The hallway breathes with voices I've missed for too long.
Soft, familiar—woven through the walls like old wind in stone. I know them before I even register the words.
My fingers fumble at the knot behind my head. The training blindfold loosens, sliding free, and suddenly the world returns in blurs and outlines—mana threading through shapes like heat through iron.
And there it is.
That steady, quiet mana—rooted and green. It coils through the air like ivy on brick. Familiar in a way nothing else has been for years.
My mother.
"Annabel!" she calls.
Her voice—hoarse, hopeful, already breaking.
She's running.
I stand still, ribbon too tight across my ribs, corset pinching as I draw breath. I don't need to see to know what happens next.
She crashes into me.
Her arms wrap around my shoulders with a strength I forgot belonged to her. Her magic, warm and herbal, flares soft against mine. It smells like rosemary and pine bark and tears held too long.
"I'm sorry," she breathes into my hair. "I'm so sorry. Gods, look at you—you were supposed to come home."
"I tried," I whisper. "I tried, Mama. But Johan—he…"
"I know." Her voice breaks. "They told us. After he died, no one could find you. I thought—I thought maybe you were lost somewhere, or—" she pulls back, palms cupping my face, "or maybe someone had taken you, but part of me knew… you were still alive."
I nod, just once. "I made it. Eventually."
Her thumb brushes under my eye. "You're so tall now. And your hair—your voice. You're not five anymore. And look at this dress, you look like a princess. My baby girl"
Behind her, two familiar presences stir.
One steady, firm like a burning flame—my father. The other brighter, more uneven, like sparks leaping off stone—Ramon.
"Annie?" my brother's voice cracks.
I don't hesitate. I turn just as he runs forward, nearly knocking me off balance in a lopsided hug.
"Ramon," I breathe.
"You still talk like a little rodent ," he mutters, voice muffled against my shoulder.
"You still stink like goats."
He laughs wetly and squeezes me harder. "You're such a pain. I thought you weren't real anymore. Like… some dream I made up."
"Pretty sure I'm real," I say.
He lets go, just as our father steps forward.
He doesn't speak right away. He doesn't need to. His hand settles on my shoulder, heavy and warm.
"I'm proud of you," he says softly.
Just that.
And it's enough to undo me.
Tears slip down my cheeks, quiet and hot. I lean into him, surrounded on all sides now by voices and mana and the only people I've ever really called home.
Wrapped in ribbon and rosemary and three years of silence undone in a single moment.
I'm here.
And they are too
Footsteps echo behind me—quick, controlled, still carrying that edge of worry.
"Annabel, stars—you can't just run off like that!" Julius's voice follows me in, breath a little winded. "Kate nearly drew her blade."
I tilt my head toward him. His mana's steady, familiar—warm iron and bonfire ash. I don't need eyes to sense where he stops: a few paces back, arms crossed, posture shaped by that blend of exasperation and relief I've come to know by feel alone.
"Sorry," I murmur, still clutched against my mother's ribs. "I just… heard them."
My mother doesn't let go, but her mana flickers with gentle curiosity. "Who's this one, then?"
"Julius Pyrelight," he replies. "I'm twenty-two. Met Annabel when she was seven."
There's a pause—only a breath—then Ramon scoffs beside me.
"Wait," he says. "Are you her boyfriend or something?"
Julius doesn't miss a beat. "Annabel's a bit young for that, don't you think? Besides, I prefer the quiet type."
My head turns toward his mana signature. "I am quiet."
"You are not," Ramon mutters, grinning.
"You literally lectured someone in the King's guard into apologizing last week," Julius adds. I can feel the smirk in his mana, the subtle brightness where amusement leaks out.
"He insulted my thesis," I mutter.
My mother chuckles softly. Her arms haven't left me. "Good. I always hoped she'd stay loud."
The room shifts.
Mana colder than stone flows in—sharp and contained. King Beren steps through the doorway, his presence distinct.
Sir Aethon trails like frost on marble. Then Kate. Then Dr. Lorre. Then—
Three newer threads.
Marcus Saint-Clair's voice lands with polished weight, noble and measured. His wife's mana walks just beside, more open. Their daughter lingers at a respectful distance, curious but still.
"Annabel," the king says.
I lift my chin, even before his words settle.
"Your blindfold," he says—calm, not cold. "The training isn't finished."
Before I can reach for it, my father cuts in—his tone firm, no hesitation.
"I'm sorry, who are you?" he says. "Because if that's my daughter you're ordering around, you could start by asking nicely."
Silence sharpens around the edges of the room. The weight of centuries in King Beren's mana does not rise—but it settles, quiet and immense.
Julius speaks up first, quick but even. "That's King Beren of the Verdant Realm. He's been overseeing her training."
There's a breath of tension—then my father grunts, not entirely impressed. "Well, King or not, maybe next time you ask a kid to put something on her face."
Beren's tone remains level. "You are correct. I meant no disrespect."
That lands… better. The air softens slightly.
I tug the cloth back over my eyes. The muted world fades again. Shapes dissolve. All that remains is breath, mana, motion.
"Apologies," I say softly.
I feel his nod—not the motion, but the ripple of approval in his magic.
Marcus clears his throat. "I believe we've all earned a more proper conversation."
"And the garden's quiet at this hour," Maria adds gently.
"Then let's go," my father says—this time more calm, though his hand still rests protectively on my back.
Steps shift around me. My mother guides me gently with a hand on my arm. Julius matches pace at my side. Ramon walks behind, his mana twitchy with the threat of more jokes.
I breathe in warm stone and soil.
We move forward.
Together now.
Toward the garden.