The trees thinned where Emberwake ended.
Beyond them, frost-stiff fields stretched toward the castle — a rise of stone and lanternfire carved into the dark.
Roald didn't stare at it long.
He adjusted the strap across his chest.
Liora flexed her fingers once, settling her gloves with quiet finality.
Springtrap was unnervingly still.
Bootsteps shifted behind them. No speeches. Just breath in the cold.
Winch stepped forward and into Roald's space.
His collar was crooked.
Winch fixed it.
Efficient. Focused.
"Roald walks into a fortress looking like this?" she muttered. "Winch refuses."
He held still while she worked.
For a brief second, it felt like something smaller than war.
Her fingers smoothed the fabric flat.
"There," she said. "Better."
She didn't step away immediately.
Sir Wilkinson stood a few paces back, metal arm dim in the lanternlight. His posture was straight, but not rigid.
He met Roald's eyes.
No theatrics. No raised voice.
"Come back."
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't loud.
It was expectation.
Roald didn't break the stare.
"I will."
Wilkinson gave a single nod.
That was enough.
Winch's hand dropped from Roald's collar at last.
"If Roald doesn't," she added evenly, "Winch will retrieve him."
A promise. Not a threat.
Roald almost smiled.
A few steps off, Kingfisher pressed a compact metal case into Springtrap's hands.
"Don't improvise."
Springtrap's grin widened.
"I prefer adaptive brilliance."
He stared at her for a beat.
"…Minimize it."
"No."
He let go of the case anyway.
Isobel approached next, placing a wrapped bundle against Springtrap's chest.
"Place them where they'll hurt pride."
Springtrap's grin sharpened.
A single nod.
Roald turned back.
"Ready?"
Springtrap was already stepping past him.
"Always."
They crossed the frost line.
Emberwake remained behind them.
Ahead—
Stone.
The castle swallowed sound differently than forest.
Their boots didn't crunch.
They whispered.
Torches burned along the corridor walls, smoke coiling toward carved ceilings too ornate for their own good.
Springtrap drifted ahead, fingers grazing mortar lines as if reading pulse points.
Somewhere behind them—
A guard rounded the far corner.
There was a metallic snap.
A body hitting stone.
A scream — sharp, furious, abruptly strangled.
Roald didn't look back.
He measured distance by sound instead.
Two corridors over.
Guards scrambling.
Good.
At the first split, Springtrap dropped to one knee and opened Kingfisher's case.
No wasted motion.
A small device fixed high between torch brackets.
A thin wire threaded through decorative molding.
A compact sphere rolled into shadow.
Invisible.
"Adaptive brilliance," she whispered.
Roald's voice stayed low. "Rejoin."
She was already gone.
Liora exhaled once through her nose.
"She'll circle."
"She'd better."
They moved.
The corridor widened.
Voices sharpened.
Heat rolled through the stone.
They passed an open archway—
Warmth brushed Liora's cheek.
She slowed.
Firelight spilled across the floor.
Copper pots swayed faintly.
Steam clouded the air.
Inside—
Knives rose and fell.
Flour drifted through golden haze.
Orders murmured low and fast.
Disciplined.
Another crack echoed through the corridor.
Several servants paused.
Heads turned toward the sound.
Liora stepped into the doorway.
The nearest cook looked up—
And froze.
Recognition struck.
It spread instantly.
A breath sucked in near the ovens.
A whispered, "It's her—"
A ladle slipping against iron.
Liora walked forward.
Not hesitant.
Not hiding.
A tall young man near the center hearth stared as if she'd stepped out of memory.
Broader now. Stronger.
But the same narrow, sloping forehead.
His voice broke before it formed.
He crossed the room in three strides and wrapped her in a tight, flour-dusted embrace.
The kitchen went still.
"Funnelhead," she said, the faintest edge of something softer beneath her composure.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, hands still gripping her arms.
"You're alive."