The road hummed softly beneath the carriage wheels.

  Dawn spilled across the horizon like slow honey, melting the last traces of night into gold. The world beyond the window felt impossibly peaceful — rolling fields, birds skimming low over the grass, a morning mist that clung to the edges of the hills. The kind of silence that didn’t ask to be broken.

  Inside, the carriage swayed gently, wood creaking with each turn. The air smelled faintly of pine and bread from breakfast, still clinging to their clothes. Flora hummed as she mended a tear in Soliana’s cloak. Anastasia leaned against the window, hair catching the light, tracing shapes on the glass with her fingertip.

  Roland sat across from them, hands folded neatly, eyes half-lidded as he watched the way light and shadow danced across the curtains. Every creak, every breath, every sway of the carriage felt slower than it should. He found himself listening to the rhythm — the wheels on dirt, the soft hush of grass, the muted thump of his own heart.

  If time had mercy, he thought, maybe it would stop.

  Just for a while.

  ---

  “Alright,” Anastasia said suddenly, breaking the stillness with the authority of a scientist announcing a revelation. “I figured it out.”

  Flora looked up from her stitching. “Figured what out, dear?”

  “How sigils work.” She said it as if the answer had always been obvious.

  Roland snapped out of his thoughts as Flora blinked in amusement. “Oh? Do tell.”

  Anastasia straightened, brushing invisible dust from her lap. “It’s the five elements.”

  Flora smiled. “Five?”

  “Fire, water, wind, earth, and…” She tapped her chin dramatically. “Friendship.”

  Roland let out a quiet sigh. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m serious!” Anastasia said, crossing her arms. “You can’t tell me friendship doesn’t count. People get stronger when they care about someone. That’s proof.”

  Flora chuckled softly. “That’s… certainly one interpretation.”

  Roland stared out the window. “So, by your theory, Leon must be what—earth?”

  “Exactly!” Anastasia said, pleased he was following along. “Solid, unshakable, and occasionally grumpy.”

  “And you?” Flora asked.

  “Fire, wind, and a bit of friendship. Like a tornado with social skills.”

  Roland turned to her, incredulous. “Social skills?”

  “Compared to you, yes.”

  Flora laughed quietly. Even Soliana smiled in her sleep, her small hands twitching at the sound.

  Roland didn’t respond. But his shoulders eased slightly, and his gaze softened. The way the light caught Anastasia’s hair — that bright, impossible white streaked with gold — made the air feel lighter. It was strange.

  How easily she filled silence without meaning to.

  How her presence seemed to make the world look warmer.

  He turned back to the window, afraid she’d notice.

  ***

  The fields blurred by, endless and gentle. The carriage rocked to the rhythm of the earth — steady, alive. Clouds drifted lazily overhead, their shadows sliding across the hills like slow tides.

  Roland let his thoughts wander, and they wandered somewhere dark.

  He remembered the square — the boy kneeling, law he violated instead of enforced.

  The silence that followed.

  The cold disappointment in every stare.

  The way Carmilla’s hand had gripped his shoulder afterward — not to comfort, but to anchor.

  He’d told himself mercy was strength. The world had taught him otherwise.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He closed his eyes.

  The sound of the carriage wheels became a heartbeat again — steady, relentless, cruel in its constancy.

  He envied how the others could laugh.

  He envied that they didn’t carry the echo of Inferna’s halls in their chests — that they didn’t flinch at quiet the way he did. Inferna was silence sharpened into discipline. Out here, silence was just… silence.

  He wished he didn’t have to go back.

  ***

  “Roland?” Flora’s voice broke through, gentle. “You’ve been quiet.”

  He opened his eyes, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

  Anastasia leaned closer, squinting at him like she was trying to read his thought “Liar!”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “That’s your lonely face”

  “My what?”

  “Your lonely face. You stare at the air like your mind was somewhere else.”

  Flora snorted, covering her smile. “True.”

  Roland sighed, though the faintest trace of laughter escaped with it. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Thank you.” Anastasia said brightly. “I don’t know what that word means but I’ll assume it’s a compliment.”

  The air softened again. The carriage swayed. Flora returned to her stitching, humming a tune that barely reached above the sound of the wheels. Soliana shifted in her sleep, resting her head on her mother’s arm. For a while, everything was still.

  Roland looked out again.

  The fields were fading — the green giving way to scorched patches of gray. Far on the horizon, black spires rose like teeth against the sky.

  Inferna.

  Home.

  His hand clenched unconsciously against his knee.

  He imagined what they’d think of him once they knew.

  What they’d see when they learned the truth.

  The boy who ruled over fire and cruelty.

  The prince whose mercy nearly broke a kingdom.

  He looked at Anastasia, laughing softly at something Flora said — bright, untouchable, uncorrupted — and the thought twisted something deep in his chest.

  Please… don’t ever find out.

  The sun dipped low. The light turned amber. The carriage rolled on.

  And Roland wished — with every silent turn of the wheels —

  that the road would never end.

  ***

  That night, he couldn’t sleep.

  They arrived at an inn on another village— which was quiet, but not the kind of quiet that comforted. The walls creaked softly with the night wind, and the faint murmur of distant laughter came from the tavern below — too warm, too alive, too loud against his thoughts.

  He lay awake, eyes on the ceiling, tracing the cracks between wooden beams until the moonlight shifted. Each breath he took felt heavier than the last.

  When sleep refused to come, he gave up.

  He rose quietly, slipping on his boots, careful not to wake the others. The floorboards sighed beneath his weight. Outside, the air was cool — crisp with the scent of grass and river water. The shattered moon hung low above the horizon, its fractured reflection caught in the rippling current below.

  He walked.

  No direction, no reason. Just movement. Each step pushed the thoughts back a little — Inferna’s gates, Carmilla’s shadow, the memory of that boy’s terrified face. The night was gentler than he deserved.

  And then, voices.

  He stopped at the bend of the river.

  Geralt sat on a smooth rock, fishing rod balanced loosely in his grip. Anastasia sat beside him, legs crossed, chin propped on her knees. Fireflies drifted lazily around them, their reflections glowing like stars caught in the current.

  “Hey, Dad,” she said softly. “What’s Inferna like?”

  Geralt smirked, eyes still on the water. “I’ll tell you if you catch my midnight snack.”

  She gasped. “You mean my midnight snack!”

  “Not if you wanted to learn.”

  “Not that badly!”

  Her voice carried faintly across the water — too bright, too alive for this hour. Roland stayed hidden among the trees, the glow of their lantern flickering over his face in short breaths of light and dark.

  He’d never seen family like this. Not in Inferna. Not even before his reincarnation.

  Geralt’s patience, Anastasia’s ease — it was foreign. Dangerous.

  They didn’t need to earn each other’s presence. They just… existed together.

  After a while, Geralt asked, “So. What do you think of your new friends?”

  Anastasia hesitated. “Roland and the others?”

  “Yeah.”

  She hummed thoughtfully. “He looked really sad when I met him—he had that lonely face on. Like he was stuck somewhere far away, even when he was right there. So… I thought maybe if I helped him catch a dream butterfly, he’d smile again.”

  Geralt’s eyes softened. “That’s quite the reason.”

  She shrugged. “I just didn’t like how empty he looked.”

  “Do You think he’s cute? Maybe even handsome?” He teased.

  “Cute? Handsome? What are those? Can you eat them?”

  Geralt groaned in disappointment. “You really are my daughter.”

  Anastasia frowned, confused, but before she could respond, her fishing line jerked. She yelped, pulling too hard, sending a splash across his boots. Geralt laughed — a deep, warm sound that filled the night air. Anastasia joined him, breathless between giggles.

  Roland watched from the trees.

  Their laughter rolled over the water — soft, careless, alive. It echoed in him like a memory he’d never had.

  He looked down. The moon’s reflection trembled beside his own in the river — both fractured, both incomplete.

  He wanted to step forward. To exist in that world for a moment longer.

  But the weight of who he was — what he carried — pinned him where he stood.

  He turned quietly, the grass whispering underfoot.

  “Dad?” Anastasia paused mid-laugh. “Did you hear that?”

  Geralt looked toward the trees, his smile faint but knowing.

  “Probably just someone who can’t sleep,” he said softly. “Happens to the best of us.”

  “Think he’s fishing too?”

  “No.” Geralt’s eyes lingered on the shadows a moment longer. “I think he’s already caught something.”

  Anastasia blinked. “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” he said, chuckling.

  Roland moved silently through the dark until their voices faded behind him. He found himself sitting by the river again, farther upstream, where the light couldn’t reach. The air smelled like rain that hadn’t fallen yet.

  The shattered moon shimmered on the surface — its broken pieces scattered across the water like glass.

  He watched them drift, one by one, and thought of everything he’d left behind.

  Of everything waiting for him beyond the next horizon.

  If only people could stay as they are under moonlight.

  He thought. Soft. Unknowing. Unjudged.

  The wind shifted. The first hint of dawn brushed against the trees.

  When he finally rose, the river was quiet again.

  He didn’t look back.

  ***

  The next morning, no one mentioned the shadows near the river.

  The road ahead gleamed faintly with dew.

  And somewhere in the distance, black spires waited — patient, unfeeling, inevitable.

  The road home was never supposed to feel this heavy.