The weight of Homecoming

The city's gas lamps flickered weakly against the night as three figures trudged through the mist-laden streets. Ardyn led the way, his shoulders hunched forward like a man carrying invisible chains. Every few steps, his fingers twitched toward his temple where his aether-sight still pulsed with residual energy from the temple. Behind him, Therion moved with unnatural quiet, his usual swagger replaced by a predator's wary gait. His spatial energy crackled at his fingertips in erratic bursts, leaving faint silver trails in the damp air. Lyria brought up the rear, her grip on the leather-bound diary tight enough to turn her knuckles white, her dark eyes scanning every shadow as if expecting the darkness itself to attack.

The rhythmic click of their boots against wet cobblestones was the only sound between them. No jokes about Therion's terrible sense of direction. No sharp remarks from Lyria about the uselessness of city guards. Just the heavy silence of survivors who had seen something that couldn't be unseen.

When Ardyn's house finally came into view - its warm golden light spilling through lace curtains onto the street - none of them quickened their pace. The familiar ivy-covered brick facade and the scent of rosemary from his mother's herb garden should have brought comfort. Instead, the normalcy of it all felt like a poorly staged play where they'd forgotten their lines.

The door burst open before Ardyn could raise his hand to knock.

Elara Veyther stood framed in the doorway, her chestnut braid coming undone, strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead. Her green eyes - so like Ardyn's but sharper, wiser - swept over them in one devastating assessment. The flour dusting her apron suggested she'd been baking to distract herself. The dark circles under her eyes said it hadn't worked.

"Inside," she ordered, her voice cracking on the word. "Now."

They filed past her like condemned prisoners. The warmth of the house wrapped around them, thick with the scent of oversteeped tea and the faint metallic tang of drying herbs from Elara's apothecary work. Normally these smells meant safety. Tonight they just highlighted the temple's stench still clinging to their clothes - that awful mix of rotting parchment and something darker, something alive.

Elara's hands fluttered like startled birds - first to Ardyn's face, checking for injuries, then to the kettle, then to her own braid. "You're staying here tonight," she announced, already moving toward the linen cupboard. Her voice left no room for argument, though it wavered slightly when she added, "All of you."

Therion opened his mouth, likely to protest about being coddled, but Lyria's elbow found his ribs with practiced precision. The silent communication between them was clearer than words: Not here. Not in front of her.

The kitchen looked exactly as it always did - the worn oak table where Ardyn had done his lessons, the chipped blue teapot Elara refused to replace, the row of herb jars lining the windowsill. Yet everything felt different, like the room itself knew they'd brought something terrible home with them.

Elara's gaze locked onto the diary in Lyria's hands. "That's not yours," she said quietly, her healer's eyes noting the strange symbols etched into the leather.

Lyria's grip tightened instinctively. "No," she admitted, her voice rougher than usual. "It belonged to someone who didn't make it out."

A shadow passed over Elara's face. For a moment, Ardyn thought she might demand answers right then, might shake the truth out of them. But she only turned away with a stiffness in her shoulders that hadn't been there before. "Wash up," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "There's stew and bread." A pause that felt like a lifetime. "Then you're going to tell me exactly where you've been."

The meal passed in a silence so thick it was hard to breathe. Bowls of hearty lamb stew steamed before them, chunks of carrots and potatoes bobbing in rich gravy. Fresh bread, still warm from the oven, sat in the center of the table, its crust golden and crisp. Normally Therion would have stolen half the loaf before anyone else got a bite. Tonight he only picked at it, his fingers leaving strange silver marks on the crust where his unstable energy leaked out.

Elara didn't eat. She watched them with the sharp eyes of a woman who had spent years reading people's ailments in the tremble of their hands and the shadows under their eyes. She saw how Ardyn's fingers shook around his spoon. How Lyria kept the diary pressed against her thigh like a weapon. How Therion's gaze kept darting to the darkest corners of the room.

When the last of the bread had been picked apart and the tea had gone cold, Elara rose with the careful movements of someone holding back a storm. "You'll sleep in Ardyn's room," she said, gathering the dishes with deliberate slowness. "Lyria, you take the bed. Boys, the floor."

Therion opened his mouth - probably to complain about unfair treatment - but Lyria's foot connected with his shin under the table hard enough to make him wince.

Elara pretended not to notice. "I'll leave a lamp burning in the hall," she said, her voice softer now. It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't understanding. But it was shelter, and for tonight, that would have to be enough.

Elara stood in the doorway of Ardyn's bedroom, her arms laden with blankets and pillows, her expression unreadable in the dim lamplight. "Lyria, you'll take the bed," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. She stepped forward and began smoothing out the sheets with quick, efficient movements, her hands lingering for just a moment on the worn fabric—as if remembering all the times she'd tucked Ardyn in as a child.

Lyria hovered awkwardly near the foot of the bed, still clutching the diary to her chest. She opened her mouth—perhaps to protest, perhaps to insist she didn't need special treatment—but Elara cut her off with a look. "Don't argue," she said, though her tone softened slightly. "You're bruised and exhausted. The bed is yours."

Therion, ever the opportunist, had already claimed the thickest blanket from the pile Elara had brought, spreading it out near the far wall. He flopped onto it with his usual dramatic flair, though the way he winced as he landed betrayed his injuries. "Floor's fine by me," he said, forcing a grin. "Better than some places I've slept."

Ardyn, meanwhile, had gone unnaturally still by the window. His fingers traced the edge of the sill absently, his gaze fixed on something far beyond the glass. The faint glow of his aether-sight flickered in his pupils, casting strange shadows across his face.

Elara hesitated, watching him. Then, with a quiet sigh, she crossed the room and pressed a folded quilt into his hands. "At least make yourself a proper pallet," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ardyn blinked, as if startled out of a trance, and took the quilt mechanically. "Thanks," he mumbled, avoiding her eyes.

Elara lingered for a moment longer, her gaze sweeping over the trio—Lyria perched stiffly on the edge of the bed, Therion sprawled across the floor with forced nonchalance, Ardyn standing lost in his own thoughts. Her hands twitched at her sides, as if she wanted to reach out, to pull them all into an embrace and shield them from whatever horrors they'd faced.

But she didn't.

Instead, she stepped back toward the door, her fingers tightening around the doorknob. "There's water in the pitcher if you're thirsty," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "And extra blankets in the chest if you get cold." A pause. "I'll... leave the lamp burning in the hall."

The door clicked shut behind her with finality.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Lyria exhaled sharply and set the diary down on the bedside table with deliberate care. "Well," she said, her voice flat. "That was..."

"Awkward as hell," Therion finished, rolling onto his side to face her. "Your mom's scary when she's worried, Ardyn."

Ardyn didn't respond. He was still staring at the quilt in his hands, his fingers tracing the familiar stitching—a pattern of interlocking herbs his mother had taught herself years ago, when he was small and prone to nightmares.

Lyria's gaze flicked between them, her usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion. "Just... get some sleep," she muttered, reaching to turn down the lamp. "We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."

But as the room darkened around them, none of them closed their eyes.

The diary sat on the table like a living thing, its secrets pulsing in the silence.

And outside the door, if they'd listened closely, they might have heard the faintest sound of Elara's footsteps pausing in the hallway—just for a moment—before retreating down the stairs.