The first thing Ligia and Michael saw as they stepped through the return portal was...
Elegant chaos.
Vael, unmoving as a gothic statue, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching with a mix of disapproval and resignation a rather inglorious scene:
Rhelor, once so arrogant, lay sprawled on the ground. Foaming at the mouth. His eyes spinning like drunken tops. His robe soaked in snow, dust, and...
Were those teeth on the floor?
Ligia frowned, confused and slightly horrified.
She looked at her father, searching for an explanation. Or at least composure.
Michael scanned the field with his eyes.
Blood.
Bodies.
Raw magic saturating the air.
And the fog? It tried to hide the wreckage like a desperate carpet attempting to cover up dirt before a royal visit.
Amidst it all... Dorian.
Standing on a pile of rubble, staring at the horizon with the expression of someone contemplating time, war...
or maybe just his next hairstyle.
"Dorian," said Michael in that dry tone that blended exhaustion and authority. "Why are you here?"
Before his son could answer, a voice rang out from somewhere beyond the smoke:
"Dorian, more enemies are arrivi—"
Harry appeared out of nowhere, grimorio open, hair wild as if he had walked through a magical explosion of bad temper.
Dorian slowly turned his face, with the patience of a monk about to break his vows.
"There are no more enemies, idiot."
"Huh?"
Harry blinked, looked around, and finally noticed the newcomers.
"Oh... hi, Uncle Michael."
Michael cast a brief glance at Harry—the kind that said, "We will be having a long conversation later involving shame and regret."
"Dorian. You still haven't answered."
The older brother shifted his gaze to Ligia. Only for a second.
But it was enough for her to notice—he saw the change in her.
The aura. The stance. The weight of someone now carrying power.
"I came to support my sister."
Direct. Firm. No embellishments.
Ligia raised an eyebrow.
The sudden honesty caught her off guard.
"Th-thank you... for coming," she said, sincerely, not quite sure where to place the emotions.
Dorian simply nodded.
And in that small gesture, there was a whole message:
"Of course I came. You're my sister."
Michael looked around: the low fog, Rhelor being dragged by Vael like a sack of mystical potatoes, Harry flipping through his grimorio upside down.
A deep sigh.
"And how do you plan to deal with... them?" he asked.
Dorian let out another sigh. Resigned.
The typical sigh of the eldest child who always has to clean up the world's messes.
He offered a half-smile—subtle, almost smug.
Charming enough to gain fans with just a glance.
"The same way I always do, Father."
Michael didn't compliment him.
But his look said everything:
"Good job, son."
Finally, Vael moved.
He bowed slightly, voice deep as an ancient hymn.
"Congratulations, Miss. On your awakening."
Ligia smiled. She could still feel sparks from the ritual in her fingertips.
"I did it, Vael."
And in that I did it, there was pride, exhaustion, and a pinch of "no one can stop me now."
Harry finally shut his grimorio with a snap—probably just to look useful.
"So... can we go home now?"
Michael nodded firmly.
He turned to Ligia.
"Daughter, come close to me."
She walked to him, still exchanging one last glance with Dorian—trying to decide whether it was repressed affection or just sibling-level passive aggression.
Michael extended his left arm.
Ligia grabbed it firmly.
In the same instant, a magical pentagram appeared beneath all their feet—vast and glowing.
Ancient symbols danced like serpents of light.
The ground trembled. The light flickered.
And then... they vanished.
---
What Ligia felt in the next moment was not a mystical experience.
It was agony.
Dizziness.
A sudden wave of nausea, like her stomach did a triple backflip.
Her vision warped, sound became arcane static.
When her feet finally touched solid ground, her knees gave out.
She nearly collapsed.
But Michael held her.
Surprisingly patient.
She coughed, chest heaving.
Dorian, standing nearby, watched her.
Eyes cold as always, but... there was concern there.
Almost imperceptible. But real.
Vael vanished without flair, carrying the unconscious Rhelor like a cursed package headed to an undisclosed destination.
Harry, of course, was hunched over an ornamental fountain, vomiting as if the world had decided to spin in 4D.
"BLEGH" was his only contribution.
Michael patted Ligia on the back—nothing delicate, but almost affectionate.
"There. It'll pass, daughter."
She tried to respond.
But her body still trembled. Her heart was still a drum.
Dorian ran a hand through his hair in an exhausted gesture.
"I have to go," he said. "There are people waiting for me... to deal with them."
Michael gave a curt gesture. His focus was still on Ligia.
But Dorian didn't get far.
Because they heard it.
Footsteps.
Steady.
Elegant.
With restrained urgency.
The voice followed soon after.
Familiar.
Authoritative.
Full of emotion...
but contained, like an explosion behind a steel door.
"What happened to my baby, Michael?"
Everyone froze.
Ligia went still.
Dorian looked up.
And Michael... finally turned around.