Morning came with the sound of movement.

Not danger. Not alarms. Just life—footsteps on wood, a kettle heating, someone laughing softly outside the inn window.

Jorah woke to it and immediately wished he hadn't.

Because the first thing his mind supplied—unhelpfully vivid—was Lira's smirk by the stream. The way she'd said then maybe don't run from it so fast, like she hadn't just dismantled his emotional defenses with six casual words.

He groaned and rolled onto his side, burying his face in the pillow.

Too late. Damage done.

Across the small common room, Kael was already awake, seated near the window with his boots half-laced, staring out at the village like it might vanish if he blinked too long. Eira sat nearby, braiding her hair slowly, methodically—watching Kael when she thought he wasn't looking.

Jorah noticed. Of course he did.

"Good morning," he muttered.

Kael glanced back. One look at Jorah's face and his mouth twitched. "You didn't sleep."

"I slept," Jorah said. "I just regret it."

Eira hid a smile by tying off her braid. "Did your problem keep you awake?"

"Please don't call her that," Jorah said reflexively—then froze. "I mean—"

Kael raised an eyebrow. "Interesting."

"I hate both of you."

"Yes," Kael said calmly. "But you love us too."

Jorah dragged himself upright. "I do not need this interrogation before breakfast."

"Good," Eira replied. "Because it's not an interrogation."

She stood and moved toward the door. "It's curiosity."

They stepped outside into a village that felt… warmer than yesterday. Not safer. Just lived-in. Children ran past with bread still too hot to carry properly. Someone was singing—off-key but enthusiastic. The rebuilt world still bore scars, but here, for now, it breathed.

Lira was already awake.

Jorah spotted her near the well again—arguing, predictably, with a different villager. This one at least looked embarrassed rather than angry.

"You overcharged the binding rune," she was saying. "Of course it snapped. Magic isn't impressed by enthusiasm."

The villager scurried off.

She turned—and saw Jorah.

There it was again. That look. Recognition mixed with interest and just enough challenge to make his pulse tick upward.

"Well," she said. "You came back."

"I was hoping you'd say that like it was a good thing," Jorah replied.

She smirked. "Undecided."

Kael stepped forward politely. "You must be Lira. I'm Kael. This is Eira."

Eira nodded. "Thank you for helping the village."

Lira studied them both with sharp, measuring eyes. "You're the quiet dangerous one," she said to Kael. Then she looked at Eira. "And you're the reason he's still standing."

Eira blinked. Kael stilled.

Jorah choked. "You're very perceptive."

"Comes with the job," Lira said. Then, casually, "You're leaving today."

It wasn't a question.

Kael answered honestly. "Yes."

Lira exhaled. "Figures."

Jorah felt something tighten again. He hated how much he cared about that single word.

Eira hesitated, then said, "We could use another set of hands. At least to the next crossing."

Jorah stared at her.

Kael turned slowly. "Eira—"

"I know," she said gently. "But she's skilled. And this world is… unstable. No one should be alone right now."

Lira looked between them. "You're serious."

Jorah found his voice before he could stop himself. "You don't have to. It's dangerous."

She smiled faintly. "So is staying."

Silence stretched.

Then Lira picked up her satchel and slung it over her shoulder. "One crossing," she said. "After that, I decide."

Jorah let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

The road out of the village wound through fields just beginning to regrow. Cracked earth patched with green. Magic scars healing slowly.

They walked in loose formation—Kael at the front, alert but not tense; Eira beside him, their shoulders brushing occasionally, never quite lingering; Jorah and Lira behind, arguing quietly about the correct way to secure rune anchors during travel.

"You're wrong," Lira said for the third time.

"I am efficient," Jorah corrected.

"You're sloppy."

"I'm adaptable."

"You tied that with a sailor's knot."

"Which is very versatile."

She shook her head. "You're going to get us all killed."

"Bold assumption," he said. "I usually only endanger myself."

Kael glanced back. "That's not comforting."

Eira smiled softly.

As the sun climbed higher, the road grew quieter. The world shimmered occasionally—edges blurring, then snapping back into place. Kael felt it every time. Like a pressure behind his eyes.

Eira noticed.

"You're fading," she said quietly.

"Not fading," he replied. "Anchoring."

She frowned. "That doesn't sound better."

"It's different," he said. "The world's deciding where I fit."

"And what if it decides wrong?"

He met her gaze. "Then I'll fight it."

Her hand brushed his—accidental, fleeting. But neither pulled away immediately.

Behind them, Jorah noticed. Lira noticed him noticing.

"Don't say it," he warned.

She smirked. "You're very bad at pretending you don't see things."

"Occupational hazard," he muttered.

They made camp near dusk, firelight flickering against half-broken stones—remnants of something that used to be a home. Kael stared at it longer than necessary.

"A house?" Lira guessed.

"Maybe," Kael said. "Or the idea of one."

That landed deeper than he expected.

Eira sat beside him. "You don't have to know yet."

"I want to," he admitted.

She smiled—small, hopeful. "Then that's a start."

Across the fire, Jorah handed Lira a cup of tea.

She accepted it. Their fingers brushed.

Neither commented on it.

Above them, unseen, the threads shifted again.

Not violently.

Gently.

Seeds didn't announce themselves when they took root.

But somewhere between laughter, shared danger, and the quiet pull of unfinished feelings—four lives had begun weaving into something that could one day be called home.

And the world, still fragile, still watching…

Waited to see what they would become.

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