The night air hit them like a cold weight the moment they stepped outside.
Behind them, the warehouse groaned—a low, rhythmic protest of wood and iron—as orange light flickered through the jagged gaps in its frame.
Enark didn't look back. He couldn't afford to. His left shoulder felt like a branding iron was pressing it, and his hand was a numb, throbbing mess.
"Can you walk?" he asked. His voice was raspier than intended.
Eliot's mother swayed. The bindings were gone, but her spirit hadn't quite caught up to her body.
"…I can," she whispered, though her knees buckled.
Enark moved instinctively, catching her. He slung her arm over his good shoulder, his teeth gritting as the movement sent a fresh spike of agony through his wound. "Careful."
She leaned into him, her breathing hitching. "Thank you."
Enark didn't respond. He focused on the ground, his boots finding the path through the vibrations of the stone.
"How did you find me?" she asked after a few minutes of silent trekking. Her voice was gaining strength, though it was still fragile. "There wasn't… no one knew where they took me."
Enark kept his gaze fixed ahead. "I followed."
"…Followed what?"
A brief pause. "Your scent."
He felt her stiffen slightly against his side. "My scent? You can track people like that?"
"When I have to."
She turned her head then, really looking at him—the blood-soaked shirt, the ragged blindfold, the way he moved.
"…Aren't you just a child?"
Enark didn't answer.
She watched him for another moment before her voice softened. "…What's your name?"
"..."
"Sorry," she said, sensing the wall he'd put up. "Forget it. I shouldn't know."
"Thanks for understanding," he murmured.
"You... you know my son?" she asked, her tone sharpening with maternal instinct.
"I found him in the plaza—the same place you were taken from."
"Is he—?"
"He's okay. I left him at the Enforcer station."
The tension that had been holding her upright finally snapped. Her shoulders slumped, and a sob—half-relief, half-exhaustion—escaped her. "…Thank you," she whispered again, the words disappearing into the night air.
They moved through the back alleys, navigating by the trail of Eliot's scent. He steered them clear of the main roadways, avoiding the clatter of late-night carriages.
Finally, the sterile, harsh lantern light of the Enforcer station spilled across the cobblestones ahead.
"He's in there," Enark said, stepping back into the gloom of an alleyway. "Go."
The woman climbed the steps, her strength returning in a desperate surge. At the door, she stopped and turned back. She peered into the darkness where he stood, trying to find his eyes behind the mask.
"Thank you," she said, her voice steady and clear--one final time.
Enark didn't say a word. He simply smiled and watched her go.
Inside the station, the air was thick with the smell of old paper and coffee.
Eliot sat at a desk, his legs swinging in a restless, frantic rhythm. Every time the door opened, his heart hammered against his ribs, only to sink when an Enforcer walked through. He was lost in the hollow ache of the waiting.
But then—
"Hey! Miss—!" An Enforcer's voice cut through the room, sharp and startled.
The heavy thud of boots echoed across the floorboards.
Eliot's head snapped up.
"—Where did you—"
"Get a medic over here!"
"Easy, ma'am, just sit—"
Something shifted in the boy's chest. He was standing before he realized he'd moved.
"…What—?"
His eyes locked onto the entrance. The crowd of armored Enforcers parted like a receding tide, revealing a silhouette in the doorway. She was disheveled, her clothes torn and stained with dust, and her hair a tangled mess.
But a familiar scent made its way back to Eliot's nose.
The scent of flowers.
THE SCENT OF HOME.
His breath caught. The world turned into a blur.
"Mom…?"
She stopped. Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on him. The exhaustion vanished from her face, replaced by a light that outshone every lantern in the building.
"…Eliot?"
"Mom?!"
The name tore out of him—a jagged, joyful sob.
"Mom—!"
He sprinted. He stumbled over a chair, caught himself on a desk, and threw himself forward with everything he had left. He hit her with the force of a tidal wave, his small arms wrapping around her waist so tight he thought he might never let go.
"Mom… Mom… Mom…" he chanted, his voice cracking into a million pieces.
Her hands, shaking and cold, lifted slowly. She touched his hair, then his face, as if confirming he wasn't a dream born of the darkness she'd just escaped.
"…You're here…" she choked out. "I thought—I thought I wasn't going to—"
"I'm here, Mom!" Eliot yelled into her shoulder. "I'm here! I'm okay—I'm okay!"
Around them, the Enforcers slowed. Some looked away. Others didn't know if they were interrupting something they weren't meant to see.
The noise of the station faded into something distant.
Something softer.
For a moment, it was only them.
"…I'm so sorry," his mother whispered, pulling back just enough to frame his face in her shaking hands. Her thumbs brushed away his tears, though her own were still falling. "I'm so sorry for worrying you, Eliot."
"It's okay, Mom," Eliot insisted, though his voice cracked and splintered halfway through. "I'm just happy you're back. You're actually back."
Then—something caught the corner of his eye.
Eliot's gaze drifted, drawn past her shoulder.
Outside, beyond the street light, the night stretched wide and quiet.
High above, on the jagged edge of a rooftop across the street, a figure stood.
He was backlit by the silver radiance of the three moons, a silhouette carved out of the sky. The wind tugged at his bloodstained clothes. Even from this distance, the shape of the blindfold was unmistakable.
Eliot froze. He couldn't fully process it at first; it felt like a hallucination born of exhaustion. But slowly, the memory surfaced like an object rising through deep water.
The one who noticed him in the crowd.
The one who vowed to bring her back.
Eliot's grip on his mother loosened slightly.
"…Mom," he whispered, not taking his eyes off the rooftop.
She didn't ask what he was looking at. She simply turned, following his gaze into the night. She saw the shadow standing where no person should be—injured and silent.
"Yeah," she breathed, her voice thick with a new kind of awe. "He brought me back."
Eliot looked at his mother, then back at the shadow on the roof. He didn't shout. He didn't wave. Instead, he let out a breath he felt he'd been holding since the plaza.
"…Thank you," he whispered.
On the roof, the figure seemed to tilt his head, as if catching the vibration of the words on the wind. For a fleeting heartbeat, the shadow in the mask simply stood there.
Then, he stepped back.
The tails of his blindfold caught the wind, snapping once like a dark wing, and he vanished into the blackness of the roofline.
"…Eliot?" his mother said softly, squeezing his hand.
He blinked, the awe breaking as he looked back at her. The fear that had lived in his chest all day was gone. He looked at her, and this time, his smile was whole.
"Let's go home, Mom."