Orestis woke before the city stirred, as he usually did.

  He didn’t get up immediately. Instead, he lay still and checked the wards he’d installed around the room. Technically illegal, but what the proprietor didn’t know couldn’t reasonably be said to bother her.

  Nothing had been probed, displaced, or tampered with. No one had attempted to open the door, bypass the lock, or peer through the walls.

  Exactly as expected. He wouldn’t have chosen the establishment if he’d had doubts about its security. But habits formed over centuries didn’t care about logic—they cared about repetition. And some habits existed less for necessity than as recurring proof that they were, in fact, unnecessary.

  A comforting little ritual of paranoia.

  Satisfied, he sat up and swung his legs over the bed.

  The room was large for an inn, though not ostentatious. He’d chosen it deliberately: enough space to move, solid floors that didn’t complain under shifting weight, and furniture that could be relocated without attracting comment. He nudged the chair and table aside and stepped into the cleared space.

  Training first. Always training.

  Strength, controlled and methodical. Flexibility, easing joints into compliance. Balance last—slower, requiring more attention than effort. Nothing pushed to failure. Nothing rushed. The body required maintenance whether one valued it or not, and neglect accumulated quietly until it became inconvenient.

  Especially this body. Which I intend to keep functional until it has the decency to expire on its own.

  By the time he finished, the stiffness was gone and his muscles were warm. He slowed deliberately, breathing until his heartbeat settled.

  Breakfast was next, then merchant-side correspondence, then the inevitable transition into Consortium work. The shape of the day was familiar enough that it barely registered as planning.

  The call-node pulsed just as he reached for his towel.

  Orestis paused. Exhaled. Answered.

  “Happy birthday!” his mother said at once, the words tumbling over each other before he could speak.

  Oh. Right. It’s my birthday.

  He’d genuinely forgotten. In his defense, he’d had over a thousand of them, and the novelty had worn off somewhere around the three-hundredth.

  “Good morning, Mother,” he replied, keeping his tone moderate to balance out her exuberance.

  “Sixteen!” she continued, undeterred. “I know you don’t like to make a fuss, but I am still allowed to acknowledge the passage of time.”

  “It is a technicality,” he said.

  She laughed, bright and pleased. “You have always said that. And you have always been wrong.”

  He smiled despite himself and leaned back against the wall.

  “I wanted to call early,” she went on, “before you disappeared into work, or meetings, or whatever it is you do over there that prevents you from writing properly.”

  They spoke almost daily. Why letters were also required was beyond him. Not that he would ever say that to her.

  “I do write,” he said instead. “Occasionally.”

  “Notes are not letters.”

  That was familiar.

  “You sound excited,” he said, after a moment. He knew not to pursue a losing argument.

  “I am,” his mother replied, unashamed. “I have been awake since before dawn.”

  That gave him pause.

  “And,” she added, more carefully, “I was thinking. You haven’t been home in months.”

  “That is accurate,” he replied, wary now.

  “So,” she continued, choosing her words, “I was wondering if you might come for breakfast.”

  He straightened. “Mother.”

  “I know,” she said quickly. “Listen to me first. I know why that is not a good idea. I am not pretending otherwise.”

  He waited.

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  She explained it the way she explained everything she took seriously: clearly, practically, with all the small considerations already accounted for.

  The servants had been sent away for the morning—which he thought was premature, but the decision was made. His father agreed it was wiser. No visitors, no announcements. Just them. Brief, quiet, contained.

  “I am not asking you to stay,” she said. “Just breakfast.”

  He considered the risks automatically: being seen, being remembered, questions that wouldn’t be asked today but might surface later. The habit he would be breaking.

  Then he considered his mother’s voice, and the fact that she’d been awake since before dawn preparing food for a son who might say no.

  “You have thought about this,” he said.

  “Of course I have,” she replied. “I miss you. That does not make me careless.”

  He maintained silence—still considering.

  “And,” she added, lighter now, “I made food. Nothing elaborate. Just what you like.”

  His gaze drifted toward the washroom door. He hadn’t planned to eat yet.

  “I am still sweaty,” he said finally.

  She laughed. “Then wash and change. I did not raise you to present yourself at my table like that.”

  “I would need to return quickly.”

  “That is fine. We are not keeping you.”

  That phrasing was deliberate. He recognized it—she was giving him an exit before he’d even arrived, so he’d feel safe enough to come. Mothers were terrifying strategists when properly motivated.

  He weighed the remaining objections and found them thin.

  Then, as if it were an afterthought, she added, “I also made a cake. The bitter-sweet one. With the darker chocolate.”

  Well. I am, unfortunately, rather fond of that cake.

  “I will come,” he said. “Briefly.”

  “Good,” his mother said. Pleased but not triumphant. “I will keep the tea warm.”

  The call ended.

  Orestis stood still for a moment, then reached for the towel.

  Outmaneuvered by cake. A thousand years of experience, and I’m undone by chocolate.

  Besides, she'd woken before dawn to make it. Letting that go to waste would be– well. Wasteful.

  ***

  After the call-node incident, he'd decided that not being able to use magic inside his own room was unacceptable.

  He was not retreating to the forest every time he needed to cast something. And there was always the possibility—however remote—of an emergency that required an immediate response. He refused to choose between becoming a fugitive from Orthessa and ignoring a crisis.

  So he'd prepared the room properly. A god could manifest inside it and Orthessa's systems would register nothing.

  Still, Orestis was not a god. Teleportation barely emitted any outward energy, but barely was still worth accounting for. So he adjusted the wards, tightening the suppression layers and sealing the room more thoroughly than usual.

  He could be gone and back well before noon—long before any gap in his routine became noticeable. The Consortium would see him exactly when they expected to. And the merchant side wouldn't notice his absence—or care—unless his father were to appear and ask where his son had gone.

  Once ready, Orestis drew on divine energy and teleported home.

  He materialized in his old room. Same furniture. Same arrangement. Same faint smell of wood and linen. Nearly a year, and nothing had been altered.

  She kept it exactly as I left it.

  He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, so he filed it away and straightened his collar instead.

  He stepped through the adjoining door. Both of his parents were waiting in the sitting room.

  His mother reached him first. She crossed the room quickly, wrapped her arms around him, and held tight in the uncomplicated way of someone who had been waiting far too long. Orestis accepted the embrace without protest; it had been a while after all.

  He was privately grateful she could no longer lift him off the floor. The impulse was clearly still there, but physics had finally intervened on his behalf.

  “There you are,” she said, pulling back to look at him properly.

  She frowned almost immediately.

  “You look… better,” she said, then hesitated, as though personally offended by the idea. “Thinner, though. Are you eating properly?”

  Of course, he thought with quiet amusement. How dare the world suggest I might improve when she isn’t watching.

  “I am,” he said aloud. “I’ve been exercising more.”

  She studied him, then reached up to smooth his hair anyway, as though the conclusion required physical confirmation. “You should still eat.”

  His father stepped forward and rested a hand on Orestis’s shoulder. Firm and familiar. “You’re looking well,” he said, which was as close as he came to enthusiasm.

  His mother steered him toward the table with the practiced authority of someone who considered feeding her children a moral imperative.

  Breakfast had been laid out with care. Bread still warm, fruit prepared neatly, tea poured and waiting. Everything arranged with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how long each step took and had begun early enough to eliminate haste.

  He sat. She placed a plate in front of him, nudged it closer, then adjusted it again as though alignment mattered.

  “I wasn’t sure how hungry you’d be,” she said. “So I made enough.”

  Apparently, the word ‘enough’ means ‘sufficient to feed a small garrison’.

  “That seems reasonable,” he replied, mouth lifting.

  She beamed as he breathed in the aroma of honeyed bread and fruit jams.

  As he ate, she hovered—smoothing his hair again, brushing a crumb from his sleeve that may or may not have existed. His father watched the exchange with quiet amusement, lifting his tea to hide a smile.

  They talked while he ate. Nothing important: the weather, a minor shipment delay, a neighbor’s dog that had developed an unfortunate habit of barking at shadows. The conversation existed less to exchange information than to establish that nothing urgent required attention. That everyone was fine. That this was enough.

  When he finished, his mother collected the plate and disappeared briefly into the kitchen. She returned with the cake and set it down in front of him.

  “I cut the edge off,” she said. “You always liked the middle better.”

  She remembered that.

  The cake was soft and still faintly warm. He took a bite, and the familiar balance settled on his tongue.

  He ate without comment and added another slice, which his mother accepted as the highest form of praise. Across the table, his father caught his eye and looked faintly satisfied.

  They lingered after that. Long enough for the tea to cool and the moment to settle without overstaying its welcome. Eventually, Orestis set his fork down.

  “I should return.”

  “Of course,” his mother replied at once. “I told you we wouldn’t keep you.”

  His father rose. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  He stood, adjusted his coat, and paused. “Thank you,” he said.

  His mother’s smile softened. “You’re welcome. And happy birthday.”

  Orestis returned to his room and closed the door behind him. His mother had packed the remaining cake despite his protests, and he found himself smiling faintly as he adjusted his grip on it before preparing to leave.

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