Santiago bumped Lysara’s shoulder, grinning. “You hear that, firebird? I get to buy you a drink in a tree.”
“Firebird?” she echoed, arching a brow. But the corner of her mouth twitched. She didn’t pull away.
Eryndis stepped ahead of us, guiding the group along a curved platform draped in lanternlight until we reached a carved doorway woven with strands of living bark. She brushed the hanging fabric aside, revealing the warm glow of the tavern within.
Santiago and Lysara slipped through the doorway Eryndisindicated, the fabric brushing against them as they entered the tavern beyond.
Gabriel followed just behind Eryndis. He hadn’t spoken—not once—but he hadn’t looked away from her either. She paused on the stairs, slowing enough for him to lean briefly against her shoulder, and turned to him.
Her expression shifted—something tender and breaking at the same time. She lifted a hand and cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the line of his cheekbone as though relearning the shape of him.
For a heartbeat, grief and love warred openly in her eyes. Gabriel leaned into her palm like a starving thing, breath shuddering, but he didn’t speak. She didn’t either. The moment was small, quiet—an echo of everything they’d lost.
She let her hand fall and faced the rest of us, gesturing toward a path veiled in hanging moss and the golden glow of firefruit lanterns. “Malachi,” she said softly. “Come. Yours is this way.”
I hesitated. “Aurelia comes with me.”
Eryndis looked to her, and Aurelia nodded once.
“Of course.”
We followed her down a winding path where the lanterns burned in deeper hues, amber and plum, rimmed in green and silver.
The walkway opened onto a broad platform, its edges cradled by the limbs of an ancient tree. The door ahead was carved with familiar symbols—swords crossed beneath a crescent moon. My family’s crest. I hadn’t seen it since before the war.
The door opened soundlessly. Warmth spilled out. The space breathed.
Polished wood stretched beneath our feet. Rugs in deep forest tones unfurled around a low table and wide hearth. A small alcove cradled books and scrolls.
The far wall stopped me.
Paintings: my mother—stern, radiant; my sister and brother mid-laugh in a field of poppies; my father, tall and steady. Varnish caught the light. A hairline crack ran through a poppy petal. Someone had cleaned these recently. Someone had kept this place waiting.
I didn’t know who. Or why. But, for a moment, it felt like they were here.
My mind caught up to my dream. Oil. Canvas. Memories preserved inside frames. And grief did what it always does—arrived late and all at once. My hand went to the doorframe to steady the tilt of the room.
My father’s eyes held the weight of kingdoms and the tenderness of a man who remembered to be a father first. When he smiled, I believed the world could hold.
Aurelia stepped in beside me. Her fingers brushed a frame’s edge the way she’d traced the sigils outside. The windows stood open to the setting sun, and beyond them, the falls shimmered—curtains of molten light spilling down the cliffs.
It was regal, yes, but not remote. The kind of beauty born of care. With Aurelia standing in the middle of it—still, silent—it felt like a home rediscovered.
“This looks so much like my family estate,” I murmured. “I’d almost forgotten.”
She didn’t turn. “These are beautiful.”
“My mother painted most of them,” I said softly. “She believed memory was sacred. That when the world forgets you, a portrait becomes a kind of rebellion. Art moves through time when the rest of us can’t.”
Aurelia stepped closer to one frame—a boy mid-sprint through a poppy field, all wild hair and open laughter. “Andthis one?” she asked.
“That would be me.” A quiet laugh escaped me. “Always moving. Never still. Drove her mad.”
She didn’t reply. Just let her fingers drift over the frame’s edge. I turned toward the hearth, already lit with a low, steady flame.
Behind me, her voice came soft, a little awed. “How does a place like this exist? Hidden in the middle of everything else? Why has no one found it?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know.” Then, quieter: “But it feels… dangerous, somehow. Peace like this…it’s the kind that unravels the second the world realizes it exists.”