The second sign that something had truly changed was mockery.
Specifically, Melaina's.
Vincent stood before the tall mirror in the eastern gallery, adjusting the collar of his coat with precise care. He had done this same motion thousands of times—but never with an audience that felt safe enough to comment.
"You know," Melaina said lightly, circling him, "if you keep fixing that collar, it's going to file a formal complaint."
"It's crooked," Vincent replied.
"It's perfect."
"That's not the same thing."
She laughed. "Two years of discipline and this is the rebellion? A slightly tilted collar?"
Vincent glanced at her reflection. "You're smiling too much."
She grinned wider. "And you're finally saying things that aren't strategy."
They moved through the halls together, shoulders brushing occasionally, no longer correcting for posture or spacing. Vincent let himself walk half a step ahead, then behind—no calculation, just movement.
The house noticed.
Servants smiled openly now. A guard at the stairwell pretended not to hear Melaina whisper, "I think he forgot how to be dramatic without witnesses."
"I heard that," Vincent said.
"You were meant to."
The front courtyard came into view just as the iron gates began to open.
Slow.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
The twins stopped.
A familiar pressure rolled through the air—not threatening, not hostile—but wild, like standing at the edge of a storm that had learned patience.
Vincent's eyes narrowed. "That's not a visitor."
Melaina's grin returned. "No. That's family."
The gates swung wide.
A single figure strode through, boots dusted with crimson sand and ash. Her cloak was torn at the hem, reinforced with unfamiliar hides, and marked with old claw scars that had never been repaired. Dark hair streaked with silver was tied back in a practical knot.
Aunt Lyra Blackwood had returned.
She carried no luggage.
Only four sealed vials at her belt—each humming faintly with contained vitality.
Lyra stopped at the center of the courtyard and inhaled deeply. "Ah," she said, voice rough but amused. "Still standing."
Melaina broke into a run.
"Aunt Lyra!"
Lyra caught her mid-stride, lifting her with one arm and spinning once before setting her down. "You got taller," she said. "Sharper too. Good."
Vincent approached more slowly, bowing his head in respect. "Welcome home."
Lyra smirked. "Still formal. We'll fix that."
Her gaze swept over them—measuring, approving, curious.
"Two years," she continued. "I miss one gala and suddenly you're not children anymore."
She unfastened the first vial and held it up. Inside, liquid the color of molten gold swirled restlessly.
"Dragon," she said. "Didn't like parting with it."
The second vial shimmered pale and shifting. "Fylgja. Took a promise and a scar."
The third glinted like storm-lit steel. "Griffin. Earned in the high spires."
The fourth was dark, almost black—its contents pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Fenrir," Lyra finished. "That one tried to eat me."
Melaina's eyes widened. "Did you win?"
Lyra laughed—a sharp, delighted sound. "I walked away."
Vincent studied the vials. "Mother knows?"
"She will," Lyra said. "Soon as she stops pretending she didn't feel me cross the border three hours ago."
Melaina leaned closer to Vincent and whispered, "She brought presents."
Vincent murmured back, "Dangerous ones."
Lyra heard them anyway.
"Good," she said. "Because I didn't come back to rest."
Her grin turned sharp.
"I came back to see what House Blackwood has been growing."
The courtyard seemed to lean in.
And for the first time since the masks were set aside, laughter and danger shared the same space—comfortably.