Morning sunlight filtered through the high kitchen windows, warming shelves lined with jars and herbs. The hearth crackled softly as Kelara sliced vegetables in smooth, practiced strokes.

  Lysa stood beside her, gripping a knife like it might attack her first.

  Kelara nudged a board toward her.

  “Chop with the grain, not against it,” she said gently. “Unless it’s a man. Then go against.”

  Lysa snorted. “Were you always this poetic?”

  “Always.” Kelara brushed chopped herbs into a simmering pot. “Nan taught me. Said food heals the soul before the belly.”

  Lysa’s motions slowed. “What was Nan like?”

  Kelara paused a heartbeat.

  “Wise. Sarcastic. Always watching. A lot like you, actually.”

  Lysa tried not to smile. Failed.

  Steam rose between them, carrying the scent of herbs and warmth—two women finding peace in a simple rhythm.

  — — —

  The courtyard glowed warm beneath the sun, golden light catching on the stones as Petric lobbed a leather ball toward Jerric.

  “Hands up!” Petric called.

  Jerric caught it against his chest—barely—and staggered back a step before grinning.

  Kelara passed through the courtyard just long enough to see them laugh together. She didn’t interrupt. Moments like that were rare—precious.

  Petric tossed it again, smoother this time. “Me and Cousin Janric used to do this. In the Castle Calmyra courtyard. We’d go until sundown. Sometimes Frannor tried to join.”

  Jerric threw the ball back. “Frannor? Really?”

  Petric snorted. “He tried. Couldn’t throw to save his life. Ball ended up in the river half the time.”

  Jerric laughed, this time throwing harder. Petric caught it one-handed.

  Jerric hesitated, then asked quietly,

  “What happened? Why did everyone… stop talking?”

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  Petric held the ball a moment longer, gaze drifting toward the far trees.

  “…We forgot that family matters more than pride.”

  A breath. Heavy.

  “And then it got too late to say sorry.”

  He tossed the ball back—gentle again.

  — — —

  By the time the sun dipped lower, the courtyard had begun to fill with the scents of roasted lamb and herbs.

  Vines braided overhead, catching the lowering sun in strands of gold. The family table stretched beneath them—long enough to hold every dish the kitchen could carry, and old enough that no one remembered when the tradition began. Sunday suppers were simply done this way: outdoors, unhurried, with food and wine from midafternoon until the light slipped from the sky.

  Petric took his seat at the head, Kelara beside him. Jerric and Lysa claimed the opposite bench, already bickering over a bowl of olives. Plates circulated, bread torn and shared, wine poured in slow measures. The talk began light—Lysa teasing Jerric for coughing through his first sip, Jerric insisting he’d grow into the taste with time—but the conversation drifted, as it often did, toward the world beyond their walls.

  Kelara set her cup down and dusted crumbs from her fingers.

  “The stag banners of Frostmarch haven’t been seen in months,” she said. “Carden keeps his counsel close, but his children aren’t nearly so quiet.”

  Lysa perked up. “Doranelle is the eldest, right? I’ve heard she argues like thunder.”

  “Sharp as the mountain air,” Kelara agreed. “And Jarmeth, her brother, believes himself heir by right. Willem—youngest—stirs both sides without meaning to. Three voices in one hall, and Carden must balance all of them.”

  Petric nodded. “Even silence can be a strategy. If Frostmarch is quiet, it means they’re watching.”

  Jerric leaned forward. “Then maybe we should watch harder. Pyrethorne isn’t silent—they’ve been drilling day and night.”

  Petric allowed a small smile. “And Janric believes any day without steel clashing is a wasted day.”

  A ripple of chuckles moved around the table, though the undertone was clear: war pressed on every side, even in the warmth of the garden.

  — — —

  The sun dipped lower, washing the stone in amber. Plates thinned. The last of the wine was poured. Then the gate creaked open.

  Jorlan strode in first, broad grin unashamed, carrying little more than a pack slung over his shoulder. He moved with the same casual confidence he’d had as a boy—loose at the edges but solid at the core. Nell followed at his back like a storm rolling into harbor.

  The man was a mountain. His shoulders filled the entrance. His beard—trimmed but never neat—caught the stray bits of evening light. His grin was wide, unbothered, and warm enough to soften the hard lines carved by travel. Nell looked like a man who could weather a siege and laugh through it.

  He stopped beside Jerric, nudging him with an elbow.

  “Still choking on wine, I hear?”

  Jerric went red, sputtered, then laughed despite himself.

  Nell leaned toward Kelara with a crooked grin.

  “You’ve hardly aged a day.”

  Kelara shot him a glare sharp enough to cut bread.

  “Knock it off.”

  He only chuckled, unbothered, and slid into a seat as though he’d never been gone.

  Jorlan dropped his pack with a thud, flopped onto the bench across from Lysa, and spun a joke quick enough to send her doubling over with laughter. The ease of it—the teasing, the old rhythms, the effortless fit—made it feel as though no years had passed at all.

  Petric watched them settle with a smile that needed no words. These were not merely allies returning. They were family reclaimed.

  He rose from his chair.

  “Family—old and new. Whatever comes, we face it together.”

  The cheer that followed rose against the stone and vine-draped walls, warm enough to push back the cold edges of the world. For one brief evening, with the sun lingering and the courtyard alive, the Lion’s house remembered how to be home.