Chapter 72: The House Made of Firsts

The gate led into starlight. Not sky. Not magic. Actual starlight—woven into trees, into stone, into breath itself. The air smelled like memory.

At the end of the path was a house.

Not a palace. Not a ruin. Just a house. Made of wood and night. Windows glowed faintly with stories. The front door bore one name: Liss.

"Did you live here?" Thessaly asked. "No," Liss said softly. "But I think I was meant to."

They stepped inside.

Every wall held a version of her childhood she'd never lived. Photos that didn't exist. Drawings made by hands she never had.

On the mantle was a music box. It played a lullaby Liss had heard only in dreams.

"This is where I was supposed to be raised," she said.

"Before the gods decided I was too dangerous to love."

Naia sat on the floor beside a shelf of fantasy books.

"This place is warm," she muttered. "Even the shadows are soft."

Elyse watered a plant that blinked with gratitude. Korrin fed Bob a spoonful of air—which the flute happily devoured.

And Liss? Liss sat on the bed she never got to sleep in.

Thessaly stood beside her.

"You okay?"

"I don't know what this means," Liss whispered. "Was this stolen? Or waiting?"

Thessaly took her hand.

"Does it matter? It's yours now."

Liss blinked tears she hadn't expected.

"Then I want to fill it with new memories. Real ones."

The house pulsed. And for the first time, it didn't feel like a shrine to what was lost— But a foundation for what could be.