I landed on a ledge that barely held its shape. Beneath it, the terrain warped like soft wax, rivers of ley-energy bleeding through cracks in the ground.


    Kira stood nearby, already yelling at a frantic scholar who was halfway buried in a large crevice. Her coat was singed, hair tied back in a crooked knot, expression sharp with focus.


    She didn’t turn when she heard me, just said, "Glad you came."


    I adjusted my coat. "That supposed to be your way of saying you missed me?"


    She snorted. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves."


    "Just trying to match the tone from our charming ballroom escape."


    "You looked miserable the whole time."


    "Yeah, but in a refined, noble kind of way."


    She grinned at that—quick, honest, and gone just as fast. Then she pointed toward a jagged rift in the hillside. "It started three days ago. The ground’s been warping, magic going wild. Local mages can’t stabilize it."


    I walked toward the rift. The earth groaned under my boots.


    I closed my eyes and reached—not with brute force, but with the quiet precision that once made entire armies hesitate. Not many people knew how to thread ley-lines anymore. Even fewer had the patience. It was delicate work. Intimate. You didn’t tame a wild river by damming it. You learned how it wanted to flow.


    I murmured a sigil under my breath and slid a hand across the fractured stone. Threads of energy shimmered, resisting at first, then yielding. I wove a stabilizing lattice beneath the rift—like stitching torn fabric back together.


    Except in this case, the fabric could destroy the entire planet.


    By the time the ground had stopped pulsing, the glowing cracks dimmed. Even the air felt less strained. I let out a breath and staggered a little, knees heavier than they should’ve been.


    "You alright?"


    "Yeah. Just haven''t done anything with that sort of finesse in a long time."


    Kira reached into her coat and handed me a flask. The contents burned like spiced iron, and I coughed.


    She dismissed the scholar and assured him everything would be okay for now.


    We sat near a bent tree that leaned over the ridge, half its roots exposed. I let the breeze cool my face.


    After a while, Kira spoke, "You used to do things like this a lot, didn’t you?"


    I didn’t answer.


    "People started asking around about you," she said instead, voice a shade more careful. "The nobles heard the name Kennojin mentioned."


    I winced. "Should’ve known better than to show up. Probably made a mistake going at all."


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    Kira didn’t argue. Just watched me with something unreadable in her eyes.


    "So... what really happened?"


    I traced a glyph in the dirt with my finger. It shimmered faintly before fading. Kira leaned forward slightly, the wind tugging at her blonde strands.


    I didn’t answer right away. Just kept tracing the design as I wrangled with the maelstrom of thoughts and memories I''d suppressed for so long.


    Then, softly, "Some things don’t break all at once. They change. Slowly. Into something you don’t recognize."


    She studied me.


    "So I stopped trying to fix it," I added. "Built something beside it instead. Well, not really beside it. More like... as far away as possible. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere mine."


    "Graybarrow," she murmured.


    I nodded.


    She looked out toward the horizon, fingers fidgeting with the cork of her flask. "Sounds... kind of nice. You really care about it."


    I didn’t respond right away. Then, quieter, "I do. It means everything to me."


    She glanced at me, expression unreadable for a breath. "I really would like to see it someday."


    I hesitated, then said, "Okay. Soon. I just... feel that it''s best to keep these two worlds separate for now."


    She smiled—not her usual grin, but something softer. "Of course."


    We let the breeze speak for a while, carrying bits of dust and something like comfort.


    Then I looked over. "You okay, Kira?"


    That made her blink again. Like it hadn’t occurred to her I might ask. "Me? Yeah, sure. I''m fine."


    "I mean it. All this—being a hero of Concord, running off to fight or fix whatever the Circle decides. Can’t be easy."


    She let out a breath and leaned her head against her knees. "It’s not. You make friends, then you lose them. You save people, then get sent somewhere else before you even see if it worked. It’s like... trying to fix a leak with a colander."


    I stayed quiet.


    "But it’s been less lonely," she added, voice softer now. "Since you started showing up every once in a while. Even if you grumble the whole time."


    "I don’t grumble. I mutter. There’s a difference."


    She smiled again, faint and honest.


    Eventually, I pushed to my feet. My limbs ached in a way that wasn’t entirely physical. "It should be stable enough for a while."


    She scanned the ley-rift, then gave a small nod. "Yeah. You did it."


    I turned to go, but her voice caught me. "Thank you."


    I gave a faint smile that felt more like surrender than gratitude. "You''re welcome."


    She activated the dismissal, and the sharp red lines glowed underneath me.


    "Who was Kennojin?" Kira called out.


    I paused at the edge of the glyphs, then turned slightly over my shoulder. "Someone buried a long time ago," I said. "Let’s leave him there."


    ***


    I poured myself a second cup of tea and stepped out to my usual place. The floating stump waited as always, hovering an inch off the porch. I muttered, "You''re the best piece of wood around."


    It rose another inch.


    I sat and watched Roku sleep curled in a warm patch of sunlight, one paw twitching as he dreamed. His tail gave a lazy thump when he sensed me nearby.


    "Don’t worry," I said to him. "Still not joining anything. Still not saving the world."


    He didn’t stir. Just let out a soft huff.


    I leaned back, tea warm in my hands. That other world—Kira’s world—still pulled at the edges of mine. But Graybarrow had roots. People. Problems that could be solved with a look, or a laugh, or sometimes a well-placed biscuit.


    I closed my eyes, letting the rhythm of the village settle into my bones. Children shouting near the fountain. A soft thump from a distant window. The clatter of dishes and the muttered complaints of gnomes trying to fix something that never worked right in the first place.


    Yuuhi once told me that peace wasn’t the absence of danger. It was choosing to stay anyway. Choosing to tend what was small and beautiful, even when the storm never ended.


    Maybe she was right.


    I sipped my tea and watched the sky dim, stars peeking out between clouds. Roku shifted closer, tail curling against my boots.


    The past should stay buried.


    And if it didn’t—well.


    That was a problem for another day.