Elara’s POV

The cherry-red carriage rattled beneath me as the city roads gave way to dirt paths lined with wildflowers.

Hours of open countryside. Hours of nothing but wind and birdsong and the steady rhythm of hooves on packed earth. I should have found it peaceful.

Instead, my mind wouldn’t stop.

Years of fighting in the arena had carved me into something lean and efficient. My arms were stronger. My reflexes sharper. My silhouette in the mirror barely resembled the hollow-eyed girl who’d stumbled out of Finnian’s house with a newborn strapped to her chest and grief like a millstone around her neck.

I was faster now. Harder. My body could take a punch and throw one back twice as brutal.

But inside—where Moonlight used to be—there was nothing.

Just silence.

I flexed my fingers on the reins and swallowed against the familiar ache. It never left. Not during the fights. Not during the long nights in my city lodgings. Not even when I won and the crowd roared my name and coin rained down like approval made tangible.

Moonlight was gone. Had been gone since the birth. And no amount of muscle or money or independence could fill the void she’d left behind.

Stop it, I told myself. You’re fine. You’re going to a birthday party, not a funeral.

The message crystal in my satchel pulsed. I fished it out with one hand, pressing my thumb to the warm magical surface.

Finnian’s voice crackled through immediately. "Fair warning. She’s been cooking since early morning."

I snorted. "Of course she has."

"I’m talking battalion-sized quantities of food, Ela. There’s enough pastry dough on the kitchen table to build a small fortress."

"You’re exaggerating."

"I watched her crack dozens of eggs before I finished my morning tea. This is not an exaggeration. This is a crisis."

A smile tugged at my mouth. Small but real. "Tell her I’m almost there."

"She already knows. She’s been checking the window every few minutes."

Something warm and painful moved through my chest.

I tucked the crystal away and urged the horse faster.

The farmhouse appeared over the last hill exactly as I remembered it. Stone walls. Thatched roof. Smoke curling from the chimney. Chickens scratching in the yard. The garden had expanded—more herbs, more vegetables, a row of sunflowers bending toward the afternoon light.

I barely had the carriage stopped before the front door burst open.

"Ela!"

Margaret came down the steps at a near-run, her gray hair escaping its messy bun, flour dusting her apron and both forearms. She hit me like a small, determined storm—arms wrapping around my shoulders, pulling me in so tight I felt my spine pop.

"Oh, sweetheart. Oh, my darling girl."

The scent of her—yeast and lavender and woodsmoke—cracked something loose in my chest. I pressed my face into her shoulder and held on.

"Hi, Margaret."

"Let me look at you." She pulled back, gripping my arms, her eyes shining and searching. Her hands came up to frame my face. "You’re thin. But strong. Good color." She turned my chin left, then right, examining me with the clinical intensity of a field medic. "You’re eating properly?"

"Yes."

"Regular meals?"

"At least."

"Hmm." She didn’t look entirely convinced, but she pulled me in for another crushing hug anyway. "Years," she whispered against my hair. "Years, you stubborn child."

Footsteps on the porch. Finnian leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning.

"Mother, you saw her literally moments ago through the window."

"Hush." Margaret didn’t release me. "I’ll hug her as long as I want."

"At this rate, we’ll be out here until dark."

She finally let go, but kept hold of my hand as she led me inside. The kitchen was exactly as I remembered—warm, cluttered, alive. Pots bubbled on the stove. The massive oak table was buried under bowls, rolling pins, and a truly alarming quantity of pastry.

Inside, Margaret beamed and gestured toward the hearth. "Look at him. He’s been anxiously pacing the floorboards for a long time waiting for you."

And there, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, was Robert.

His hair was whiter than I remembered. More lines around his eyes. But the warmth in them—that steady, quiet kindness—hadn’t changed.

"Well." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. Tried again. "The prodigal daughter returns."

"Robert." My voice came out rough.

He crossed the room in three strides and wrapped me in a hug that smelled like pipe tobacco and old wood. His hand cupped the back of my head the way a father’s would.

"Welcome home, dear," he said quietly. "Welcome home."

I couldn’t speak. Just nodded against his shoulder.

Finnian clapped his hands. "Alright. Emotional reunions are wonderful, but if someone doesn’t help me with this layered pie situation, we’re going to have a structural collapse."

Margaret swatted his arm. "It’s a birthday pie, not a ’situation.’"

"Mother, you made enough to feed a regiment."

"We have guests coming tomorrow. And Ela needs feeding up."

I laughed—watery and thick—and let them pull me into the kitchen. Margaret pressed a knife into my hand and pointed me toward a mountain of vegetables. Finnian worked beside me, dicing onions with practiced ease, bumping his elbow against mine every few minutes like he was checking I was still real.

The rhythm of it—chopping, stirring, Margaret issuing orders from the stove while Robert snuck tastes from the sauce pot—settled something inside me. Something that had been clenched tight for years loosened just a fraction.

We sat down to eat as the sun dipped below the tree line. The layered meat pie was extraordinary. Flaky golden pastry, rich meat sauce, soft cheese that stretched in long threads when you pulled a piece free. Margaret had outdone herself.

"Sweetheart, you look healthy," Margaret said, watching me eat with barely concealed satisfaction. "Really healthy. Whatever you’ve been doing in that city agrees with you."

"She’s been working hard," Finnian said carefully.

"Physical work?"

"Something like that." I took another bite to avoid elaborating.

Margaret’s eyes lingered on my arms. On the defined muscle visible beneath my rolled sleeves. On the small scar across my left knuckle that hadn’t been there before. She said nothing. But I saw the questions gathering behind her gaze.

Robert steered the conversation toward safer waters. The farm. The new well they’d dug last spring. A neighbor’s daughter who’d married a merchant from the trading post.

I listened. Ate. Let their voices wash over me.

For a little while, the silence where Moonlight should have been felt almost bearable.

After the dishes were cleared, Robert excused himself to check on the livestock. Finnian started drying plates. Margaret poured two cups of tea and set one in front of me with a meaningful look.

I knew that look.

"So," she began, settling into the chair across from mine. Her voice was light. Deliberately casual. "Have you been seeing anyone? In the city?"

Finnian’s hands stilled on the plate he was drying. He shot his mother a warning glance.

"Mother—"

"It’s a perfectly reasonable question." Margaret sipped her tea, eyes on me over the rim. "A young woman, living alone in a big city. Surely someone’s caught your eye."

"No." The word came out flat. Final. "No one."

"No one at all? In all these years?"

"Margaret." Finnian’s voice carried a quiet edge. "Leave it."

"I’m just asking, darling." She reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. Her palm was warm and rough with calluses. Her eyes softened. "You carry so much by yourself, sweetheart. You always have. I just wonder if maybe... there’s a reason no one’s gotten close."

My throat tightened. "I’ve been busy."

"Mm." She stroked her thumb across my knuckles. "Busy is good. Busy keeps you moving. But busy doesn’t keep you warm at night, does it?"

I stared at my tea. The surface trembled.

"I’m fine, Margaret. Really."

The kitchen was quiet. Just the crackle of the fire. The distant lowing of cattle. Finnian had stopped pretending to dry dishes. He stood very still by the counter, watching.

Margaret squeezed my hand. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. Gentle as a blade slipping between ribs.

"Kaelen," Margaret said softly. "Do you still love Kaelen?"