The kitchen of Thornwick Manor had never quite decided on a single, stable layout. As Bran Corbin reached across the breakfast table for the honey pot, the wall behind it gave a low, grinding groan and slid smoothly three feet to the left, taking the honey with it. In its place, a tall diamond-paned window materialized, framing the grey morning and the steady drum of rain against glass.
"Oh, for pity's sake!" Bran's hand closed on empty air. He glared at the wall, which had already settled into its new position with the satisfaction of ancient stone. "It's me! The owner! The one who actually lives here now!"
The Stonewright—the living soul of Thornwick Manor, crafted centuries ago by skilled Natural artisans and bound to the house's very bones—offered no reply beyond a faint, warm hum that resonated through the floorboards. Somewhere deep in the walls, granite fingers shifted and settled. The creature had served Bran's uncle for forty-seven years with flawless precision. It tolerated Bran's presence, provided for his needs, even anticipated them—as evidenced by this perfectly timed window—but it had not yet deigned to acknowledge him as master.
"It likes you," Affice Rayne observed dryly, not looking up from the newspaper he was reading for the third time, though the words had long since stopped making sense. His grey eyes were shadowed with worry.
"It likes your uncle," Canjiro Tanaka corrected from across the table, sipping his black tea with characteristic precision. "It simply tolerates you, Bran. There's a difference."
"It will come around," Bran replied with determined optimism, reaching across the table to snag the honey from its new location. "Even slabs of living stone eventually succumb to my charm. You'll see."
The Stonewright's response was to slide the honey pot another foot to the right, just as Bran's fingers were about to close around it. A sound that might have been a gravelly chuckle rumbled through the hearth.
"I think it's mocking you," Affice murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips despite the weight pressing on his chest.
Before Bran could mount a proper defense of his relationship with the house, a sharp, trumpet-like cry cut through the morning air. The Stonewright, apparently satisfied with its joke, obligingly widened the window to reveal the iron gates at the end of the drive.
A courier, resplendent in blue and silver livery, was reining in his mount with practiced grace. The creature beneath him was a Striden—one of the kingdom's magnificent courier beasts, standing nearly eight feet tall from talon to crown. Its lean, muscular body was built for speed, with long tendon-heavy legs that looked ready to spring like whips at any moment. Two clawed toes on each foot gripped the gravel with natural authority. The Striden's small, angular head featured a bony-ridged beak—designed not for pecking prey but for snapping at handlers when annoyed—and large amber eyes with slit pupils gave it a hawk-like intensity. A long, flexible neck like an ostrich's balanced the creature's weight as it shifted restlessly. Its broad wings were folded neatly against its flanks, powerful enough to lift the creature in flight over rivers, ravines, and dense jungle obstacles. The creature's sleek feathers, close to its body like a racing hound's coat, were mottled grey and brown. Road dirt dusted its powerful legs and talons, and it panted softly, misting the cool air.
A light saddle sat securely on the Striden's back, with leather straps running along its flanks where courier satchels and pouches hung, designed to carry letters, parcels both small and large. The kingdom's courier insignia in blue and silver was emblazoned on the harness, marking the beast as part of the official postal service.
"Magnificent beast," Canjiro said with genuine admiration, setting down his teacup to watch.
"Overgrown chicken," Bran countered cheerfully, but even he couldn't hide his fascination as the Striden stamped restlessly, its talons gouging divots in the gravel.
The courier—an Unnatural man, lean and weathered from the road—dismounted with soldierly efficiency. He carried a cream-colored envelope in a protective leather sleeve, and his boots made crisp sounds on the wet stone as he approached the door.
Bran was already moving, abandoning his battle with the honey pot in favor of more interesting entertainment. He returned moments later, breaking the elegant wax seal with theatrical flair as he walked. "From the Corbin Estate. Mother and Father." He scanned the contents quickly, then grinned with obvious delight. "A formal dinner invitation. Tonight. And they've included you both, naturally—because what's a proper family dinner without the famous war heroes to make it interesting?" He struck a dramatic pose. "Mother would never forgive me if I left my celebrated companions at home. She'd probably disown me on the spot. 'Bran,' she'd say, 'how could you deny us the pleasure of feeding the kingdom's finest?'" He dropped the affected voice and laughed. "Though knowing her, she'll spend the whole evening trying to fatten you up and introduce you to every eligible young lady within a ten-mile radius. Fair warning."
"How formal?" Affice asked, though his attention was still on the newspaper in his hands.
"Formal enough that you'll need proper robes," Bran replied. "But knowing Mother, she'll spend the whole evening trying to feed you until you burst, so don't worry about excessive protocol." He glanced at Affice, noting the tension in his friend's shoulders. "It'll be good for us. A proper family dinner, warm food, terrible jokes from my younger brothers—"
He was interrupted by a flash of emerald light that made even the grey morning seem dim by comparison. A House Sparrow—its plumage the deep, luminous green of moss after rain—appeared not through the open window, but directly through the solid stone of the fireplace mantel. It was larger than any common bird, moving with an eerie, purposeful intelligence, its black eyes glittering like chips of obsidian.
The kitchen fell utterly silent.
Elara, their Unnatural house helper, gasped and dropped her ladle into the pot with a clatter. "A House Sparrow!" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Here? Again?"
The magnificent creature alighted on the table beside Affice's plate with barely a sound, its talons clicking once against the wood. It held a letter in its beak—expensive parchment, cream-colored and heavy. For a moment, it simply regarded Affice with those uncanny black eyes, as if measuring him. Then it released the letter, gave a single, clear note that rang like a bell, and vanished back into the stone as though it had never been corporeal at all.
"That's the fifth time," Elara said, her hands trembling as she wiped them on her apron. "The fifth time in as many weeks. Do you understand what that means, Mr. Rayne? House Sparrows aren't common post birds. They're proof of ancient bloodlines, used only by the oldest, wealthiest families—and even they use them sparingly. For emergencies. For great honors. For moments of..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "And yet one comes here, to this kitchen, again and again with the same plea. The Veynar house must be truly desperate."
"The House Sparrow itself seems desperate," Canjiro observed quietly, his dark eyes thoughtful. "Even a magical creature bound to a house knows when its family is facing destruction. It's trying to save the Veynars in the only way it can—by carrying their pleas to the one person who might listen."
Affice's hand was shaking as he reached for the letter. He knew what it would say before he unfolded it. The parchment was identical to the others—expensive, elegant, and trembling with the same desperate energy that had marked each previous missive.
Mr. Rayne,
This is the fifth time I beg you. I know how unworthy these letters are of the creature that bears them. I know what an insult it must seem for a House Sparrow to carry the same plea over and over. Yet still it comes—perhaps because even it understands what words alone cannot convey.
I do not write to you as a Veynar. I write to you as Kaelen Vance's sister. My brother died saving you and your friends, though he lived as a traitor in everyone's eyes. He gave everything to protect you from the darkness that my own family helped to spread.
You were there at Veynar Manor on that night. You know what I did. When my brother revealed his true loyalties and helped you flee, I made my choice. I could have raised the alarm. I could have sided with my husband and Varkthar. Instead, I stood with Kaelen. I killed two of Varkthar's followers in the east wing to clear your escape path. Without that, they would have intercepted you in the courtyard. You would have been captured, and my brother's sacrifice would have been for nothing.
Two of Varkthar's men discovered Kaelen's betrayal as he was helping you escape the manor grounds. They engaged him in combat immediately. My brother fought desperately to hold them off, to buy you the time you needed to flee. They were the ones who killed him—who brought him down even as he refused to yield, even as he gave everything to ensure you would live. I reached them just as Kaelen fell, his final breath spent protecting you. I struck from the shadows, a surprise attack they never saw coming, and killed them both before they could raise the alarm. I did it to avenge my brother and to protect his secret—to ensure his loyalty would not be discovered and used to hunt down those he died protecting.
No one believes me. They think it a desperate lie, a mother's invention to save her son. The Ministry knows none of this—they see only a Veynar family who served darkness. But you were there, Affice. You heard the spells, saw the empty corridor where death should have been waiting. You know the truth. This is why Varkthar never discovered Kaelen's true loyalties, even after my brother's death—because I silenced those who learned his secret before they could speak it.
My son Lysander is seventeen years old now. He was twelve when Varkthar moved into our home, thirteen when he was forced to watch his father bow to a monster. At fourteen, he was ordered to kill the Natural Prime Minister, Magister Theron, and his Unnatural advisor—to prove his loyalty through murder. He couldn't do it. When the moment came, when he had them at wandpoint, he froze. He was a child, and he couldn't bring himself to kill.
Kaelen Vance completed that terrible task as part of his cover, and in doing so, he saved my son from Varkthar's wrath. But Lysander has lived with that failure—that mercy—ever since. He hesitated when he should have acted. He chose compassion when darkness surrounded him.
The trial is in two days. I beg you—testify for my son. Save my child. I am willing to accept any punishment for my own crimes. Cassian and I will face judgment as we deserve. But Lysander... he was just a boy, caught between fear and family, between his name and his conscience.
If mercy can be given, let it begin with him.
Please.
—Lady Valeria Veynar
Affice set the letter down beside the other four, arranging them in a neat line as if ordering them might somehow make the decision easier. His appetite, already poor, vanished entirely.
"Please don't," Elara said quietly, her voice tight with restrained emotion. She set a large tray in front of them on the table, laden with different plates—paratha on one, a steaming omelette on another, bread toast with ketchum, fresh salads, and two cups of milk tea for Affice and Bran. Canjiro's black tea sat untouched beside his elbow, still steaming from earlier. "Please don't even think of it, Mr. Rayne. Families like the Veynars—" She spat the name like a curse. "—they see people like me as insects. Less than insects. They've spent centuries treating Unnaturals as if we were dirt beneath their boots, and now, when consequences finally come calling, they want mercy? Let them face what's coming. Let them suffer as we have suffered."
Bran's expression had darkened as he noticed the neat stack of letters. "Five of them? She's relentless." He picked up the latest one, scanning it quickly, his jaw tightening. "And she's using her brother's sacrifice as leverage. That's... that's low, Affice. Even for a Veynar."
"Is it?" Affice asked quietly. "If what she's saying is true—"
"If," Bran interrupted. "That's a rather large if, don't you think?"
Canjiro had been silent, but now he moved to the table, his dark eyes thoughtful. "The trial is in two days. Mercaday morning, if I'm remembering correctly." He looked at Affice. "That doesn't give you much time to decide."
"I've already decided," Affice said, then stopped, realizing it was true. He had decided, somewhere between the first letter and the fifth, between the memory of Kaelen Vance's sacrifice and the sound of Elara's pain. "I have to go. I have to testify."
"Please, no," Elara said, her voice trembling with emotion. "You owe them nothing, Mr. Rayne!"
"I owe Kaelen everything," Affice replied, his voice soft but firm. He looked up at her, and there was something ancient and weary in his gaze. "She's telling the truth, Elara. I know she is. We were trapped in that manor—Canjiro, Bran, and I—and we should have died in the east wing. We heard the fighting, the spells. We didn't see who cast them, but when we reached that corridor, the guards were dead and the path was clear. If we had been forced to fight our way through that corridor..." He paused, glancing at Canjiro. "Perhaps you could have made it through unscathed, but I can't say the same for Bran and myself. We would have either died there or passed through with wounds covering our bodies—too injured to escape what came after." His hand moved to his neck, where the invisible pouch hung like a thread against his skin. "Kaelen died getting us out of the grounds afterward, fighting off the pursuit. But without his sister clearing that first path, we'd never have made it far enough for him to save us."
The kitchen was utterly still. Even the Stonewright seemed to be listening, the manor's ancient magic holding its breath.
"But Mr. Rayne," Elara said, her voice strained with emotion. "She helped you once. Just once. And now she wants you to save her son—a son who was part of all of it, who stood by while Varkthar tore this kingdom apart, who—"
"He was a child," Affice interrupted, his voice taking on an edge. "Twelve years old when Varkthar moved into his home. Thirteen when he watched his family bow to darkness. Fourteen when he was ordered to commit murder and couldn't bring himself to do it." He paused, his eyes intense. "He's seventeen now—the same age we were when we made choices we can never take back. The same age I was when I..." He stopped, unable to finish. They all knew what he meant.
Canjiro sat down across from him, his movements precise and deliberate. "This debt must be paid," he said quietly, his dark eyes meeting Affice's with steady conviction. "We owe our lives to both Kaelen and his sister. Honor demands we acknowledge that."
Affice nodded, grateful for the support. "We called Kaelen Vance a traitor and a murderer for years. We only learned the truth when he died protecting us—that he was the King's spy, working against Varkthar from the inside all along. His sister helped him in his final mission. She saved our lives. And now she's asking us to save her son." He looked around the table, meeting each person's eyes. "Magister Theron believed in redemption. He believed in it enough to die for it. He believed in Kaelen when no one else did. Shouldn't we honor that by believing in the possibility of mercy?"
"Theron also believed in justice," Bran pointed out stubbornly. "And the Veynars deserve to face justice for what they've done!"
"Justice and mercy aren't opposites," Affice said. "The Veynars will face trial. They'll be judged for their actions. All I'm doing is telling the truth—about Valeria, who chose to stand with her brother against her own husband and Varkthar, who killed to protect us and avenged Kaelen's death. And about Lysander, who was twelve when this nightmare began, fourteen when he was ordered to commit murder and couldn't bring himself to do it, a boy forced into choices no child should have to make." He looked around the table at his friends, at Elara's rigid posture and Canjiro's steady support. "If we only show mercy to those who deserve it, then it isn't mercy at all. It's just another transaction."
"These people do not change!" Elara's voice cracked with generations of pain, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "You inherited the name and title of a true Peacemaker, Mr. Rayne! You carry that legacy, that responsibility. You should be ensuring they face consequences for their crimes, not speaking in their defense!"
Affice stood slowly, moving around the table with careful deliberation until he was facing her directly. The kitchen fell silent. "Elara," he said, his voice gentle but firm, carrying a weight that made everyone listen. "Please. Look at me. Really look at me."
She did, reluctantly, and he could see the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
"I carry something," he said quietly. "A burden that changes how you see the world. It makes you aware of the cracks in everything—the places where darkness seeps through, the moments where one wrong choice can damn you forever." He took a breath. "When I look at Lysander Veynar, I don't see a monster. I see a boy who was handed a terrible script by his family and told to perform it. And I see myself, if things had been just slightly different. If my mother's legacy had been darker. If I'd been born into a different name."
His hand rose to his neck again, fingers finding the invisible thread. "We have to be better than what was done to us. We have to try. Not for them—for us. To prove that the world we saved is one where a person's past doesn't have to chain them forever."
The silence stretched. Elara held his gaze, her eyes bright with unshed tears and something else—perhaps the painful, reluctant acknowledgment of a truth she had been afraid to consider.
Finally, she turned away, her shoulders shaking. "You're too good for this world, Mr. Rayne," she whispered. "Too good, or too foolish. I can't decide which."
Bran had been staring down at his hands, his cheeks flushed. When he spoke, his voice was thick. "If we do this—if we testify for them—you know what people will say, don't you? They'll say we've forgotten what the Veynars did, what Varkthar did. They'll question our judgment, our loyalty to those who suffered. They'll—"
"Let them," Affice interrupted quietly. "I know what I carry. I know what we've done. Their opinions can't make those burdens heavier than they already are." He met Bran's eyes steadily. "We three survived because of choices made by others—choices that cost them everything. This is simply honoring that debt."
Bran looked up, meeting Affice's gaze, and after a long moment, he nodded slowly. "You're mad, you know that? Completely mad." He attempted a shaky grin. "But... but maybe that's what the world needs right now. A bit of madness. A bit of mercy." His voice grew stronger. "Besides, someone needs to keep you two from getting hexed by angry spectators."
"Agreed," Canjiro said with quiet conviction. "We three go to the trial together. United, as we've always been."
Despite everything, Affice felt something warm unfurl in his chest—something that might have been hope, or gratitude, or simply the relief of not being alone. "Thank you," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "Both of you."
The Stonewright chose that moment to slide the honey pot directly into Bran's waiting hand, and the sudden normalcy of the gesture broke the tension like a stone through ice.
"See?" Bran said, seizing the moment. "It does like me."
"It pities you," Canjiro replied, but there was warmth in his voice now. "There's a difference."
The afternoon passed in a strange haze of preparation. Affice left the letters stacked neatly on his desk, their cream-colored parchment a silent reminder of the choice he had made. He would go to the trial on Mercaday. He would tell the truth about what he had seen and what he knew. Whatever came after that... well, he had faced darker things than public opinion.
As evening approached, the three of them changed into proper robes—not the simple house clothes they had been wearing, but the formal attire appropriate for a dinner at the Corbin Estate. Bran fussed with his collar, trying to achieve the same effortlessly casual look his father always managed and failing spectacularly. Canjiro, as usual, looked perfectly put together, his robes hanging with precise elegance.
Canjiro reached for his sword, the sheathed blade that he wore as naturally as most men wore boots, and began fastening it to his belt.
"Absolutely not," Bran said immediately, looking up from his collar with mock horror. "Are you mad? We're going to my parents' house for dinner, not marching into battle. The war is over, Canjiro. Over. You can't walk into my mother's dining room armed like you're about to storm a fortress. You're a fighting maniac, you know that?"
Canjiro paused, his hand still on the sword's hilt. "It's simply—"
"A habit, I know," Bran interrupted, waving his hands dramatically. "But my mother will have your head if you show up wearing that thing. She'll think we're expecting an attack during dessert. Besides, if we need protection—which we won't—we have our wands. That's more than enough for a family dinner." He gestured emphatically at the sword. "Leave it. Please. For the love of all that's holy, leave the sword behind."
Canjiro's lips twitched with what might have been amusement. "Your mother frightens you more than Varkthar's followers did."
"Infinitely more," Bran replied without hesitation. "Varkthar's followers I could fight. My mother's disappointment? That's a weapon no man can defend against." He gestured emphatically at the sword. "Off. Now. We're having dinner, not defending the kingdom."
With a slight shake of his head, Canjiro carefully removed the sword and set it aside, though his hand lingered on it for a moment as if saying goodbye to an old friend.
Affice caught his own reflection in the mirror and paused. The young man staring back at him looked older than his years, grey eyes shadowed with burdens that most would never understand. His dark hair was, as always, uncontrollably messy, falling in waves that no amount of effort could quite tame. He looked like what he was—a Peacemaker carrying the weight of terrible choices and darker secrets.
"Stop brooding," Bran called from the doorway. "You look fine. Distinguished, even. Mother will probably spend the whole evening trying to feed you and introduce you to every eligible young lady in the county."
"That's not helping," Affice replied, but he managed a smile as he turned away from the mirror.
They gathered by the front door of Thornwick Manor, properly dressed for the evening. Elara appeared with their cloaks, her eyes still red-rimmed but her expression composed.
"Safe journey, sirs," she said quietly, handing each of them their cloaks. "And... Mr. Rayne?" She hesitated. "Whatever you decide to do at that trial... I hope you know I only spoke from worry, not disrespect."
"I know, Elara," Affice said gently. "And I'm grateful for it."
Bran turned toward the kitchen. "Farewell, you stubborn pile of stone! We're off to civilization where the walls stay put!"
The Stonewright offered no reply beyond a faint rumble that might have been amusement, or possibly disdain.
"Still ignoring me," Bran muttered as they stepped out into the cool evening air.
Affice pulled his hood up, drawing it forward to shadow his face. After two months of newspaper articles and public attention, being recognized on the streets had become an unwelcome constant. Tonight, at least, he wanted to reach the Corbin Estate without being stopped every few steps.
"Keeping a low profile?" Canjiro observed.
"Trying to," Affice replied. "The last thing I need is someone recognizing me and wanting to discuss the war in the middle of the street."
The journey took them through the winding streets of the city as dusk settled over the rooftops. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the cobblestones slick and gleaming in the lamplight. After about ten minutes of walking, they reached Aurelius Quarter, the magical shopping district that served as the beating heart of the city's commercial life.
They entered through the Second Gate—the hub of local government services and imperial workshops, the very backbone of the empire's infrastructure. Unlike the colorful chaos of the merchant streets, this section was orderly and efficient, dominated by official buildings bearing the blue and silver insignia of the kingdom. The Arcadian Imperial Courier Service stood beside the Arcadian Imperial Flying Services, with the Arcadian Teleportation Services and Arcadian Bus Services completing the row of essential government operations.
Bran immediately veered toward the Flying Services building, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.
"Where exactly do you think you're going?" Canjiro asked sharply, catching Bran's arm.
"Flying Services, obviously," Bran replied with a grin. "We can borrow a Dromadaeryx. Only takes forty-five minutes to reach home. Much faster than—"
"Absolutely not," Canjiro interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. "We're using teleportation. We don't need your fancy show-off entrance, swooping down on a Dromadaeryx like we're still at war. And if you insist on taking the long route, we'll use the bus services—only three hours, perfectly reasonable."
"But the Dromadaeryx—"
"Teleportation," Canjiro said firmly, already steering them toward the Teleportation Services building. "We're going to a family dinner, not staging a theatrical performance."
Bran muttered something under his breath about Canjiro being no fun, but followed along nonetheless.
As they approached the Teleportation Services entrance, a middle-aged man in official robes was just leaving, clearly finished with his day's work and heading home. He glanced up, did a double-take, and stopped abruptly, his eyes widening with recognition.
"Mr. Rayne? Mr. Corbin? Mr. Tanaka?" The man—clearly the department head based on the silver trim on his robes—hurried back toward them, his fatigue forgotten. "I can't believe— I mean, it's an honor! A true honor!" He fumbled with his keys, nearly dropping them in his excitement. "Please, please, allow me to escort you personally. Where do you need to go? The Corbin Estate? Of course, of course! Let me accompany you to the teleportation department."
"That's very kind," Affice said quietly, still keeping his hood partially drawn. "But we can manage. You were clearly leaving for the day—"
"Nonsense!" the man exclaimed, already gesturing them inside. "It would be my privilege to escort the heroes who saved our kingdom. Please, this way. And naturally, there will be no charge. The ministry would never—"
"We insist on paying the standard fee," Canjiro said politely but firmly, already reaching into his coin purse. "We appreciate the sentiment, but we prefer not to use our reputation to avoid payment for services rendered."
The department head looked genuinely distressed. "But surely after everything you've done—"
"Standard fee," Affice said gently. "Please. It's important to us."
The man hesitated, clearly torn between his desire to honor them and his recognition of their sincerity. Finally, he nodded with understanding. "As you wish, sirs. Your integrity does you credit." He accepted the coins Canjiro offered, though his expression suggested he'd have gladly served them for free.
He led them through the building, which hummed with activity despite the late hour. The teleportation office operated around the clock, serving travelers at all hours. They passed several queues of waiting passengers—families, merchants, government officials—all waiting for their turn.
"Normally, everyone waits in the regular queue," the department head explained as they walked past the lines. "Each group teleported when their number is called. But we do have a VIP system for... special circumstances." He glanced at them almost apologetically. "Please, this way. Consider it a courtesy, not because of who you are, but because you've already paid and I can at least save you the wait."
They entered a large chamber where multiple flat circular plates were embedded in the floor, each about fifteen feet in diameter. At the center of each plate stood a sleek teleportation device—a vertical cylindrical apparatus that rose about waist-high, its surface covered in smooth metal and glowing crystals. Around the room, skilled operators sat at control stations that resembled desks with crystalline panels, feeding destinations and commands into the devices from a distance, much like operating a machine remotely.
The department head approached one of the operators. "The Corbin Estate, please. Priority service." He glanced back at the trio with an apologetic smile. "A small courtesy I can still offer."
The operator's eyes widened slightly upon recognizing the passengers, but he nodded professionally and began inputting commands into his control panel. "Platform three is ready, sirs. Please step onto the circular plate and join hands."
The trio moved to the indicated platform, stepping onto the flat circular plate. Affice, Bran, and Canjiro joined hands, forming a small circle around the central teleportation device.
"Destination confirmed: Corbin Estate," the operator called out. "Teleportation in three... two... one..."
The device in the center began to rotate, slowly at first, then faster. A brilliant light erupted from the device, engulfing the trio in its radiance.
The world tilted sickeningly. Affice's head spun as if he'd been turned upside down, his stomach lurching with the disorientation. A high-pitched buzzing filled his ears like a thousand insects singing in discordant harmony, drowning out all other sound. Light, sensation, vertigo—all compressed into a single disorienting moment—
Then solid ground beneath their feet. The buzzing cut off abruptly, replaced by the quiet evening sounds of crickets and rustling leaves.
A sharp crack of displaced air echoed through the quiet evening outside the Corbin Estate, announcing their arrival. Affice swayed slightly, his equilibrium taking a moment to resettle, his stomach still churning from the disorientation. Beside him, even Bran looked a touch pale.
"I'll never get used to that," Bran muttered, pressing a hand to his temple.
The watchman—an Unnatural man in his fifties with weathered features and a practical coat—jerked upright from his stool beside the outer gate, his hand instinctively moving toward the alarm bell. Teleportation directly to private estates was unusual, and his duty was to investigate any unexpected arrivals.
Then he recognized the three figures materializing on the cobblestone path and relaxed immediately, his stern expression melting into a warm smile.
"Master Bran! Mr. Rayne, Mr. Tanaka!" He hurried to unlock the tall iron gate that marked the boundary of the Corbin Estate. "Welcome, welcome! Mrs. Corbin said to expect you, but I didn't realize you'd be arriving by teleportation." He swung the gate open wide. "Please, go on through. The family's been waiting eagerly."
"Thank you, Marcus," Bran said cheerfully as they passed through. "I actually wanted to make a proper flashy entrance—swooping down on a Dromadaeryx like a returning war hero. But these stupid fellows of mine wouldn't listen to me." He jerked his thumb at Canjiro and Affice with exaggerated annoyance. "Apparently arriving by teleportation is more 'sensible' and 'appropriate for a family dinner.'"
Marcus chuckled warmly. "I think Mrs. Corbin would have had all three of your heads if you'd landed a Dromadaeryx on her roses, Master Bran."
"See?" Canjiro said dryly. "Even the watchman knows better than you do."
"Has Mother been terrorizing the kitchen staff with last-minute preparations?" Bran asked, pointedly ignoring Canjiro's comment.
The watchman chuckled. "You know Mrs. Corbin, sir. She's been ensuring everything is perfect since this morning." He closed the gate behind them with a solid clang, returning to his post with a contented nod.
The trio walked along the curved gravel path that wound through the estate's gardens. Even in the gathering darkness, it was clear the grounds were lovingly maintained. Unlike the rigid formal gardens of noble estates with their geometric precision and imported exotic plants, the Corbin gardens felt alive and welcoming. Rose bushes climbed wooden trellises in cheerful profusion, their evening fragrance mixing with the scent of lavender and herbs from the kitchen garden. Flowering bushes lined the path, and ancient oak trees spread their branches overhead, their leaves rustling softly in the evening breeze.
"See those?" Bran pointed to a cluster of fruit trees off to the side—mango, guava, and custard apple trees standing in a small orchard. "I spent half my childhood climbing those. My brothers and I would race to the top to get the ripest fruits before anyone else could." He grinned at the memory. "Nearly broke my neck falling out of that mango tree when I was eight. Mother banned me from climbing for a whole month."
"Why climb at all?" Affice asked, genuinely puzzled. "You could have just used floating magic to reach the fruits easily."
Canjiro's lips twitched with amusement. "Because if he'd used floating magic, he wouldn't have been able to show off to his brothers. What's the point of being the fastest climber if you're not actually climbing?"
"Exactly!" Bran said, pointing at Canjiro triumphantly. "You understand! There was honor in the climb. Glory in the scraped knees and stolen mangoes. Floating up there would have been... cheating."
"It would have been sensible," Affice corrected.
"Sensible is boring," Bran replied cheerfully as they continued along the path.
Lanterns hung from iron posts at regular intervals, their warm golden light creating pools of welcome in the gathering dusk. The peaceful evening wrapped around them—the gentle sound of a fountain in the distance, a bird calling out its evening song from somewhere in the branches above. After the weight of the morning's decisions and Lady Valeria's desperate letters, this simple walk through a garden filled with childhood memories felt like a blessing Affice hadn't known he needed.
As they walked deeper into the grounds, the scents shifted with each turn of the path—sweet jasmine blooming near a stone bench, the earthy richness of freshly turned soil from the vegetable patch, the sharp tang of citrus where lemon trees clustered near the house. Each corner of the garden had its own character, its own perfume, creating a living tapestry of fragrance that spoke of years of careful tending and genuine love for the land.
As they walked, the bungalow itself came into view—a sprawling, comfortable structure that spoke more of warmth than grandeur. It was built of honey-colored stone that seemed to glow in the lamplight, with a wide veranda wrapping around the front and sides. Large windows spilled warm light across the gardens, and smoke rose cheerfully from multiple chimneys. Unlike Thornwick Manor's ancient, imposing architecture or the cold magnificence of places like Veynar Manor, the Corbin family home had grown organically over generations, additions and extensions creating a rambling, welcoming whole.
The veranda was lined with comfortable chairs and small tables, the kind of space where a family might gather on summer evenings. Climbing vines covered parts of the walls, and flower boxes sat beneath every window, overflowing with blooms even this late in the season.
As they approached the front steps of the bungalow, Affice felt some of the day's tension begin to ease. The front doors opened before they reached them, and warmth flooded out—not just from the fires within, but from the very atmosphere of the place. Laughter and conversation drifted from deeper in the house, the comfortable sound of a large family gathered together.
A woman appeared in the doorway, and even without introduction, Affice would have known her for Bran's mother. She had the same warm brown eyes, the same generous smile, though her hair was streaked with grey and her face showed the comfortable lines of a life well-lived. She was wiping her hands on her apron, and there was flour on her cheek.
"There you are!" she exclaimed, opening her arms wide. "We've been waiting! Come in, come in, all three of you! You must be freezing, and dinner's almost ready." She pulled Bran into a quick embrace, then turned to Affice and Canjiro with genuine warmth. "Affice, Canjiro—it's so good to see you both again! It's been far too long since you've visited." She swatted Bran's arm playfully. "And you, young man, if you'd dared to come here without bringing these two, I would have kicked you right out of this house the moment you tried to enter. What kind of son hosts a family dinner and leaves his best friends behind?"
"See?" Bran said to Affice and Canjiro with mock indignation. "I told you she loves you more than she loves me."
"That's because they have better manners," Mrs. Corbin replied tartly, though her eyes sparkled with affection. She noticed their amused expressions and wiped at her cheek, smearing the flour further. "Oh! I've been in the kitchen all day. You'd think after forty years I'd remember to check a mirror before greeting guests." She laughed, unbothered. "Now come in before the food gets cold. Bran, you look half-starved as usual. Doesn't that manor feed you properly?"
She ushered them inside with the kind of effortless hospitality that made formal protocol seem absurd. The entrance hall was large but not imposing, filled with the pleasant clutter of a lived-in home—cloaks hanging on pegs, a stand overflowing with walking sticks and umbrellas, children's drawings pinned to a notice board beside what looked like important estate correspondence.
From deeper in the house came the sound of multiple voices—some younger, some older, all raised in good-natured argument about something that Affice couldn't quite make out.
"That'll be your brothers," Mrs. Corbin said to Bran with fond exasperation. "They're arguing about something or other again. You know how they get." She shook her head with a mixture of amusement and resignation as she led them deeper into the house.
She took their cloaks herself, refusing to let house staff do it, and hung them carefully on the pegs. As she did, Affice caught sight of a portrait on the wall—a family grouping, clearly painted some years ago. Bran was younger, grinning beside two boys who must be his brothers and a girl who shared his sandy hair. His parents stood behind them, his father's hand on his mother's shoulder, both of them smiling with the kind of contentment that spoke of genuine happiness.
"Come," Mrs. Corbin said, already leading them deeper into the house. "Everyone's gathering in the dining room. Your father's been boring everyone with stories about you, Bran, so you'd better have some good ones to counter with. And you," she added, pausing to look at Affice with sudden seriousness, "you look like you haven't eaten properly in weeks. We'll fix that tonight."
The hallway opened into a large, warm dining room where a long table was already set for the family gathering. Bran's older brother, Aldric, stood near the window—tall and broad-shouldered like Bran, but where Bran was all easy charm and careless grace, Aldric carried himself with rigid discipline. His posture was military-straight, his expression serious as he studied what appeared to be estate ledgers spread across a side table. The war had changed him, left him more withdrawn, more severe than the brother Bran remembered from before.
At the table, Bran's younger brother—only a year younger than him—and his sister, a year older, were already seated and laughing about something. Both were the children of Bran's uncle and aunt, his father's brother and his wife, who stood near the head of the table in quiet conversation. Nearby, Mr. Corbin was reviewing some papers with his characteristic calm attention, though he looked up immediately as they entered, his face breaking into a warm smile.
The family tableau was warm and welcoming, yet Affice's eyes caught on an empty chair at the table—no place setting before it, but positioned as if someone might still arrive. A place kept for Bran's uncle—the one who had owned Thornwick Manor, who had never married, and who had fallen in the war over a year ago. The empty seat was a quiet memorial, a way to keep his memory present at family gatherings. The loss still hung over the family like a shadow, though tonight seemed determined to push that grief aside in favor of warmth and togetherness.
And at the head of the table, rising to greet them with a smile that was pure Bran—warm, unguarded, genuine—stood Mr. Corbin, already reaching out to clasp his son's hand.
"Welcome home," he said simply.
For the first time in weeks, surrounded by this cheerful chaos and honest warmth, Affice felt some of the cold weight in his chest begin to thaw. The trial in two days, Lady Valeria's desperate letters—all of it could wait. Tonight, there would be good food, terrible jokes, and the kind of uncomplicated kindness that reminded him why some burdens were worth carrying.
The Wand of Ruin hung at his neck as always, but surrounded by the warmth and laughter of the Corbin family, its weight seemed almost bearable.