Chapter Text
Winter was a cruel mistress, and Gotham knew her well.
The season came down from the mountains like a sentence already passed. Snow buried the forests in thick, suffocating sheets, muting the world into whites and grays. Most animals retreated into their dens, living off stored fat and instinct. The ones that did not, the ones foolish or desperate enough to move through the open woods, were the ones worth hunting. Thick furs. Heavy meat. The kind that could sell for fifty to eighty coin per pelt if it was clean, more if the hide was large. Meat could fetch sixty to a hundred if the family didn't need it first.
Winter also brought sickness. It always did. A cough here, a fever there, and by the time the thaw came, the village would be quieter. It was a grim sort of balance, one the elders spoke about in low voices near the fire. Population control, they called it, as if giving it a name made it easier to accept. Still, the village near the mountains had not yet fallen to desperation. No one had turned on their neighbor. Not yet.
Hunting season was meant for autumn, the last good month before the storms arrived. From dawn to sunset, hunters disappeared into the forest with bows, traps, and spears, returning with bloodied hands and proof of their worth. Some nights, men came back empty-handed, shoulders heavy with failure. Other nights, they returned dragging sleds full of rabbits, foxes, ducks, and the occasional wolf. Bones were kept for tools or crude decorations. Anything useless was burned or tossed away.
And then there was Victor.
Victor was Gotham's pride, the undisputed best hunter the village had ever known. Every winter, without fail, he brought back more than anyone else combined. Wolves, bears, foxes, deer. His furs lined half the homes in the village, his meat filled pantries that would have otherwise gone bare. The praise he received was constant and suffocating, whispered in admiration and shouted in celebration.
"That man could wrestle winter itself," one of the elders liked to say.
All the boys wanted to be him. Men studied his stance, his grip, the way he walked through the snow as if it bent to his will. Women watched him from doorways and market stalls, eyes lingering a second too long. Children followed him when they could, dragging sticks behind them like spears, pretending they were brave enough to face the forest.
Victor accepted it all with a quiet, steady nod. He spoke little, smiled less, and never boasted. He didn't need to. The son of a bitch was too cocky for his own good.
[M/N] was nothing like him.
He hunted, yes, but only enough. Enough for his father. Enough for his sister. Enough to survive the winter and reach the early days of spring when the snow softened and trade resumed. He brought back rabbits, sometimes a fox if he was lucky, squirrels when the traps were kind. He sold just enough to afford eggs, milk, soap, and cheese from the village stores. Nothing more.
His father had never been a hunter. He was a thinker, an inventor, a man whose hands were stained with ink instead of blood. He paid the local hunters well to take [M/N] into the woods when the boy was young, back when numbers refused to stay still in his head and science slipped through his fingers no matter how many times it was explained.
"You'll learn better out there," his father had said gently, pressing a small pouch of coin into a hunter's palm. "He's smart. Just not in the way the books want him to be."
Belle had been different.
Belle understood everything. Numbers made sense to her. Science excited her. She listened to their father with bright, hungry eyes as he taught her math, history, engineering, art. She sat in his office for hours, feet swinging beneath the desk, asking questions that made grown men pause.
[M/N] lingered at the doorway during those lessons, listening but never fully grasping. English came easily to him. Stories did. Words, emotion, meaning. The rest felt like trying to catch smoke with bare hands.
Belle never made him feel small for it.
She taught him when their father was busy, patiently walking him through equations and concepts, repeating herself without frustration when he stumbled.
"It's okay," she would say, tapping the page. "We'll go slower."
And he would smile, relieved, grateful, and quietly ashamed all at once.
So when winter came, and the village watched Victor stride through the snow like a legend, [M/N] kept his head down. He carried his modest haul home, fingers numb, boots soaked, thinking not of praise or pride, but of his sister's laugh and his father's quiet smile when there was food on the table.
Belle taught him more than numbers and letters.
When their father was away for work and the small house at the edge of Gotham village belonged only to them, Belle became something like a quiet Teacher. She taught [M/N] how to hold a pencil properly, how to shade instead of pressing too hard, how to let his hand move before his thoughts could tangle themselves. She showed him how to knead dough until it was smooth, how to wait for bread to rise, how heat changed things if you were patient enough to let it. Cooking, baking, drawing. All the things that made the house warm and alive instead of silent and cold.
They were careful about it. Sneaky. Belle kept watch while [M/N] stirred pots, and [M/N] wiped away flour before their father returned home. It worked, until it didn't.
Their father caught them once. Just once was enough.
[M/N] remembered the sound before anything else. The crack of skin against knuckles. The way the room felt smaller afterward. He had wrapped himself in a blanket later, sitting on the edge of his bed while the cold fabric pressed against the welts blooming across his back. It stung, but the chill soothed it, dulled the ache into something distant.
Belle hadn't been hit.
She stood in the corner instead, facing the wall, hands clenched at her sides while their father paced behind her.
"Don't you want nieces and nephews in the future?" he snapped, voice sharp and scolding. "Stop letting him learn women's work. He'll become one and fall in love with a man."
Belle said nothing. She didn't turn around. But later, when the house was quiet and the lights were low, she sat beside [M/N] and wordlessly helped him adjust the blanket. Her jaw was tight. Her eyes were furious.
They waited after that. Patient. Silent.
When their father left again, gone for an entire week to attend a conference and show off his blueprints to men who nodded and praised him, they returned to it like it had never stopped. Flour on the table. Charcoal on paper. The warmth of the hearth and the quiet comfort of doing something gentle in a world that demanded hardness from [M/N] at every turn.
He liked it. He liked being indoors. He liked warmth. He liked creating something instead of killing it.
But winter did not care what he liked.
Now, he was flat against the forest floor, tracking a deer he had spotted miles back. It was large, strong, healthy. Its fur would fetch a good price. His breath came slow and controlled as he moved, body low, boots barely disturbing the frost-crusted grass. Wind rattled the branches overhead, tugging at his hair and the fur lining of his jacket. The sun had only just begun to rise, a pale line of light threading through the trees.
He paused when he found the prints. Fresh and deep. His eyes traced the marks automatically; instincts drilled into him by years of hunters who spoke in grunts and gestures instead of patience.
Then a branch snapped.
[M/N] dropped lower instantly, sliding behind a tree as his heart hammered once, hard, before settling. His hand moved without thought, drawing an arrow from the quiver on his back. He notched it, pulled the string back until it strained beneath his fingers.
He saw it.
The deer stood a short distance away, head lowered as it chewed, ears flicking. For a moment it lifted its head, alert, and [M/N] froze, breath caught in his chest. The deer relaxed again, returning to the grass.
"Stand still," he whispered, barely a sound.
He lined up the shot. His arms burned faintly from the tension.
Then the deer turned.
Another shape emerged from the trees. Then another, smaller still.
A doe. A fawn.
[M/N] sucked in a sharp breath and felt something twist in his chest. He could do it. He knew he could. Kill the buck, take the fur and meat, and leave the mother and child to starve in a forest already stripped bare by winter.
His fingers trembled.
He couldn't.
A soft curse slipped past his lips as movement caught his eye near the ground. A rabbit, close enough that he barely thought about it. Instinct took over. He released the arrow. It cut clean through the air and struck true, pinning the rabbit to the earth with a wet, final sound. The deer scattered immediately, the buck leading the doe and fawn deeper into the trees.
Silence followed.
[M/N] exhaled, shoulders sagging as the tension drained from him. It wasn't ideal. It wasn't impressive. But it was better than nothing.
He rose slowly and crossed the distance to the rabbit. It thrashed weakly, blood darkening its fur, staining the snow beneath it. [M/N] knelt, jaw tight, and pressed the arrow further until the movement stopped.
He bowed his head for a moment afterward, breath fogging the air.
Then he pulled the arrow free, cleaned it, and prepared to head home.
Winter did not forgive weakness. But [M/N] carried his mercy anyway.
Some meat, some fur and tomorrow he'll try again. Right now he should be going back home and help Belle with the chores and bargaining in town.
They always try to give her the short end of the stick.
++++
The village of Gotham was already alive by the time [M/N] reached its outer paths.
Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the smells of bread and burning wood into the cold air. His boots crunched softly against packed snow as he walked, the weight of a dead rabbit hanging from a rope slung across his back. His quiver rested against his shoulder, arrows nestled inside, though a few were missing. They had snapped earlier that morning, worn thin by age and use. He would mend what he could, trade what he couldn't. Even a rabbit, small as it was, could still earn a few coins. Fur to the blacksmith. Meat to the fire traders. Nothing wasted.
"Good morning, mister!" a pair of children chirped as they ran past him, cheeks red from the cold.
"Morning," [M/N] replied, lifting a hand in a brief wave without slowing his pace.
The main market was already in full voice. Vendors shouted over one another, calling out prices and promises, trying to outdo their neighbors with volume if not quality. Dogs roamed freely between stalls, ribs showing but tails wagging. Cats lounged wherever the sun touched stone. A handful of chickens wandered near the wealthier homes, pecking at the ground without fear, owned by families rich enough to let them roam.
"Cheese! Cheese for sale!"
"Bread! Freshly baked, still warm!"
"Eggs! Twelve for a good pouch!"
The noise washed over him in layers, familiar and overwhelming all at once. The sun barely peeked through the clouds above, thin and pale, but the villagers made the most of it, crowding the open spaces before winter could steal the light away again.
[M/N] turned down a narrower path that led toward home, weaving through clusters of people. He was almost clear when a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.
He stiffened instantly.
He didn't need to look to know who it was. The smell alone gave it away. Leather, smoke, and iron. Victor.
[M/N] exhaled through his nose before slowly craning his neck. Victor walked easily beside him, broad and solid, a smirk tugging at his mouth. A few of his usual companions trailed just behind, grinning like they'd been invited to a show.
"See that you have... a hunt," Victor said, voice loud enough to carry. He gestured lazily toward the rabbit slung over [M/N]'s back, laughter already in his throat. "A little itty-bitty rabbit."
His friends laughed on cue.
"Humorous as always, Victor," [M/N] replied dryly. He flicked a glance at the rabbit, then back at the man's face, careful to keep his tone flat. Calm. Uninteresting.
Around them, people slowed. Watched. Some openly, some pretending not to. A few women near a stall whispered behind gloved hands, eyes lingering on Victor as they fanned themselves and giggled. Admiration followed him like a shadow.
[M/N] shifted his shoulder, subtly trying to pull free, but Victor's grip tightened instead. Firm. Possessive.
The message was clear.
Victor was still the center of this village. And [M/N], rabbit or not, was just another thing caught in his grasp. "Do you need something?" [M/N] asked once they turned another corner.
His home was in sight now, the small house near the edge of Gotham village. Smoke curled steadily from the chimney, thick and dark against the pale sky. Either Belle was cooking again, or their father had the fire going too high while working. Likely both. He had always liked things to look a certain way, even if it meant nearly burning the house down for the sake of atmosphere.
Victor followed his gaze and hummed.
"Always straight to the point," Victor said with a low chuckle. "Anyway, you know the usual." He leaned closer, voice dropping just enough to pretend it was private. "The hand of your beautiful sister."
"Not going to happen," [M/N] replied immediately, not missing a step. "She's not interested in you."
Victor scoffed, clearly amused. "She doesn't know what she wants." The entitlement in his voice made [M/N]'s jaw tighten.
"She's a woman," Victor continued, snorting softly as if the answer were obvious. "She needs a strong, respected hunter for a husband. Someone like me."
"Yeah," one of Victor's men called from behind them, voice thick with mockery. "Someone like Victor."
Victor smiled wider, encouraged. "And I need someone beautiful. Beautiful like angels themselves carved her face with their own hands."
Something ugly curled in [M/N]'s stomach at the way Victor said it, reverent and possessive all at once. The man had no shortage of women. They followed him openly, laughed too loud at his jokes, found excuses to touch his arm or shoulder. At least a dozen a day, sometimes more. And yet the only woman Victor fixated on, the only one he spoke about like this, was Belle.
They never saw her mind. Her patience. Her kindness.
Only her face.
One thing [M/N] agreed with his father on, no matter how fractured their relationship was, was that Belle deserved more. Far more than this.
"I'm not doing that," [M/N] said sharply, finally stopping and slapping Victor's hand off his shoulder. He stepped away, creating space between them. "My sister deserves more than anything you could ever offer her."
Victor laughed, low and cruel. "She deserves a man."
[M/N] felt his posture fold in on itself without meaning to, shoulders rounding as he crossed his arms tightly. Victor noticed. He always noticed weakness. His men watched too, eyes sharp, entertained.
"A real man," Victor went on, walking forward as [M/N] backed toward his home. "Not some scholar who lost his worth and a son that isn't worth a thing.
[M/N] spun around, anger flaring hot and fast, ready to snap back—A sudden blast of black smoke burst from the chimney above his house, thick enough to blot the sky for a moment.
He didn't hesitate.
[M/N] turned and hurried up the stone path, boots slipping slightly as he reached the fence. It swung open with a sharp creak behind him. Laughter followed, Victor's voice loud and satisfied as his men joined in. [M/N] shoved the door open and stepped inside.
Smoke flooded the room, dark and stinging. He coughed immediately, waving a hand in front of his face as his eyes burned.
"Belle? Father?"
"We're okay," Belle called out quickly.
She appeared near the window, already pushing it open. Cold air rushed in as the wooden shutters swung wide. She grabbed a rag and began waving the smoke outside with practiced efficiency.
"Father forgot to put the fire out," she said calmly, though her voice carried a hint of dry humor. "Dinner is... extra crispy."
A loud, hacking cough echoed from deeper in the house. Their father, unmistakably.
[M/N] exhaled, tension bleeding out of him as the smoke slowly thinned. He let out a long breath as soon as the door shut behind him. [M/N] set his bow and quiver carefully by the door, muscle memory guiding his hands even as his lungs still burned faintly from the smoke. The rabbit was placed gently on the table beside his father's scattered books and loose pages, its weight dull and final. Without a word, he moved to Belle's side and grabbed another rag, leaning toward the open window to help her push the last of the smoke out into the cold air.
Together they worked in practiced silence, waving the dark haze away until it thinned into wisps and finally vanished altogether. The room slowly returned to itself—the scent of burnt wood lingering, but no longer choking.
He straightened and exhaled again, softer this time.
"Didn't bring much," [M/N] said, dropping the rag onto the table. His voice was calm, but tired. "There aren't many animals left in the forest."
Belle smiled at him as if that were the least important thing in the world.
"I'm just glad you came home," she said gently. She tucked the rag into the waistband of her skirt and brushed a curtain of dark hair behind her ear as she turned toward the fireplace. She knelt to inspect what remained of dinner or what was, charred, uneven, but salvageable. "And a rabbit is perfect. You can skin it and sell the hide and bones to the blacksmith."
"I won't get much," [M/N] admitted, already doing the math in his head. Not enough, never enough. "I'll try again tomorrow morning. If not..." He hesitated, then added lightly, "We can always eat Henrietta."
Belle straightened instantly, scandalized. "You leave her alone." He smiled despite himself as she stood and nudged the burnt logs deeper into the fire, making room for fresh wood. "She's just an old lady," she added defensively.
"A fat, mean old lady," [M/N] replied, ducking when she swatted at him half-heartedly. With Belle, things were always like this. Easy. Warm. She never expected more from him than he could give. Reading. Writing. Coming home alive.
"So," a voice cut in coolly from the other side of the room, "that's all you brought."
[M/N] stiffened.
His father stood near the table, eyes fixed on the rabbit with clear distaste. "Didn't hunt well because there was nothing to hunt," he continued, "or because you've gone soft?"
It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
[M/N] bit the inside of his tongue before answering. "I'm not lying, Father." He turned to face him, meeting his gaze head-on.
They shared the same eyes. That was the cruelest part of it. The same color, the same shape—but where his father's were sharp and dismissive, his mother's had been gentle. Warm. He remembered them clearly, even now. Sometimes, he wished the mirror had given him her eyes instead.
Belle had inherited them.
"I see," his father said quietly, as though he knew exactly what had happened in the forest. As though he knew his son had chosen mercy over efficiency.
The older man sighed and sat at the head of the table, the chair creaking beneath him. He smoothed his shirt absentmindedly and glanced at a silver plate—one of the few things they still owned from before.
Before the plague.
They had once been wealthy. Had owned land, a manor in the countryside. Then sickness swept through everything. His mother died weeks after Belle was born. The neighbors followed. Friends. Livestock. Hope. They fled to Gotham, far from the rot and fever, and started over with far less than they'd had before.
His father had never forgiven the world for that.
Now he worked constantly, chasing commissions, chasing lost wealth, chasing the idea that he could still leave something behind. For Belle, at least. [M/N] knew where he stood in that equation, and he'd made his peace with it.
"What were you working on," [M/N] asked, carefully neutral, "that made you forget the literal fire?"
His father shot him a sharp look, but said nothing at first. Belle moved smoothly between them, opening a jar of juice she'd prepared days earlier, a blend of apples and grapes. She poured three glasses, setting them down gently before closing the jar again.
"Work," his father said at last, as if that explained everything. "You wouldn't understand the prints even if I explained them again. But I've been commissioned for a church beyond Gotham. There's a conference as well." He paused. "I'll be leaving tomorrow morning. I won't be back for several days."
[M/N] nodded, pretending the jab didn't sting. "I see."
It wasn't unusual. Their father was often gone. It would be just him and Belle again, sharing the quiet and the warmth and the small rebellions that made the house feel like home. As he leaned against the counter, listening to the crackle of the fire, [M/N] found himself thinking but not of hunting routes or coin but of pastry dough and cinnamon.
Maybe this time, he'd finally get apple pie right.
+++++
Days passed, and Leonel realized that he had lost his way.
He was certain he had taken the correct road back toward Gotham. Certain enough that he hadn't questioned it when the forest grew denser, when the landmarks thinned, when the sky darkened far too quickly for the hour. Felipe, their one surviving horse from the plague and the long, bitter move—a massive Belgian draft with a pale coat—had always known the way home better than any map. Leonel trusted him more than he trusted himself.
But now the sun was gone.
Thick clouds smothered the sky, swallowing what little light there had been. The wind howled through the trees, violent and sharp, carrying snow that stung Leonel's face and blurred his vision until the world became nothing but white and shadow.
"Come on, Felipe," Leonel muttered, teeth chattering as he leaned closer to the horse's neck and tightened his grip on the reins. His fingers were numb, stiff with cold. "Home. Just get us home."
Felipe snorted softly, breath billowing in the air, and pressed forward through the snow. Each step sank deep, heavy hooves struggling against drifts that grew thicker by the minute. Then, suddenly, the horse stopped.
Felipe's ears flicked sharply. His body went rigid.
Leonel felt it immediately, the way the forest seemed to hold its breath. The wind still screamed, but beneath it was something else. An echoing quiet. The kind that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
"Felipe?" Leonel asked, his voice barely carrying.
A howl answered him.
Then another.
Leonel's heart dropped straight into his stomach. "Shit," he hissed.
Movement rippled between the trees. Pale eyes gleamed from the dark, circling. Wolves. Big ones. Too many. Felipe reared with a terrified whine, hooves striking the air as snapping jaws lunged close enough for Leonel to hear teeth clack shut.
"Easy, easy—" Leonel tried, though his own panic bled into his voice.
Felipe slammed back down, hooves digging into the snow before he bolted hard to the left. Leonel clung to the reins as the horse surged forward, nearly tearing him from the saddle. Snow and branches tore past them as the wolves gave chase, their snarls cutting through the storm.
Leonel fumbled for his flintlock pistol, fingers clumsy and shaking. He barely managed to draw it when a wolf lunged close to Felipe's flank. The horse veered sharply, and the pistol flew from Leonel's grip, vanishing into the snow.
"Damn it!" Leonel shouted, but there was no time to stop. Felipe ran blindly, deeper and deeper into the forest. Branches whipped across Leonel's face, cutting skin and fabric alike. His coat snagged and tore. The trees closed in, the forest growing darker, narrower, until Leonel feared they would crash headlong into a trunk and be torn apart.
Then, suddenly, they burst free.
Felipe skidded to a halt on stone.
Leonel sucked in a sharp breath as he looked up.
Before them stood a castle.
It rose from the snow like something pulled from a half-forgotten nightmare as it was massive, dark, and unmistakably old. A long stone bridge stretched beneath Felipe's hooves, arcing over icy black water far below. Snow clung to every surface, yet the air here felt calmer, almost unnervingly so. The storm raged behind them, but around the castle there was a strange stillness.
Felipe stamped uneasily but did not move forward.
Leonel glanced back.
The wolves had stopped at the edge of the bridge. They paced along the forest line, growling softly, eyes fixed on man and horse but none dared step onto the stone. It was as if an invisible line barred their path.
As one, they lifted their heads and howled. Then, slowly, they melted back into the trees. Leonel sagged in the saddle, breath coming out in ragged clouds. Felipe huffed beneath him, sides heaving, but alive.
Leonel turned back toward the castle.
It was gothic in design, all sharp angles and towering spires, its stone walls cracked with age. Vines crawled up its sides, frozen solid, tangled with thick, frost-covered bushes. Statues lined the approach—angels with weather-worn faces, animals mid-snarl, gargoyles crouched along the parapets, watching with hollow eyes.
Despite its age, the place did not feel abandoned. Light flickered faintly behind stained glass windows. Candlelight.
"Maybe they have a map," Leonel murmured to himself. "Or directions."
Felipe shifted as Leonel dismounted, the horse stepping aside with a nervous snort. Leonel adjusted his heavy coat and approached the massive doors, boots echoing against stone as he climbed the steps.
He knocked.
Once. Twice. No answer.
Swallowing his unease, Leonel reached out and pushed.
The door opened easily. Warmth rushed out to meet him, startling in contrast to the brutal cold outside. Candles flared to life as he stepped inside, as though the castle itself had noticed his presence.
"Hello?" Leonel called, his voice echoing softly through the vast interior. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "I mean no harm."
No response.
He moved further in, eyes scanning the space. The interior was immaculate. Rich rugs stretched across polished stone floors. Furniture of dark wood and deep colors filled the hall, untouched by dust or decay. Everything was preserved, cared for.
Leonel moved deeper into the castle, every step echoing too loudly against stone that had stood far longer than he had been alive. The warmth seeped into his bones little by little, thawing fingers that had gone stiff with cold. He exhaled, shoulders lowering despite himself, and paused when he thought he heard something—movement, maybe, or a breath that wasn't his own.
He turned.
Nothing.
The hall remained empty, candlelight steady and unbothered. Leonel frowned but continued on, pushing open a set of tall doors.
The dining room stole the air from his lungs.
A long table stretched before him, heavy with food. Not scraps. Not rationed portions. A feast. Glazed ham glistening under candlelight. Apple pies with golden crusts. Artisan loaves stacked beside wedges of cubed cheese. Fresh fruit, bright and ripe. Lobster split and steaming. Bottles of wine filled to the brim. Cakes layered thick with colorful frosting. Puddings rich and dark.
Food he hadn't seen in years.
Food he hadn't tasted since before everything fell apart.
Leonel took a step closer, then another, moving along the table as though afraid the vision would vanish if he blinked too hard. His mouth watered painfully. His hand trembled as it reached out and took an apple.
He bit into it.
The sweetness burst across his tongue, crisp and alive, and his vision blurred before he could stop it. He swallowed hard, breath hitching.
"Knew it," a voice murmured from somewhere in the room.
Leonel startled, nearly dropping the apple. He clutched it close and turned sharply, eyes wide as he scanned the shadows. "I—my apologies," Leonel said quickly, voice rough. "I didn't see anyone. I knocked. I announced myself." He swallowed again, forcing himself to finish the bite. "I was traveling back from a conference. I was chased by wolves. I didn't mean to take anything."
"Don't worry about it," another voice replied, warmer, calm. "Eat. You're welcome to it."
Leonel frowned. He still couldn't see anyone.
After a moment's hesitation, hunger won out over caution. He pulled out a chair and sat, movements slow and respectful. He poured wine into a crystal glass, the sound ringing softly, and began to serve himself.
He ate carefully at first. Then with more confidence. One plate. Then another. The food was real. Warm. Unquestionably there. The wine loosened the tight knot in his chest, dulled the ache in his limbs.
"Gluttonous pig," a sharp, youthful voice muttered.
Leonel froze mid-bite.
"Damian," the warmer voice said quietly, warning threaded through the word.
Silence followed.
Leonel said nothing. He simply kept eating, slower now, until his hunger was finally, blessedly satisfied. By the time he stood, his head felt light, his body heavy and warm. He covered a small burp with his arm and rubbed at his beard, white threading through the dark hair there.
As he turned, something caught his eye.
A folded map, partially pinned beneath a wine glass at the end of the table. Leonel hesitated, then gently lifted it and scanned the markings. His breath left him in relief. Directions. A clear path back to Gotham. He folded it carefully and tucked it into his coat.
"Thank you," he said aloud, voice sincere. "For the hospitality. I'll be on my way."
No one answered.
Unease settled in his chest again, quiet but persistent. Leonel smoothed his hair back and left the dining room, retracing his steps until the great doors opened once more to the cold. Felipe waited where Leonel had left him, flicking snow from his tail. Leonel grasped the reins and led him toward the bridge—Then stopped.
At the edge of the path, nestled among thick, frozen bushes, bloomed roses. Deep burgundy. Rich and full. Impossible against the snow.
Leonel's breath caught. Belle.
She had once asked for one, half-joking, half-hopeful. Just once, she'd said she wanted something from a trip.
Leonel approached slowly and reached out, fingers closing around the stem. The bushes shuddered violently. A feral screech split the air overhead, raw and furious, followed by the thunderous beat of wings.
Leonel looked up just as the shadow fell over him.