Chapter 56

I told the girls everything that had happened with the High Witan - every throne, every threat, every revelation.

“And now Brand somehow knows about me,” I finished, dragging my hands down my face as I let out a long, exhausted breath. “And he wants to kill me.”

Silence settled.

“Deep down,” I went on, quieter now, “I know I shouldn’t be this angry. If they hadn’t kidnapped me I never would’ve found my family.”

The word stuck in my chest.

Lilae sat on my lap, small and warm, and I tightened my arms around her. Mirri squeezed my hand, grounding me. I reached for Ashlara, lacing my fingers with hers. “I really need more hands,” I said with a tired laugh. “Come here, Serah.”

She did without hesitation. I leaned forward until my forehead rested against hers, breathing her in, stealing a moment of strength.

“Brand wants me dead,” I said, lifting my head and looking at each of them in turn. “And he knows about all of you. That means we don’t take risks. Ever. It doesn’t matter what happens to me - you all need to stay safe.”

“Fuck that shit,” Mirri snapped, fire in her eyes. “I’m not letting him kill you. If you think I’m gonna sit on my ass while you fight a god-eater, you’re an impotent cocksleeve.”

Serah nodded, expression fierce and steady. “We’re in this together.”

Ashlara didn’t speak. She just nodded once, solemn and unyielding, her grip tightening around my hand.

* * *

I had no idea how to prepare for a fight - let alone one like this. I knew almost nothing about Brand, only that he carried a scavenger’s hoard of stolen divinities, powers ripped from other gods and stitched together into something unpredictable. I didn’t even know what those powers were.

So I did what I could.

I checked on the goblins of Reedwatch, moving from home to home, making sure no one went without. I conjured fresh firewood, raised more shelters from earth and timber, shaped supplies into being until the village felt a little less raw, a little less wounded.

Then I went to the kids.

We’d neglected them - had to, in the chaos after the attack - but neglect leaves scars of its own. I knelt, hugged, listened. We talked about what they’d seen, what they were afraid of. I made toys appear in their hands, bright and impossible, and gave them words I hoped would stick when I wasn’t there. Promises that they mattered. That they were safe.

I sought out Torvek and thanked him, clasping his shoulder and naming his courage out loud. I praised Elarion and Brinja for standing when others might’ve broken. Even Issa, Mak, and little Tib earned my words - acknowledgment for the simple, terrifying act of not running.

By late afternoon, I finally had a moment to breathe.

I told the girls I was stepping out to see Elise, just long enough to let her know everyone was alive. I couldn’t afford to be gone long - not now - but she deserved to know. She’d been part of this.

I stepped into the library, appearing at the heart of the vast, five-story chamber. Dark wooden shelves ringed the space like ribs. The familiar dread pressed in on me, cold and thin, but it barely registered anymore - like a splinter that had been lodged too long to hurt, only remind you it was still there.

Elise stood on the fourth floor, pale and intent, examining book spines with reverent focus. I cleared my throat. The sound seemed to echo forever.

She looked up - and then she was moving, hurrying down to meet me, an expression of relief on her face.

I told her everything.

Maybe I shouldn’t have. But she was trapped here, sealed away from the world. Even if she’d wanted to betray me, she couldn’t. And more than that, I needed someone else to hear it. Someone outside the storm.

She listened without interrupting, eyes sharp, mind racing. When I finished, she asked questions - precise, thoughtful ones -and the conversation shifted into something almost normal. She was brilliant. Her memory was flawless, and with the entire weight of the library at her disposal, she brought proof to every claim, context to every fear.

She fetched books to support each point, setting them open where I could see. I wasn’t allowed to touch them - that rule was unbreakable - but she turned the pages for me, patient and careful, letting me read and ask and learn.

I had to stop myself before I lost hours.

I apologized, promised I’d return, and told her I’d try to bring food next time - something real, something warm. Her smile lingered with me as I stepped away.

The rest of the night, I trained with Adhaneth. We were ready with the latest shape and I was itching to show it off.

But that would have to wait until tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning, I set the kids up with rooms in the castle and told them to make them their own. No rules. No limits. Just theirs.

Torvek went first. His room came together as gray stone underfoot and rough-hewn wooden walls, the kind that felt honest and solid. Animal skins sprawled across the floor, and empty weapon mounts lined the walls. I couldn’t conjure actual weapons yet, which earned me a grunt of disappointment, but the rest of the room was unmistakably orcish. Except the bed.

The bed was ridiculous. A heavy wooden frame, stacked with three mattresses soft as clouds, thick blankets piled high, and a pillow nearly as big as Torvek himself. I didn’t say a word when he asked for it, his face red to the tips of his ears. I just built it.

Issa’s room was sky-blue, light and open. A fluffy green rug softened the floor, and a wicker dresser and wardrobe stood neatly against one wall beside a full-length mirror. I conjured several beautiful dresses for her - colors and fabrics she’d only ever seen from afar - though I wasn’t sure they’d last outside the demesne. Her bed was modest, but the pillows…There were pillows everywhere. Big, small, round, square, stacked until they barely fit. She looked at them like she’d been given a treasure hoard.

Brinja’s room was wood - blonde walls and floors, darker furniture carved in flowing branches and leaves. Her bed was curved like a gondola - elegant, comfortable, but spare. Functional. I gave her a dozen dresses like Issa’s, and built a tiered platform to hold the dozen pairs of shoes she requested without a hint of irony.

Elarion’s room mirrored Brinja’s in shape but not in spirit. Darker walls, darker floors. His gondola bed was plain - one blanket, one pillow. I crafted him a desk and chair, shelves for books, and a weapon rack. Where Brinja’s furniture bloomed with trees, his came alive with animals - squirrels, foxes, birds, even a wolf carved mid-stride. Quiet. Watchful.

Mak went all out. Her floor was smooth and opalescent, and each wall shimmered in a different shade of pink. Her bed was red, heart-shaped, and drowned in lace. Her wardrobe took the form of a butterfly - wings spread wide - though she only asked for simple clothes - linen dresses, a couple leather shirts and pants. What thrilled her most were the lamps. They cast swirling prisms of color that never settled, painting the room in constant motion. She spun in the light, laughing.

Tib’s room was a sea dream. The floor was pebbled blue and green, the walls sky-blue and alive with murals of ships cutting through ocean waves. His bed was a ship, complete with mast and white sails hanging fore and aft. His dresser, desk, and chair were sea-green, stenciled with shells, fish, and drifting bubbles. I conjured a sextant, an astrolabe, a compass - anything nautical I could think of. There was no magnetic north in my demesne, but the compass always pointed to his bed. He didn’t question it. He just grinned.

Even Lilae got her own room.

She wanted it to be a surprise, so I took my time.

The floor was dark hardwood. One wall I left pure white - a blank canvas, waiting for her hand. On the left wall, I painted Reedwatch in careful detail, Grams front and center, surrounded by goblins Lilae knew and loved. On the right wall, I recreated my city. Nighttime. Skyscrapers rising into darkness, windows glowing gold. Cars streamed past with headlights on. People gathered on sidewalks, dressed for a night out. A plane cut across the sky, contrails fading behind it.

The last wall merged the two worlds.

Reedwatch softened into forest. The city thinned into farms. Where they met stood a cabin. In front of it were Mirri, Ashlara, Serah, Lilae, and me - together. Above the door hung a recreation of the painting over Grams’ door - the woman of fire, the woman of ice, and the three figures between them.

Her bed had four posts, like mine. A carved dark-wood dresser and full-length mirror rested against the left wall. On the other sat a modern desk and a wardrobe straight out of IKEA.

She loved it. Asked endless questions about the city. Traced the details of Reedwatch with her fingers. Stared longest at the family painted in the center.

I stood there, taking it all in - the laughter, the wonder, the way love had taken root in stone and wood and paint - and smiled.

For all the fear waiting beyond these walls, this was worth protecting.

* * *

That evening, after dinner, we gathered in one of the castle’s common rooms. It felt like a mountain lodge pulled straight from a half-remembered dream - walls of stained logs, exposed beams arching high overhead, polished wood floors glowing in the firelight. A broad stone hearth crackled and popped, filling the space with warmth. We sank into overstuffed chairs or sprawled across thick, plush rugs.

The children joked and played, their laughter echoing through the room. Serah sat with effortless grace, watching them with a quiet smile. Mirri and Grams moved through the room, dispensing hugs, checking cups, smoothing hair, making sure no one was left out. Ashlara spoke in low tones with Mak and Torvek, her voice softer than usual, her posture relaxed.

It felt like family. Like home. More so than the home and family I’d left behind. It was a moment I wanted to burn into my memory, to never forget.

I settled onto the floor, and without a word the mood slowly shifted. Conversations faded. Laughter softened. One by one, eyes turned toward me. I smiled.

“I’ve been working on something for a few weeks,” I said, Adhaneth resting across my lap. “I think it’s ready. It’s been a long time - so long I don’t think most of you have witnessed it. Which means it’s probably time for me to make a fool of myself again.” I chuckled.

Mirri leaned forward, excitement written all over her face. Serah watched with polite curiosity. Ashlara and the others listened, unsure what to expect.

I ran my hands along Adhaneth. The metal warped and flowed beneath my fingers, shortening, reshaping. One end swelled into a hollow bulb before flattening into a body - the other stretched, narrowing, frets rising where smooth metal had been. Strings shimmered into place. In moments, Adhaneth was a guitar - just like we’d practiced for weeks. Maybe not the best use of my time, all things considered, but I hoped it would bring a little joy.

I strummed the already-tuned strings, slow and deliberate, changing chords to show off the transformation. Mirri and Lilae clapped. Serah’s smile warmed. Ashlara sank back into her chair, shoulders loosening.

My fingers began to move in earnest, the rhythm steady and familiar. It was a song I knew by heart, though not one I’d played in my younger days. I’d spent the last few days picking it apart, learning its notes. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be.

“Some… times in our lives, we all have pain. We all have sorrow…”

The words landed differently now. Heavier. Truer. We needed to lean on each other - now more than ever.

When I finished, the room was full of smiles and quiet awe. I felt lighter, glad I could give them this.

“I think I remembered a song you might know, Grams,” I said gently. “It was probably pretty new when your Da came here. Even if you don’t know it, I hope you like it. You too, Serah.”

My fingers picked out the opening notes as I sang “Puff, the Magic Dragon.” Grams’ eyes filled with tears, and she sang along softly, her voice trembling.

I kept playing - whatever drifted to mind - until, one by one, the children nodded off. When the last pair of eyes finally closed, I let the strings fall silent and simply sat there, breathing in the moment.

Quietly, carefully, we gathered the sleeping children. The castle shifted around us, walls and halls rearranging like a deck of cards being shuffled. Their bedrooms came to us instead of the other way around.

Once the last child was tucked in, I murmured, barely above a whisper, “Guess that’s how we ended up in bed the other night.”