arm and watched over you."

  Rouis nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. When I find my purse, I’ll give him ten gold pieces, he thought, grateful to the old man.

  He turned to Ambre.

  — "We’ll have to get moving soon."

  Ambre frowned.

  — "You’re not fully healed yet, Rouis! Your arm is still broken!" she exclaimed.

  Rouis shrugged, dismissing her objection with a casual wave of his hand.

  — "We don’t have much time. We’re already behind," he said plainly, as if to end the discussion.

  Ambre clenched her fists.

  — "You’re not invincible. If you leave too soon, you’ll make things worse, and we won’t get anywhere!" she protested, her eyes locked firmly on his.

  But Rouis averted his gaze, refusing to respond.

  — "How long was I asleep?" he finally asked, his voice calmer but tinged with suspicion.

  — "Three weeks," Ambre replied after a brief hesitation, as though she feared he might explode.

  Rouis’s eyes widened. He straightened abruptly, his fists clenching the edge of the table.

  — "Damn, damn, damn! That’s impossible!" he exclaimed, his voice echoing through the small room.

  Ambre, visibly irritated by his reaction, shrugged and resumed slicing the carrots.

  — "It’s not the end of the world," she said lightly.

  At that moment, Luc entered the room, his hands still dusted with flour. He greeted Rouis with a warm smile.

  — "You’re up; that’s a good sign," he said, stirring the contents of a steaming pot.

  He added a handful of fresh herbs before turning to Rouis, crossing his arms.

  — "But don’t rush things. Those kinds of injuries take time, and leaving too soon could cost you more than three weeks of rest."

  Rouis, still tense, slumped into a chair. He rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. Three weeks. An eternity lost. The delay could cost them dearly.

  The crackling of the fire in the hearth, the comforting aroma of soup, and the rhythmic sound of Ambre’s knife against the cutting board filled the room.

  Rouis stood slowly, stretching his aching muscles.

  — "What happened to the kitchen door?" he asked.

  Luc, hunched over a pile of vegetables he was chopping with precision, barely lifted his head.

  — "Wolves broke it down and ate all the supplies," he replied with a sigh.

  Rouis frowned, his thoughts racing.

  — "That doesn’t sound like normal wolf behavior," he said.

  Luc froze mid-motion, his knife suspended in the air. He fixed Rouis with an unusual intensity.

  — "It surprised me as much as it does you," Luc said. "I heard a loud noise one night, came downstairs, and it was already over. No food left, the door completely destroyed. They’ve even come back several times."

  The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the occasional crackle of wood in the hearth. Rouis nodded slowly, but his gaze remained fixed on the door, as if it held answers just out of reach.

  The evening unfolded in an unusual quiet. After a simple yet comforting meal, Luc and Ambre retired upstairs, leaving Rouis alone in the kitchen.

  He pulled a chair near the door and sat down, his dagger resting on the table within easy reach. His muscles tense and his mind alert, he scanned every corner of the room, mentally noting each detail. The biting cold seeped through the cracks in the door, and outside, snow continued to fall silently, blanketing the world in an immaculate shroud.

  A sudden jolt woke him. In front of him stood Ambre, leaning over, her face tight with urgency.

  — "You didn’t hear anything?" she exclaimed, her voice wavering between irritation and exasperation.

  Rouis jumped to his feet, still groggy, his mind struggling to grasp reality.

  He swept the room with his gaze. The cold air seemed sharper than before, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. Where, just the night before, sacks of flour and meat had been neatly stored, there was now nothing.

  — "No, I… I didn’t hear anything," he murmured, dazed.

  Ambre, already near the door, was scanning the scene.

  — "Come here," she said sharply.

  Rouis approached, his stiff muscles protesting every step. Together, they examined the door. Unlike the previous incursions, there were no scratches, no signs of brute force. The door appeared untouched, as though nothing had happened.

  Ambre slowly turned to him, crossing her arms. Her piercing, accusatory eyes seemed to dig into him, searching for the truth in his expression.

  — "If you were hungry, you could’ve just said so," Ambre sighed, her tone heavy with irritation.

  Rouis felt a simmering anger rise within him, but he pushed it down.

  — "I didn’t eat anything," he repeated, his voice firmer, almost cutting.

  — "What a scoundrel!" she snapped, her eyes blazing with indignation. "You ate all the food and won’t even admit it!"

  Rouis clenched his fists, feeling his patience erode.

  — "I’m telling you, it wasn’t me!"

  — "Then who?" Ambre shouted, her voice shattering the heavy silence in the house.

  At that moment, Luc descended the stairs, his dragging steps amplified by the quiet. His disheveled hair and weary expression testified to his exhaustion.

  — "What’s going on here?" he asked, his voice gravelly, tinged with fatigue.

  Ambre spun toward him, gesturing accusingly at Rouis.

  — "The food is gone again, and Rouis claims he didn’t hear a thing!"

  Luc frowned, his gaze shifting slowly between the two of them. He lingered on Rouis for a moment before turning to Ambre, his posture radiating quiet authority.

  — "Calm down," he said firmly. "Blaming each other won’t help us figure out what’s happening here."

  Rouis took a deep breath, running a hand over his face in an attempt to collect his thoughts. A question haunted him, insistent and unsettling: What if it really was me—without my knowing?

  His eyes drifted toward the threshold. A strange footprint, barely visible in the snow, caught his attention. It was too large for a wolf, but too imprecise to draw any conclusions.

  Luc sighed deeply and moved toward the door to examine it more closely. His rough fingers traced over the wood, pausing on the grooves left by past claw marks. He narrowed his eyes in concentration before straightening up and turning to face Rouis and Ambre.

  — "Maybe there’s a passage or hiding place we haven’t discovered yet," he said. "I’ll search the house."

  Luc dug into his pocket and handed Rouis a few bronze coins.

  — "You’ll do the shopping for lunch," he said simply.

  Rouis took the coins, his gaze briefly shifting to Ambre. She, however, said nothing. She turned on her heel and marched upstairs, her steps brisk, her back straight, and her chin slightly raised.

  Luc watched her retreat, a faint smile playing on his lips, then turned to Rouis.

  — "She’ll get over it," he said softly.

  He rummaged in his pocket again and pulled out another coin, handing it to Rouis.

  — "In case you want a beer."

  Rouis raised an eyebrow slightly, surprised by the gesture.

  — "Thanks," he replied, slipping the coin into his pocket.

  Luc headed to the kitchen, pulling out a few eggs and a piece of bacon, which he set on the table. Within minutes, he had lit the fire and started preparing an omelet. The mouthwatering aroma of cooking quickly filled the room.

  Ambre, however, didn’t come down for lunch. Sitting at the table, Rouis watched absentmindedly as Luc placed two full plates in front of them.

  — "She was really worried about you," Luc said, breaking the silence.

  Rouis looked up, a skeptical glint in his eyes.

  — "I doubt it," he replied curtly, poking at his plate with his fork.

  Luc, unfazed, smiled slightly before continuing:

  — "I’m serious. She stayed by your side every night. She changed your sheets, checked your bandages, and made sure you didn’t lack anything."

  Rouis remained still, Luc’s words echoing in his mind. He lowered his head slightly, tracing the rim of his glass with his finger. A mix of guilt and gratitude crept over him.

  — "I didn’t know," he murmured at last.

  Silence fell again, broken only by the faint scrape of cutlery against plates. The two men ate in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

  Luc broke the silence once more, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

  — "Want a beer?"

  Rouis looked up, a faint smile finally crossing his lips.

  — "With pleasure."

  Luc got up, opened a cupboard, and returned with two cold beers. He handed one to Rouis before sitting down across from him. They clinked their bottles together, the soft chime echoing pleasantly in the cozy kitchen.

  Outside, snow continued to fall, blanketing the town in a pristine white cover.

  *****

  Rouis quickly completed his shopping, slipping the provisions into his bag before heading toward a tavern whose sign had been dulled by years of exposure. The door creaked as it opened, releasing a rush of warm air heavy with the aromas of beer, burning wood, and spices. Inside, the flickering light of wrought-iron chandeliers cast dancing shadows on walls adorned with eclectic memorabilia: felt hats adorned with feathers, tarnished copper lanterns, and musical instruments hung like forgotten relics.

  Rouis chose a secluded table, where the dimness offered a semblance of privacy. The table’s surface, worn with age, bore the scars of countless evenings: carved initials, deep scratches, and rings left by countless tankards. He settled in with a fresh beer in hand, savoring the first sip as its familiar bitterness spread across his tongue.

  His gaze was drawn to an old map of the kingdom hanging on the wall, yellowed and torn at the edges. Almost unconsciously, he rose and approached it. His fingers brushed over the weathered paper, tracing the winding borders. He found his hometown, a tiny, barely visible dot on the map.

  His thoughts drifted to the dusty alleys and familiar faces of his childhood. He remembered afternoons spent running with friends, their laughter echoing between the walls of the houses, and the sweet taste of apples stolen from neighboring orchards. But those memories, once so vivid, now felt veiled, like a photograph faded by time.

  He wondered what had become of them—his friends, and the girl with the golden braid he had never forgotten. Perhaps, with the fortune he hoped to amass, he could find her again. But a persistent question lingered: Would she even recognize him? And what if he had changed so much that he was a stranger to her now?

  Through the large window of the tavern, Rouis watched the passersby. Snow fell gently, settling on the bundled shoulders of hurried walkers. Their steps crunched against the cobblestones, mingling with the quiet murmur of conversations and distant laughter. Yet their faces, etched with anxiety and the wear of daily life, seemed to tell a story he couldn’t quite grasp.

  A wave of melancholy swept over him, cold and sudden like an icy breeze. Everything here felt foreign. Even the sounds of the tavern—the clinking of tankards, the hum of voices—seemed distant, distorted by the haze of his memories.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and in the silence of his mind, he found the familiar sounds of his childhood: the ringing of bells in the distance, the splash of water on stone, and joyful voices calling his name. When he opened his eyes again, reality reclaimed its place, bringing with it a nagging question: Would his hometown still be recognizable? And even if it was, would he find a part of himself there?

  With a sigh, he returned to his table and picked up his tankard. He took a long sip, trying to drown his unease in the bitterness of the brew. Yet even the beer couldn’t silence the whirlwind of thoughts assailing him.

  His gaze drifted back to the map, where his hometown seemed to call to him silently. With one final sigh, he placed the tankard back on the table and closed his eyes briefly, allowing the bitterness of his memories to intertwine with that of the present.