The old border estate of the Rosenthals greeted them with the quiet creak of its wrought-iron gates and the long shadows cast by centuries-old pines. The house was two stories tall, constructed of dark stone and sturdy timber, but time and a lack of proper care had left their mark. The paint on the shutters had long since peeled, and the downspouts were covered in a layer of moss. This estate did not clamor of wealth, it silently preserved the fragments of past pride.

The moment the carriage came to a halt, Elena leaped from the step and, tossing a hurried word to Marcus that the stove needed to be lit immediately, vanished behind the heavy oak door. She desperately wanted to transform this cold building, which had grown stagnant during their absence, into a lived-in, warm home as quickly as possible.

Marcus remained standing by the wagon with Azalea. For a moment, his shoulders drooped, and a shadow of deep, genuine embarrassment crossed his face. He scanned the darkened facade, the askew fence, and said softly, as if in apology:

“This is all we can offer you... After the capital, this must seem like a wretched wilderness. The roof in the left wing leaks a bit in the spring, and the drafts here are quite something if you don’t close the dampers in time.”

Azalea turned to him. But instead of the disappointment or melancholy that he might have subconsciously expected, her eyes were truly shining. She looked at this old house and saw in it not peeling paint, but a fortress. A real, tangible haven where there was no room for artificial court ladies or Albert’s cold commands. To her, this dilapidated mansion was more beautiful than any gilded hall.

Noticing this lively, sincere glimmer in her gaze, Marcus visibly relaxed. The heavy, oppressive awkwardness that had hung between them since the conversation about Jane instantly evaporated, giving way to their familiar warmth.

The man turned and looked through the large kitchen window on the first floor. Through the somewhat murky glass, Elena’s silhouette could already be seen moving about deep within the rooms. She was bustling by the stove, clattering the iron flaps and trying to kindle a fire. Marcus reached toward the wagon, pulling out the heavy travel bags containing their things, and a soft, deep smile appeared on his lips.

Azalea did not stand idly by. She stepped forward and firmly took the strap of one of the remaining bags, intending to help.

Marcus froze, watching her, and then said quietly, with a slight rasp in his voice:

“You know, Azalea... When our lineage was ruined and the vultures seized our main estate, Elena’s father came in person. He brought a luxurious carriage and demanded that she pack her things immediately and return to their house in the capital. He shouted, cursed, and spared no insults against my entire family. Elena didn't argue, she just listened in silence.”

Marcus slung the strap of the largest bag over his shoulder and closed his eyes for a moment, reliving that day all over again.

“And she flatly refused. She didn't even give him a chance to argue further. She simply sent him away. And this house... this old, abandoned corner at the very edge of Aden remained ours only because of her. Secretly from me, Elena sold all her family jewels, down to the last ring, to buy back this land from my brother’s creditors. She clung to these walls for my sake. For the sake of our shared name.”

He fell silent, then turned and looked Azalea straight in the eyes seriously, openly, without a shadow of his former guardedness.

“On the road, Elena told you about Jane. It’s true, Azalea. When I saw you in that snow-covered forest, an old, unendured guilt spoke within me. At first, I truly saw her in you. Alive, like a ghost from my past. But I want you to know one thing. I have no intention of thrusting her role upon you. You do not have to become a copy of our late girl to earn good treatment. The past is in the past. And here, in this house... I want you to become whoever you truly want to be. Whoever you wish to become, Elena and I will support you with everything we can.”

Marcus gave her a warm, encouraging smile, adjusted his burden, and walked with a confident stride toward the porch, leaving Azalea alone with his words.

The air around the house smelled of pine needles, clean snow, and the first, still faint smoke from the kitchen chimney. Azalea gripped the handle of the bag, feeling how her magic, obedient to Marcus’s every word, was settling into a calm and even slumber within her. She was no longer a fugitive. She was home.

Stepping inside, Azalea lingered on the threshold for a moment, looking around. In some places, this house truly looked worse than the ancestral home of the von Berges. There, in Aden, boarded-up windows and peeling paint screamed of desolation and her father’s drunken stupor, evoking nothing but a dull irritation. Here, however, the cracks in the beams and the worn carpets seemed like scars on the body of an old but loyal warrior. Within these walls was something Azalea had never felt before. The soul of a home. Real, warm, and alive.

She carefully placed her bag with the rest of the things in the hallway and, guided by the sounds drifting through, went into the kitchen.

The sight that greeted her there made Azalea freeze. Elena, with her inherent grace and nobility, which no hardships of travel could erase, was confidently working at the stove. She was stirring something in a large pot, and a mouth-watering aroma of homemade broth and spices was already wafting from it. And in the very corner, perched on a low stool, was Marcus. The head of the ruined Rosenthal lineage was now completely calm and focused, peeling vegetables and dropping the even slices into a clay bowl.

In this simplicity, there was no humiliation. Only the harmony of people who were accustomed to sharing both misfortune and daily life with each other.

Azalea took a step forward, treading softly on the wooden floor, and asked quietly, drawing their attention:

“What should I do? How can I help?”

Elena turned and smiled warmly, appreciating her willingness. She pointed Azalea toward a small table by the window, where dried root vegetables, herbs, and a clean cutting board lay.

“Here, dear, chop these for the soup, if you don’t mind. Just not too finely, our Marcus likes it to be hearty.”

Azalea readily took up the knife. In the kitchen, filled with steam and the first aromas of dinner, a wonderfully cozy atmosphere settled. They chatted merrily about trifles, sharing impressions of the road and discussing which rooms in the house needed to be heated first.

Marcus, deftly wielding his knife over another potato, chuckled benignly and shook his head.

“Everything is going smoothly for Elena now, but you should have seen our first days here, Azalea! All our food was either mercilessly burnt or so oversalted it made your jaw lock. And if it wasn't oversalted, it was as bland as melted water. For the first three weeks, we honestly doubted we’d even survive on such cooking.”

“Look who’s talking, Marcus!” Elena threw her hands up with a laugh, turning away from the bubbling pot for a moment. “Your porridge made with water resembled mortar for stonework, you could have reinforced walls with it!”

She turned to Azalea and, with a soft, nostalgic smile, recalled her first steps as the mistress of the dilapidated estate.

“Before this house, I had never even approached a stove, the servants did everything. And so, I decided to show some care and bake bread for Marcus. I kneaded the dough myself, somehow managed to stoke the oven, put the pan in... Long story short, when I pulled it out, inside was a perfect piece of anthracite-black coal. As solid as granite! Marcus joked afterward that if bandits attacked us, we’d have something to fight back with or prop the door open.”

The man in the corner laughed quietly, tossing another portion of vegetables into the bowl. Azalea listened to them, rhythmically chopping the herbs, and caught herself thinking that these fragments of their past, funny, ridiculous, and sincere, were gradually filling the void in her own soul, warming her from within far more than the flame in the kitchen stove.

Azalea lowered the knife, looking at the even rings of chopped herbs. Elena and Marcus’s words, so simple and grounded, stirred a whole storm within her.

“You know...” she began softly, her fingers tightening slightly around the wooden handle of the knife. “In the capital, and later in Albert’s house, locked within four walls, I truly believed I was the only person in the world who had ended up in such conditions. It seemed to me that only my world had been destroyed, and only I had to force myself to learn everything anew.”

She raised her eyes to the spouses, a shadow of hidden pain flickering in them.

“But seeing you... seeing how other people cope with massive losses and everyday problems, and in such different ways, with a smile and resilience... I’m beginning to feel guilty. For my weakness. For giving up for so long.”

At that moment, for the first time in a very long while, the image of her mother surfaced in Azalea’s thoughts. A calm, refined woman who had always uncomplainingly endured any of her father’s madness, his drunken antics, and the slow fading of their lineage. Her mother never complained. She simply carried her cross quietly until her heart stopped. Previously, Azalea had seen this as submission, but now, looking at Elena, she wondered. Her mother, too, had managed as best she could. In her own silent manner, protecting her daughter from the worst until her final breath. And she felt a little remorseful for this belated thought as well.

Elena gently caught her hand, taking the knife away, and said softly but firmly:

“Never dare blame yourself for being in pain, Azalea. Everyone survives the best way they know how. And the fact that you are here now, with us, is your victory. One of many that await you.”