Ariane:
The hall was quiet—but warm. Gods, the warmth of home was beautiful, soft, and familiar.
A fire crackled in the hearth, low and steady, casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls. The long table was set with care if not precision—wooden bowls brimming with roasted roots, glazed meats, lentils fragrant with spice, and flatbread torn into uneven pieces.
Someone had lit candles, though half leaned like weary sentries in their holders.
It felt… normal. Not like a king's feast to celebrate the gods but more like a gathering of the bruised.
I lingered in the archway, hesitant. I didn't know where I belonged in the quiet after the storm. In the warmth after the burning.
Seris's hand grazed my lower back. A steady pressure. A tether.
"They waited for you, too," he murmured
