Winter in the borderlands waned reluctantly, clinging to the ravines in gray patches of thawing snow and piercing nightly frosts. But inside the old estate, it went almost unnoticed. Over the course of a few months, the mansion had been transformed, and with the arrival of spring, it no longer resembled an abandoned building. The honest labor of the hired carpenters and quality materials had restored the left wing, which no longer frightened anyone with drafts. The leaky roof was securely recovered with new iron, and the fresh wooden frames, which Azalea had gladly helped to paint, held the warmth tightly. The old building of dark stone now looked neat, sturdy, and lived-in. It was as if the house was beginning to straighten its shoulders.

The home was being prepared for a long absence of its owners. Marcus and Elena had spent the final weeks in a flurry of chores, searching for reliable people to whom they could entrust the estate. In the end, they hired two workers - a middle-aged but industrious caretaker from among the local veterans and his tight-lipped spouse, who was to look after the order of the rooms and air out the cellars.

While the spouses checked the locks and signed papers in the drawing room, Azalea was busying herself in a small workshop that Marcus had converted especially for her on the site of the winter garden.

A completely different, spellbinding atmosphere reigned here. On long wooden shelves along the stone walls, glass bottles of essential oils, boxes of lye, parcels of purified soda, and large bottles of spirits stood in neat rows. Bundles of dried herbs: lavender, rosemary, and sage, which Azalea had tenderly sorted through during the long winter evenings, hung from the ceiling. Over these months, using her knowledge, she had created a true laboratory of cleanliness. True perfumes and the gentlest hard soap on a vegetable base, without a single drop of the foul animal fat typically used by the soapmakers of Aden.

Wrapped in a simple work apron, Azalea carefully retrieved another bar of cured soap from its wooden mold. It smelled of pine needles, citrus zest, and a light note of lavender. It was a fragrance capable of turning the head of any capital fashionista.

Deftly, she sliced the monolith into even, flawless bars. With a precise movement on each of them, Azalea stamped an impression a specialized brand depicting an elegant intertwining of threads, which they had approved at a family council as their trademark for perfumery products. Afterward, each bar was tenderly wrapped in thick parchment paper, tied with a thin hemp twine, and secured with a sealing wax stamp.

On the workshop floor already stood three weighty wooden crates, packed to the brim with finished products. This was the next batch Azalea had prepared to launch her business. The goods were carefully packed and ready for dispatch.

The door to the workshop creaked quietly, and Marcus appeared on the stairs.

“Aren’t you finished yet?”

“Soon, there’s only a little bit left,” Azalea said, placing the fresh soap into an empty crate.

“Hurry along, Elena is already lamenting out loud that we won't make it to the border before sunset. You still need to gather all your materials.”

Marcus wasn’t grumbling, no. He had simply grown used to the fact that Azalea sometimes lost herself completely in her work, and she needed to be brought back to reality from time to time.

Azalea tightly shut the lid of the last crate. She clapped her hands, and a soft, blue radiance filled the room. The air vibrated slightly with magic. As if moved by invisible hands, the contents of the shelves folded themselves neatly into the prepared boxes and bags.

Marcus let out a quiet sigh, no longer surprised by what he saw.

“You are getting much better at this.”

Azalea smiled.

Half an hour later, the silence of the old courtyard exploded into an unaccustomed bustle. Stout lads from the nearest village, hired by Marcus, expeditiously carried the boarded-up wooden crates and heavy boxes from the cellar, stacking them into a large cargo wagon. The head of the Rosenthal family himself circled the workers like a hawk, hands tucked behind his back, bursting into fierce muttering every now and then.

“Where are you setting it down like that, for heaven’s sake?! Lower it gently! Don't you see the ‘Fragile’ mark on the end? There is brittle glass in there! If you break even a single bottle of lavender concentrate, you’ll be working off the cost until next winter! Carefuller, I say! Paul, hold the pewter joint, can’t you see it’s tilting?!”

The village lads merely wiped the sweat from their brows in silence, transferring the crates with sealing wax stamps with all possible deference. They did not know what was inside, but the master’s stern tone made them move as though they were carrying nothing less than costly porcelain. In part, this was the truth. The essential oils Azalea created sold for several times more than ordinary ones due to their high quality and purity. Over the winter, the Rosenthals had managed to earn a tidy sum from the orders of perfume houses and had registered their trademark.

A little to the side of this logistical chaos stood their own carriage. Marcus had approached the matter of the journey practically. It was a simple carriage, devoid of excessive gilding and family crests, but it was absolutely new, smelling of fresh leather and lacquer, set upon sturdy Imperial springs that Azalea had enhanced. No unnecessary attention on the roads, but maximum reliability.

Elena and Azalea, already changed into durable travel dresses, harmoniously picked up the last light bags of personal belongings and secured them in a special compartment at the back of the carriage.

“Well, that’s all, dear,” Elena said softly, smoothing the folds of her woolen cloak and looking back at the renewed, sturdy mansion. “I’ve grown so accustomed to it, I don't want to go anywhere.”

Azalea smiled and took her aunt by the arm.

“Then, perhaps we shouldn’t go?” the girl said playfully.

Elena clicked her tongue and lightly slapped the girl.

“Have you worked so hard just to give up on everything over this nonsense? We leave this house only to return to it one day.”

Marcus took one last walk around the cargo wagon, fastidiously inspecting every boarded-up crate. He checked if the fastening straps were pulled tight, tugged at the leather ropes, and once again, for probably the fifth time that morning, counted them piece by piece, checking against the list in his mind. Were all the crates definitely in place? Had nothing been forgotten in the workshop?

Satisfied that everything was packed flawlessly, Marcus gave himself a nod of approval. He drew a heavy purse from his pocket, counted out the due payment, and generously paid the breathless village loaders, adding a few copper coins on top for their neatness. Bowing contentedly and thanking the generous master, the lads hurried to leave the courtyard.

When the bustle finally subsided, Marcus took a deep breath, adjusted his travel hat, and walked back to the carriage with a leisurely, confident stride, where his wife and niece were waiting for him.

“Everything is ready,” he said with a light, pleased smile, sweeping his gaze over the women. “The cargo is secured, Gaston is ready to gallop, and the new carriage awaits its passengers. Ladies, please step inside. It is time for us to leave Aden behind.”

They climbed into the carriage. The door shut with a muffled, secure thud, cutting off the cool spring air. Marcus settled opposite the women, gathering the hems of his cloak, while outside, Gaston gave a loud shout, urging the horses on. The new carriage swayed softly on its Imperial springs and set off, pulling the heavy cargo wagon behind it.

Azalea looked through the window at the house.

Over these winter months, the dilapidated estate of the Rosenthals had managed to become something more to her than just a temporary shelter. It had become the place of her rebirth. Now, in the flickering light of the March sun, the mansion seemed like a wordless but proud guardian, securely protecting their secrets.

The wheels clattered rhythmically along the packed highway, and the house began to slowly shrink, vanishing behind the bare branches of the border forest.

Ahead lay a long journey, strict border control, and a completely unknown future. But there was no more fear. The past, with all its nightmares, was finally left behind. The ghosts of her former life, which had tormented her soul for so many years, grew quiet, powerless to reach her here.

Azalea leaned back against the soft leather back of the seat and caught Elena’s encouraging gaze. The carriage was gathering speed, whisking them away toward the border of the Eastern Empire, while a wild wind of change, snapping from the awakening hills, flew after the retreating wagons, urging them forward into a new journey.

The end of the First part, «Azalea von Berge». Next: Part Two, «The Eastern Empire»