Just as Myhra reached the archway gate, a voice rang out behind her.
"Mother... she's home!"
The high, clear call of a seven-year-old girl shattered the morning stillness, freezing Myhra in her tracks. She turned to see little Minu—a whirlwind of energy—clutching a basket of freshly picked flowers, likely gathered for their grandmother. The girl barreled through the kitchen's side door, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake before darting back outside.
A fond smile touched Myhra's lips. She'd have to soothe the child before she could slip away. Minu bounced on her toes, too exhilarated to stand still.
"It's been three years since you left!" Minu scolded, seizing Myhra's hand and tugging her toward the house. "Did you forget what our home looks like? Or were you going to disappear again without saying goodbye?"
Myhra arched a brow, amused. "You're awake awfully early. Did you even sleep? You've got enough energy to sprint up a mountain."
Minu flashed a mischievous grin. "None of us slept! Grandma and the others wouldn't stop talking about you. She said if I want to be as strong as you, I have to train before dawn." Her eyes sparkled with excitement. "She's going to prepare me until the Association summons me—just like they did for you!"
Myhra's expression softened, pride and affection warming her gaze. "Oh? So you want to be like me?"
"No." Minu jutted her chin out, defiance lighting her face. "I'll be stronger—like General Mahethi! I know I will."
Myhra blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. She ruffled the girl's hair, her voice teasing. "Then you'd better be."
As they stepped into the courtyard, Myhra cast one last glance toward the distant silhouette of Redstone Castle, her unease lingering like a shadow. But for now, she allowed Minu's boundless enthusiasm to pull her back into the warmth of home.
Pushing the unease from her mind, Myhra finally crossed the threshold of her home. The scent of burning wood and dried herbs wrapped around her—a familiar embrace, warm and alive, so different from the cold stone of the distant castle. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and the golden flicker of lamplight spilled through the windows, pulling her inside.
She bent to remove her boots, hanging the lantern from a ceiling hook, when Chhaya emerged from the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour. "We've been waiting for you," she said, her voice soft but weary. Her gaze flickered to Minu. "Go see if Grandma needs anything. And stay with her until she's finished, alright?"
Minu hesitated, shooting Myhra a suspicious glance before turning to her mother. "Don't let her leave before I come back," she warned, small face deadly serious. "Or I won't talk to you for a whole week."
Chhaya chuckled, raising her hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. Now go."
As Minu scampered off, Chhaya stepped forward and pulled Myhra into an embrace. "You're finally home."
The warmth of her mother's arms hit Myhra like a wave, an unexpected rush of emotion tightening her throat. She held on, breathing in the scent of hearth and flour, the ache of years away suddenly sharp.
Then Chhaya stiffened, pulling back with a frown. "Where's Oda?" She moved toward the courtyard, scanning the dim morning light. "Myhra—" she called over her shoulder, "—is he not with you?"
"He took Carli back. He'll return by noon."
Chhaya exhaled, though her fingers still twisted in her apron. "I hope he hurries. Wandering alone isn't safe anymore."
The words pricked at Myhra, the unspoken danger settling between them like a shadow.
When Chhaya said nothing more, Myhra pressed, "At headquarters, you mentioned unrest in the village. What's happened?"
Chhaya's face tightened. She led Myhra to the kitchen, stopping by the wide window where the first light of dawn bled into the fading night. "Everything's changed since you left," she murmured. "And not just here—neighboring villages too. People vanish without a trace. Whispers of old curses stirring." She rubbed her temple, as if the weight of it pressed against her skull. "For six months, it's only gotten worse."
Silence stretched as both women stared at the distant silhouette of Redstone Castle, its jagged outline cutting into the horizon.
"But don't worry," Chhaya added, forcing a steadiness into her voice. "Reports were made. The Council knows—they're handling it."
Myhra's brows shot up. "Six months? The Council knew for six months?"
Chhaya sighed, stirring the cinnamon tea as she spoke. "Your grandmother has been kept informed about the investigation. Either she visits them, or one of the Silver Combatants comes every fortnight—sometimes for updates, sometimes to ask about the village... or the castle." Her fingers tightened around the spoon. "But for the past two months, strangers have been arriving—people from lands we've never heard of, families we don't know. Lords, scholars, mercenaries. Who's to say if their names or titles are even real?" She glanced at Myhra. "Talk to your grandmother. She'll explain better."
Myhra nodded, filing away the unease as Chhaya gestured to the table.
"Sit. I'll make you tea."
The offer was warmth itself, and Myhra sank into a chair near the side door, her muscles unwinding at the thought of spiced cinnamon on her tongue.
"You just missed the others," Chhaya added, her tone light but edged with meaning. "They waited all night."
Myhra's chest tightened. They stayed for me. She had no idea. A pang of guilt pricked her—she should have been here sooner, should have thanked them properly for supporting her promotion.
"I'll visit them today," she murmured.
Chhaya turned, a soft smile on her lips. "That's kind, but don't push yourself. You've only just returned." She slid the steaming cup toward Myhra, then pushed open the window. Dawn air, crisp and sweet, rushed in. "I've already prepared the moon milk and spice rolls for the shrine ritual. Let me handle it."
"Thank you, Maa."
The words slipped out before Myhra realized, quiet but clear.
Chhaya stilled.
Then, like sunlight breaking through clouds, joy flooded her. That single word—Maa—unlocked something deep and fierce inside her, a primal need to shield this woman, her woman, from every shadow the world might cast. Just seeing Myhra here, in her kitchen, safe and whole, was enough to make her heart swell.
Foolish, she chided herself, but the affection was too vast to contain. From the moment she'd first held Myhra as a baby, to now—watching her rise, proud and relentless—nothing compared to the pride that filled her.
She crossed the room and pressed a kiss to Myhra's forehead. "I'm so proud of you," she whispered. "I know the weight you've carried to get here."
Myhra's smile was a fragile, precious thing. "I had your strength to borrow."
Chhaya laughed softly, running a hand through her daughter's hair before returning to her work.
Myhra sipped her tea, letting the warmth seep into her bones. The morning was deceptively peaceful—wildflower scent weaving through the breeze, the sky softening at the edges with dawn. Yet beneath the calm, something lurked. A tension, a whisper.
Her gaze drifted past the window, past the village, and locked onto the distant silhouette of Redstone Castle.
Dark. Unmoving. Watching the dark lands from the window.
Chhaya's wooden spoon tapped rhythmically against the kettle as she spoke. "Your grandmother knows more than she lets on. Silver Combatants visit every fortnight—sometimes bringing news, sometimes digging for it." She glanced at Myhra, her brow furrowing. "But these past two months... strangers come with titles that sound like fairy tales and names that slip from memory like smoke."
Myhra leaned against the worn kitchen table, its grooves familiar beneath her fingertips. "Real or false?"
"Does it matter?" Chhaya poured steaming water into clay cups, the scent of cinnamon curling between them. "They bring trouble either way."
The tea burned Myhra's tongue, but she welcomed the sting. Grounding. Real.
"You just missed the village elders," Chhaya added, kneading dough with more force than necessary. "They waited until the candles burned low."
Myhra's cup clattered against the table. "I should—"
"—visit them tomorrow." Chhaya caught her wrist, flour dusting Myhra's sleeve. "Let them see you rested. Let them see their champion strong." Her thumb brushed the raised scar on Myhra's inner arm—a childhood fall from the oak tree behind the shrine. The memory softened both their faces.
The window creaked open, carrying the scent of mountain wildflowers and something darker—charcoal, perhaps, from the blacksmith's forge. Or something else.
"Thank you, Maa." The childhood endearment slipped out, rusty with disuse.
Chhaya froze. When she turned, her eyes shone wet in the lamplight. "Say that again," she whispered, "so I know I didn't dream it."
Myhra opened her mouth, but a flicker beyond the window stole her voice. Redstone Castle's silhouette pulsed against the indigo sky, its towers like claws raking the clouds.
Her vision shifted without conscious thought—pupils dilating to crimson pools, sclera blackening to obsidian. The world sharpened: a moth's wingbeats twenty paces away, the sweat beading on Chhaya's temple, the unnatural mist oozing from the castle's gates like spectral fingers.
"Mist magic..." Myhra breathed. The whispers came next—not through her ears but vibrating in her bones. A language of hunger and broken promises.
Chhaya's hands framed her face. "Look at me. Just me." Her calloused palms were warm against Myhra's chilled skin. "Whatever calls you, let it wait until dawn."
Myhra's enhanced sight showed every silver thread in her mother's braid, every crease carved by years of laughter and worry. But the castle's pull was a hook in her ribs.
"I can't." She pressed their foreheads together. "But I'll return before Minu wakes. Tell her I went to pick dawnberries for her pancakes."
Chhaya's grip tightened, then released. "Stubborn as the day you first drew breath." She thrust a satchel into Myhra's hands—healing herbs, a honey cake wrapped in linen. "At least take breakfast."
The night swallowed Myhra whole as she ran. Behind her, Chhaya's voice chased the wind: "Come home before the bread cools!"
But the castle's whispers were louder now, threading through the trees like vines. They tasted of blood and forgotten oaths. Myhra ran faster.