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He swallowed, emotion flickering across his face. "That's... that's good."

She kissed the base of his throat. "It is. It's time. "

He simply nodded

What she didn't know—what he didn't tell her—was that they'd been writing for weeks. That he'd started the conversation, reaching out behind her back. That he'd been the one to suggest a visit. That he had marked the date carefully in his mind: her birthday.

They'd been video calling in secret, her brother awkward and sceptical at first, her mother tearful but smiling through the screen. Hagan had shown them the studio he built for her, had answered every hard question with a quiet steadiness. It hadn't been easy. But it was worth it.

It was a gift he truly wanted to give her—a piece of her past, reclaimed. A bridge to the girl she had been, and the woman she was now.

In the days that followed, they made space for more than just art and love. They made space for family. For roots. For something real.

And Seren, oblivious to the timing, began to hum more often. She painted more, slept better. She didn't know it yet, but the greatest surprise was yet to come.

Chapter 90

Starnheim (day two after the war)

The drizzle had begun before they saw the broken gates marking the entry to Starnheim. It hung at an angle, half-rotted, as if ashamed of what it once represented. The land beneath their feet was no longer as barren—patches of green had begun to break through the neglected earth like fragile promises. Far off in the distance, tilled fields stretched unevenly across the slopes, dotted with figures bent low, working silently.

Seren paused, rain catching in her hair. The scent of damp soil, the faint stir of life—it made her feel hopeful. It was a beginning.

A low sound of movement stirred ahead. A door creaked. Another. From shadowed homes, they came—women clutching children, men with hollowed eyes, limbs like sticks. The townsfolk emerged like ghosts called to witness.

One woman stepped forward, her child's head resting against her thin shoulder.

"Thank you, Blessed one," she said softly, as though the act of speaking might bring forth the demons that had haunted their homes. "We knew you would come."

Seren looked at her, at the child's impossibly large eyes. The woman's skin was nearly translucent, like the famine had stolen not just flesh, but hope.

Seren said gently. "This place... it can become home again."

The woman nodded once, eyes glazed with disbelief.

Seren let her gaze wander past the township to the green-flecked land in the distance.I'll need to come again, she thought.To heal. To ask the earth to forgive

The longhouse loomed in the centre, a dark silhouette against the greying sky. Its timbers sagged, swollen with time and the horrors it had witnessed. The war had just ended two days ago. They stepped across the threshold with caution—Seren, Hagan, Veyr, and two others who stayed close, weapons half-drawn.

The air inside was heavy with rot. The little child's body had been taken away but Seren's eyes were drawn to that spot where he had lain that last time.

They descended into the lower levels, their boots echoing on old stone. The first corridor opened into a row of cells. Iron bars twisted, rusted. Doors broken or still sealed.

In one cell, bones lay nestled together—adult and child, impossibly small. They'd curled together in the end, mother shielding child in a final, useless embrace. The flesh had long melted into the earth, but the sorrow remained, thick and clinging.

Seren knelt. She pressed her hand gently to the tiny skull.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "We were too late."

Veyr found another cell down the corridor. The door hung open, claw marks scored into the walls.

"Some have run," he said quietly. "Out into the woods would be my guess."

"Forgotten," Hagan murmured, brow furrowed.

Seren said nothing. But her heart ached with the thought. Could she reach them, too? Could the ones who had slipped past reason ever come back?

There were more forgotten down the corridor. There was no choice but to let them run to freedom. Their eyes held a feral light too dangerous to stop.