He moved toward the manor's entrance, still carrying Toby.

His steps were measured, deliberate—like he was forcing each one to stay calm, forcing his temper not to explode at the sight of how far everything had fallen.

Every creak of the rotten floorboards under his weight reminded him where his father had thrown him away to rot.

Mira stood frozen, clutching her bundle tighter.

Her fingers dug into the fabric hard enough that her knuckles hurt, the familiar shape of the wooden piece pressing into her ribs through the cloth.

The shame of it mixed with the unreal feeling of being invited into a noble's manor like some… guest.

'He's angry, ' she thought, watching his back. 'Is something wrong?'

Viktor pushed the door open with his shoulder. The hinges groaned in protest, a long, metallic whine that echoed through the empty courtyard, revealing a dim interior lit by scattered candles.

Dust swirled in the faint air he disturbed, as if the house itself exhaled after being forced open.

He paused in the doorway, glancing back at them. "Come inside. Don't stand out there like strays."

The words were blunt, a little rough, but they hit Mira's chest like warmth instead of insult. Strays were left outside to freeze; he was dragging them over the threshold.

Then he disappeared into the manor, taking Toby with him.

Helena exhaled softly, her posture relaxing now that Viktor had left the immediate space. The tension that had coiled in her shoulders loosened, and what remained was a quiet, almost maternal fondness when she turned to Mira.

"Please, rest over here." Helena gestured toward the entrance. "Let me help you."

Mira nodded, throat too tight to trust her own voice. She followed hesitantly, her bare feet crossing from dirt to worn stone flooring.

The temperature change hit her immediately—cooler inside, a stale chill that somehow still felt cleaner than the smoke-heavy air outside.

The entrance hall stretched before her, larger than her entire hut.

Dust motes danced in candlelight, drifting lazily like sleepy fireflies. Cobwebs clung to corners and the remnants of what must have once been fine furnishings: carved table legs with no table, a broken chair with a missing leg leaning drunkenly against the wall.

A cracked mirror on one side reflected warped fragments of them; faded tapestries hung crooked, eaten in patches by moths and time.

Everything spoke of past grandeur now rotting away. But to Mira, it was a palace.

Her eyes went wide, darting from one detail to another. Actual glass in some windows—cracked, spider-webbed with fractures, but still glass. Stone floors instead of packed dirt.

Walls that didn't let wind whistle through gaps. A ceiling high enough that she couldn't touch it even if she jumped.

'People like him… grew up in places like this, ' she thought, dizzy. 'And he walked into my hut like it was nothing and carried my boy with those same hands. '

"This way." Helena's voice pulled her attention back from spinning out.

They moved deeper inside. Their steps echoed faintly, the sound hollow in the empty corridors. Viktor had already laid Toby down on a large sofa in what must have been a sitting room.

The boy looked impossibly small against the faded cushions, swallowed by cracked, once-fancy fabric.

His thin chest rose and fell with labored breaths, but there was a strange peace on his face now—less strain, more exhausted surrender.

Viktor straightened, rolling his shoulders as if they'd stiffened from holding the boy too long. "Keep him warm. I'll be back shortly."

He didn't wait for acknowledgment before striding toward a side door that presumably led to the garden.

The door closed behind him with a heavy thud, cutting off the thin line of cold air that had been leaking through the frame.

Silence settled over the room.

Helena smoothed her hands over her dress, glancing between Mira and the direction Viktor had gone.

In that small gesture—straightening herself in this ruin—there was pride.

"I'll fetch that water now. Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable."

"I... thank you." Mira's voice came out barely above a whisper, hoarse with exhaustion and the weight of too many emotions piling on top of each other.

Helena offered a small, reassuring smile before disappearing down a corridor, her footsteps fading into the creaks of old wood and distant drafts.

Mira stood alone in the sitting room.

Well, not completely alone. Toby lay sleeping on the sofa, his fevered face relaxed for the first time in days.

The sight of him breathing calmly in this ruined noble room made everything feel unreal, like she'd stepped into someone else's story.

She should sit down. Should rest like they told her. But her legs wouldn't move. Her body hummed with leftover fear and shame, too wired to obey simple orders like "sit."

Her eyes swept the room again—taking in details she'd missed before.

The carved wooden paneling, warped and dusty but still meticulous in design. The remnants of paintings on the walls, colors faded into ghosts of faces and landscapes she couldn't quite make out.

A bookshelf in the corner with maybe three books remaining, spines cracked and pages yellowed, as if the rest had been devoured by time or fire.

Extravagant.

That was the only word her mind could conjure. This place, this crumbling manor that Viktor clearly struggled to maintain—it was more than she'd ever dreamed of having.

And she was standing in it. Breathing its air. Leaving bits of muddy footprints on its stone.

Her chest tightened.

'I don't deserve this.'

The thought hit like a fist to the gut. She clutched her bundle tighter, fingers digging into the worn fabric until her nails bit her own palm.

The wooden piece inside pressed against her ribs—a blunt reminder of how low she'd fallen. How desperate she'd become.

Those bandits' words echoed in her skull. Their jeers about her body, their suspicion about why a noble would visit her hut, the disgusting laughs when they joked about her body being ugly.

Mira's face burned with shame.

They'd said those things in front of everyone. In front of Toby.

And maybe... maybe they were right.

She knew how it feels to be undesirable and to have the trauma of hearing cruel words from her husband as she grew older with a child—a couple's life where slowly love fades, soulmate-type bonds vanish, and distances take the name of responsibilities while partners live because there is no other way out.

Though it may sound bad, she knew her own body and her remaining life in this countryside place. Knew the nights when the loneliness gnawed at her bones like hunger, worse than the empty stomach.

She'd carved that wooden piece herself. Polished it smooth over months whenever Toby slept, hands steady from long practice at chopping wood and stirring thin soup.

Used it when the loneliness became unbearable, when her body ached for touch she'd never feel again, when memories of what it felt like to be wanted were too faint and distant to satisfy.

What kind of mother did that?

What kind of woman?

Her eyes stung. The air felt thick and heavy, sticking to her lungs.

However, before she could think more or abhor herself, a soft voice jolted her riled mind.

"Mother?"

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