Where the Wards Still Welcome

It was late afternoon when the sunlight turned gold and heavy, spilling through the ivy-wrapped windows of Eurydice's cottage like liquid honey poured slow and reverent. The hearth crackled in the background, its embers whispering old songs only she seemed to remember. Bundles of lavender, sage, and dreamleaf hung drying above it, their mingled scent drifting lazily through the space—earthy, sharp, nostalgic.

Outside, the wind shifted. Not sharply, not yet. But enough that she felt it in her ribs. A low warning in the marrow.

But first—her mare.

The creature waited quietly in the field, hooves half-buried in soft moss, eyes glossy with trust. Eurydice led her into the stall she'd built herself—nothing grand, just salvaged fence posts lashed together with enchanted twine, and a roof of thatch and canvas. It leaned, just slightly, like everything Eurydice made with her hands: imperfect, but steady.

She laid down fresh hay, refilled the water bucket, and hung a net filled with dried fruit and grain. The mare nickered softly, nudging her shoulder. Eurydice ran her fingers through her tangled mane, slow and tender, combing out knots and briars. Her voice rose in a quiet lullaby—an old Pandaren tune that had once lulled her brother to sleep, hummed now more for the sake of her own aching chest than the mare's ears.

"You're safe now, sweet thing," she murmured, pressing her cheek to warm, silken fur.

Only when the mare was fed, brushed, and bedded down did Eurydice turn back toward the cottage. Her hands trembled. Her smile was gone. Only then did she allow herself to unravel.

The cottage was too quiet.

Her hooves made no sound across the floorboards. The silence didn't soothe. It clung. Heavy and thick, like fog soaked in absence.

Room by room, she moved, lighting candles. Not for light—they were barely needed. But for presence. For the ritual of it. A flame on the desk, where letters had gone unsent. Another beside the rocking chair, its cushion still indented as if Nyxia's broken body haunted the fabric. And one more in the window nook, where Miri had once perched like a specter, staring at a world she didn't trust.

Eurydice paused there, pressing her fingertips to the sill. The wood was worn smooth, familiar as breath. She closed her eyes, and let the memory of voices echo—one low and sarcastic, one wild and tremulous, one too kind, one too quiet.

"Come back to me," she whispered. Her breath fogged against the glass. The house did not answer.

Still, she listened.

Later, in the bath, the water steamed around her like a spirit wrapping its arms around her shoulders. She had drawn it deep, laced with crushed moonblossom, dreamleaf, and rosewater. The floral perfume curled in the air, sweet but faintly bitter—like memory left out too long.

She undressed with care, folding her robe as if folding herself. As if anything left rumpled might invite collapse. The copper tub welcomed her in, and the warmth crawled over her skin, coaxing out the tension with reverent slowness. Her fingers, pale and delicate, found the scar on her forearm.

White. Raised. Unhealed by choice.

A reminder.

Even Light could break.

Her head tipped back, steam wreathing her like smoke from sacred incense. And without a sound—no gasp, no sob—her tears joined the water. They slipped quietly down her cheeks, unnoticed by anyone but the moon, pale and watching from beyond the windowpane.

When she emerged, she dressed in a soft robe, tied loose at the waist, and returned to her writing desk. Her tea had gone lukewarm. Her fire was dim. Shadows stretched long across the walls like reaching fingers.

She uncapped her ink.

And wrote.

My darlings,

I miss your voices. I miss the weight of your laughter in this house, even when it was jagged, even when it hurt. It was still real.

You are out there trying to heal wounds the world never meant for you to carry. I wish I could bear all of them for you. But that's not love, is it?

Love is letting go.

And praying you find your way back.

When you do—if you do—there will be bread. There will be tea. There will be a place by the fire.

Always.

She sealed it, hands trembling slightly, and placed it on the mantle. It sat beside five other letters, each marked with ink-smeared names. A silent promise. A prayer with no god left to hear it.

She stood there for a long while, listening to the wind.

Then, softly: "Soon."

The wind answered.

But it had changed.

She felt it first in her spine—an ancestral shiver that no spell could shake. The animals outside had gone still. The trees no longer whispered. They watched.

And above, the stars blinked out. One by one.

Then came the knock.

Not a knock. Not truly.

Three deliberate strikes.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

She set her tea aside with ritual precision, as if anything louder might break the world.

No weapon.

Only her breath, and the steady rhythm of her hooves as she walked to the door. Her robe whispered across the floor behind her.

She opened it.

And stared into the face of a ghost.

He stood framed in moonlight, tall and sharp-edged, all bone and hunger and magic. His skin was pale from years underground, and his violet-glowing eyes once matched her own. Now they burned like something that had forgotten warmth.

His smile had no kindness. Only teeth.

"Well," Lucien said, his voice low and velvet and poisonous, "if it isn't the little lamb who traded the dark for delusion."

"Lucien," she answered, calm and still. "You are not welcome here."

"I was never welcome anywhere," he said, stepping close but halting at the threshold. "Not after you left."

The air shimmered faintly between them. Her protections still held. Old, living magic—woven by her hand, and before that, their mother's. Blood recognized blood.

"You broke the pact," he said. "You turned your back on everything we were."

"I chose peace," she answered. "I chose healing. I chose life."

"You chose chains."

The moonlight spilled between them, casting her in a halo, casting him in shadow.

"I swore I'd kill you," Lucien said.

"You swore many things."

"And I meant them all."

Silence pulsed. Thick. Ancient.

She reached into her robe—not for a blade, but for something small. Familiar.

A charm. Obsidian. Wrapped in silver wire. The sigil they once shared.

"I kept this," she said, voice steady. "Not because I believe in what we were. But because I never stopped loving you."

His jaw flexed.

"You lie."

"No. You're just hurting too much to believe me."

Fel sparks danced across his knuckles. His eyes narrowed.

And still, she stepped forward.

Unarmed.

"I forgive you," she said.

The words hit like a blade through glass.

Lucien flinched.

"I forgive what you became. What you had to become without me. But if you cross this threshold with hate in your heart…" She gestured softly. "This home will not be kind to you."

His gaze drifted over her shoulder. To the candles. The warmth. The letters. The glow of memory.

Something in his face broke.

Not power.

Not pride.

Something softer.

Something that remembered love.

He took one step back.

"I should kill you," he whispered.

"You still might," she replied, voice like silk stretched over sorrow. "But not tonight."

Lucien didn't move at first.

His feet hovered just outside the threshold, the moonlight behind him catching on the edge of the wards—old magic that shimmered like spider silk stretched taut, humming softly with warning.

But then, slowly, carefully, he lifted one hand and pressed his palm against the unseen barrier.

The air hissed.

Power flared—a web of gold veins across an invisible wall—and for one breathless heartbeat, the whole glade seemed to hold still.

Then… nothing.

The wards accepted him.

Or perhaps, just this once, they accepted her choice.

He stepped inside.

Eurydice didn't retreat. She only watched him, her expression unreadable but not cold.

The door closed on its own behind him with a soft click.

Lucien glanced around as though stepping into a museum of a life he'd never been allowed to have. His boots echoed softly on the wooden floor. The smell of herbs and firelight greeted him, too warm, too clean. Too far from the copper tang of summoning circles and burning offerings.

His gaze landed on the candles, the desk, the letters.

"You live like a widow," he murmured.

"I mourn like one," she replied, moving past him.

She poured him tea. Not out of duty, not out of fear—but habit. Memory.

He stared at the cup when she offered it, but didn't take it.

"I expected more wards. Traps. Curses in the walls."

"They're there," she said simply. "But I hoped not to need them."

His lip curled. "Hope. That's new."

She didn't respond. Instead, she walked to the hearth, stirred the coals. Her robe shifted as she moved, exposing her left forearm where the sleeve fell open.

Lucien stilled.

His gaze locked on the scar.

It ran jagged down the inside of her arm, an angry, ridged line like lightning etched in flesh. The place their father had carved into her. The knife had been ceremonial. The moment, anything but.

"I remember," he said hoarsely. "You screamed."

Eurydice didn't turn. "I was fifteen. And I said no."

"He said it was your rite."

"He said I was property."

Silence. Hot, brittle silence.

"I held the bowl," Lucien whispered. "When the blood ran down your fingers. I was the one who caught it."

She turned then, slowly. Her eyes glistened, but not with tears. With fire.

"I know."

He flinched.

"But you were just a boy," she added. "And I do not blame you for being afraid."

"I wasn't afraid," he said. "I wanted to be chosen."

She stepped closer. "And were you?"

He looked away. "Eventually."

Eurydice moved to sit in her chair by the hearth, drawing one leg beneath her robe. Her voice softened.

"Do you remember the cellar? The chalk on the floor?"

Lucien gave a short, humorless laugh. "Where they made us trace summoning circles in the dark. I do."

"I used to draw stars instead," she said. "When they weren't watching."

"I erased them," he admitted. "I didn't want them to punish you."

That, more than anything, made her chest ache.

She took a long sip of her tea. "You loved me, once."

"I still do," he said. "But love is different in the dark."

He was pacing now, eyes bright with some deep-buried mania. The way he always did when the past pressed too close to the surface.

"They said we were born for greatness," he muttered. "That our blood was the key. That the void itself would answer us if we bled deep enough."

Eurydice didn't interrupt.

"And you," he snapped suddenly, spinning toward her, "you just walked away."

The wards sparked.

A crackling pulse of golden energy raced along the doorframe and surged around the windows. The walls groaned.

"Lower your voice," she said gently, though her tone left no room for defiance.

Lucien bared his teeth, but stepped back. "You always sounded like her when you gave orders."

Eurydice stood again, the robe whispering around her legs. "Mother raised us to be weapons. Father sharpened us. But we were never what they wanted us to be."

"I was."

"No, Lucien. You survived. There's a difference."

His hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, she thought he might strike her—not with fists, but with power. Not out of hate, but heartbreak.

Instead, his shoulders sagged.

"You're the only one left," he said, quiet now. "All the others are dead. And I'm so tired."

She crossed to him, slowly, and reached up to cup his cheek.

He didn't stop her.

Her fingers were warm. His skin was cold.

"I know," she whispered. "Me too."

His breath hitched.

"I wanted you to come home before I became something you'd have to destroy."

"You're not there yet."

"I'm close."

She nodded. "Then stay. Just for a while. Let the house remind you of who you were."

Lucien glanced at the letters on the mantle. At the empty cup. At the fire still burning.

And then, with the hesitation of someone stepping into light after years in shadow, he sat down.

Eurydice moved to the cupboard. Took down bread. Honey. A clean plate.

She laid it before him with quiet reverence.

He didn't speak.

But he ate. 

——

She woke hours later in the dark.

The fire had gone out. A thin layer of ash floated through the room like memory unspoken. The candle on her nightstand flickered once, then caught, casting golden light across the ceiling beams.

The house was still.

But not empty.

She sat up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket she didn't remember pulling up. The hearth was cold—but a second mug sat beside the kettle.

Lucien stood at her writing desk, back to her. He hadn't noticed she'd woken.

He was reading the letters.

Not rifling. Not snooping. Just… reading. As if trying to understand how to exist in a place where love left paper trails.

"I didn't leave," he said quietly, still facing the mantle. "I almost did."

Eurydice didn't answer. She only watched him.

"I had the door open," he continued. "And for a long time… I stood there. Listening to the woods. Waiting for them to tell me I didn't belong here."

He turned then, slowly.

His face was tired. Young. Old. Haunted. Real.

"But they didn't."

He held up a scrap of parchment.

"I was going to leave this," he said. "Thought I'd be poetic about it."

She raised an eyebrow.

He gave a breath of a laugh, and read aloud:

'I dreamed of stars too.

don't know if I'll find them again.

But if I do—I'll come back.'

He paused. Looked at her.

"I don't want to leave," he said simply.

And it landed like a thunderclap in her chest.

He crossed to her, tentative, like a man approaching something sacred.

"I don't know if I can stay," he added, voice tight. "But I want to try. If you'll let me."

Eurydice slid from the bed without a word.

She didn't rush. She didn't cry.

She just opened her arms.

Lucien folded into her like he'd been holding his breath for a decade.

She felt him tremble. Felt the rigid lines of a boy turned to stone too early. And she held him like she had when he was small, and feverish, and afraid of the voices in the dark.

"I'll always let you," she whispered into his hair. "So long as you choose peace when you wake."

"I don't know how."

"We'll learn."

They stayed that way until the candle burned low.

Until the wards around the house pulsed not in warning—

—but in welcome.

He stood framed in moonlight—tall, sharp-edged, all bone and hunger and magic. His skin was pale from years underground, and his violet-glowing eyes, once a perfect mirror of her own, now burned like something that had forgotten warmth.

His smile held no kindness.

Only teeth.

"Well," Lucien said, his voice low and velvet and poisonous, "if it isn't the little lamb who traded the dark for delusion."

"Lucien," she answered, calm and still. "You are not welcome here."

"I was never welcome anywhere," he said, stepping close but halting at the threshold. "Not after you left."

The air shimmered faintly between them. Her protections still held. Old, living magic—woven by her hand, and before that, their mother's. Magic that knew blood from betrayal. Magic that would burn before it broke.

"You broke the pact," he said. "You turned your back on everything we were."

"I chose peace," she replied. "Healing. A life."

"You chose chains."

Moonlight spilled between them, casting her in a halo and him in shadow.

"I swore I'd kill you," Lucien murmured.

"You swore many things."

"And I meant them all."

The silence stretched—tense, brittle, ancient.

Then she reached into her robe.

Not for a weapon.

But for something small. Familiar.

A charm. Obsidian. Wrapped in silver wire. The sigil they once shared as children, before their blood was demanded of them.

"I kept this," she said, voice steady. "Not because I believe in what we were. But because I never stopped loving you."

His jaw twitched.

"You lie."

"No," she said softly. "You just hurt too much to believe me."

Fel sparks snapped across his knuckles, wild and reflexive. His eyes narrowed.

Still, she stepped forward.

Unarmed.

"I forgive you," she said.

The words landed like a blade through glass.

Lucien flinched.

"I forgive what you became. What you had to become without me. But if you cross this threshold with hate in your heart…" Her voice sharpened, though it never rose. "This home will not be kind to you."

He looked past her—to the candles, the worn floorboards, the warmth, the memories layered like sediment across every surface.

Something cracked.

Not his power.

Not his pride.

Something quieter.

Something that remembered love.

He took a breath. And stepped forward.

His palm met the invisible threshold.

The air hissed.

Power flared—a web of golden veins danced across the unseen barrier. For one suspended moment, the glade held its breath.

Then… silence.

The wards accepted him.

Or perhaps, just this once, they accepted her choice.

Lucien crossed the threshold. Hooves thudding softly on the wood.

Eurydice didn't retreat.

She only watched, quiet as a prayer.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Lucien looked around as if seeing the ghost of a life he might have lived. The scent of herbs and old parchment drifted toward him. It was too clean. Too safe. Too far from summoning circles and the copper stink of blood rites.

"You live like a widow," he murmured.

"I mourn like one," she answered, passing him.

She poured him tea. Not out of duty. Not fear. But habit. Memory.

He stared at the cup, but didn't take it.

"I expected traps," he said. "Curses. Enchantments in the beams."

"They're there," she replied. "I hoped not to need them."

His lip curled. "Hope. That's new."

She didn't answer. Instead, she moved to stir the fire. Her robe slipped, revealing her left forearm.

Lucien's eyes locked on the scar.

A jagged line, raw and white and ridged—etched from elbow to wrist. A permanent signature of their father's ritual. Not power. Not destiny.

Violation.

"I remember," he said hoarsely. "You screamed."

"I was fifteen," she murmured. "And I said no."

"He said it was your rite."

"He said I was property."

Silence. Tense. Hot. Brittle.

"I held the bowl," Lucien whispered. "When the blood ran down your fingers. I was the one who caught it."

She turned. Slowly.

"I know."

He flinched.

"But you were a boy," she said gently. "I don't blame you for being afraid."

"I wasn't afraid." His voice was bitter. "I wanted to be chosen."

She stepped closer. "And were you?"

He looked away. "Eventually."

Eurydice moved to her chair by the fire. Drew one leg beneath her robe. Her voice softened.

"Do you remember the cellar?" she asked. "The chalk on the floor?"

He gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Where they made us trace summoning circles in the dark. I do."

"I used to draw stars," she said. "When they weren't watching."

"I erased them," he said after a beat. "I didn't want them to punish you."

Her breath caught in her throat.

"I didn't know," she whispered.

"I didn't want you to."

She took a slow sip of tea. "You loved me, once."

"I still do," he said. "But love is different in the dark."

He began to pace. The way he always did when grief boiled too close to the surface.

"They said we were born for greatness," he muttered. "That our blood was the key. That the Void itself would answer if we bled deep enough."

Eurydice didn't interrupt.

"And you," he snapped, spinning on her, "you just walked away."

The wards flared.

Golden light streaked through the beams, humming low, like a growl in the bones of the house.

"Lower your voice," she said gently. But it was a command.

Lucien bared his teeth. But he stepped back.

"You always sounded like her when you gave orders."

"Mother raised us to be weapons. Father sharpened us. But we were never what they wanted us to be."

"I was," he spat.

"No. You survived. That's not the same."

His hands clenched. Power buzzed at his fingertips.

She thought he might strike her—not with fists, but grief.

Instead, his shoulders sagged.

"You're the only one left," he said. "All the others are dead. And I'm so tired."

She crossed to him, slowly, and reached up to cup his cheek.

He didn't pull away.

Her fingers were warm. His skin, cold.

"I know," she whispered. "Me too."

"I wanted to come back before I became something you'd have to kill."

"You're not there yet."

"I'm close."

"Then stay," she said. "Let the house remind you of who you were."

He looked at the letters. The empty cup. The soft flicker of flame in the hearth.

And then—carefully, as if afraid it might vanish—he sat down.

Eurydice went to the cupboard.

Took down bread. Honey. A clean plate.

She laid it before him with quiet reverence.

He didn't speak.

But he ate.

She woke hours later in the dark.

The fire had burned to embers. A thin layer of ash drifted through the air like memory unsettled. The candle on her nightstand flickered, then caught, casting warm light on the rafters above.

The house was still.

But not empty.

She sat up slowly, hooves brushing the cool floor. The blanket she didn't remember pulling up had been tucked gently beneath her arms. Her eyes went to the hearth. Still cold.

But beside the kettle—another mug.

Lucien stood at her writing desk, back turned, unmoving.

He hadn't noticed she was awake.

He was reading the letters.

Not rifling. Not violating. Just… reading. As if trying to understand how to exist in a place where love left paper trails instead of scars.

"I didn't leave," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I almost did."

Eurydice said nothing.

"I opened the door," he continued. "Stood there for a long time. Listening. Waiting for the woods to tell me I didn't belong."

He turned.

His face was tired. Haunted. Beautiful in that broken way only family can recognize.

"But they didn't."

He lifted a scrap of parchment.

"I was going to leave this," he said. "Thought I'd be poetic."

She raised a brow.

He gave a breath of a laugh and read:

I dreamed of stars too.

I don't know if I'll find them again.

But if I do—

—I'll come back.

He looked up, eyes gleaming.

"I don't want to leave."

The words landed in her chest like thunder.

He crossed to her, careful as if approaching something sacred.

"I don't know if I can stay," he added, voice fraying. "But I want to try. If you'll let me."

She slid from the bed.

Didn't rush.

Didn't cry.

Just opened her arms.

Lucien folded into her like a man who hadn't been touched in years. She felt him tremble—felt the rigid lines of a boy who'd turned himself to stone. And she held him like she had when he was feverish and small and afraid of the voices in the walls.

"I'll always let you," she whispered into his hair. "So long as you choose peace when you wake."

"I don't know how."

"We'll learn."

They stayed that way until the candle burned low.

And the wards around the house—

—not flared in warning—

—but pulsed in welcome.