This was what the months had become. The handful of nights when they were all together under one roof, when nothing was burning, breaking, or demanding answers. This was what Paola had wanted, even before she knew how to name it.

  Poca’s home was small, crooked, and endlessly alive. It smelled like herbs, damp soil, warm wax, and old wood. Shelves lined every wall, stacked with jars of crushed petals, dried roots, stitched charms, half-finished puppets, and coils of string. Little brass tools hung from pegs like surgical instruments for dolls. Gears, needles, and thread shared space with mortar bowls and glowing vials. It felt less like a house and more like the inside of a clock that had learned how to breathe.

  Messy, but not chaotic. Everything had a place. Just not a logical one.

  Paola sank onto the narrow couch, the cushions soft and uneven from years of patchwork repairs. The moment she did, Yasmin all but collapsed onto her, sprawling across the length of the couch like a defeated cat, wings tucked in tight, boots kicked off somewhere unknown.

  Her head landed in Paola’s lap with a dramatic sigh.

  “I’m never taking responsibility again,” Yasmin declared.

  Paola smiled and automatically began running her fingers through Yasmin’s tangled hair. “You say that every time.”

  “And every time I mean it until Oso looks at me like I’m a chew toy.”

  Yasmin tilted her head slightly, cheek pressing deeper into Paola’s thigh. “That bear is not normal. I swear he’s part raccoon. He steals everything. Honey. Tools. My gloves. My dignity.”

  From the small kitchen, Ayla snorted. The sound of chopping echoed through the house, steady and practiced. “You challenged him to wrestle.”

  “That was once.”

  “You’ve done it four times.”

  “He started it.”

  Paola chuckled softly. Yasmin lifted her head just enough to look at her, eyes tired but bright. “He pinned me today.”

  “Did you explode anything?”

  “…No.”

  “Then that’s growth.”

  Yasmin groaned and let her head fall back into Paola’s lap. “I hate growth.”

  Across the room, Poca was trying to organize a stack of fresh herbs that kept sliding off the table. She wore that familiar burlap dress, tugging at the straps like they personally offended her. “You provoke him, Yasmin,” she said sweetly. “You poke ze bear, and zen you complain when ze bear pokes back.”

  “I did not poke him.”

  “You offered him honey and called him chubby.”

  Yasmin pointed a finger weakly. “That was encouragement.”

  Paola laughed quietly, warmth spreading through her chest. It was so natural how they fit together. No planning. No coordination. Just motion and instinct and comfort.

  Ayla moved around the kitchen like she was on patrol. Stirring, tasting, adjusting. She had rolled up her sleeves, armor set aside, hair still braided tight. The same hands that held a sword with deadly precision now worked spices and broth with care. Protector. Warrior. Chef. Always building safety in whatever form she could.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Poca drifted closer to the couch, hands clasped behind her back, watching Paola brush Yasmin’s hair with a fond expression. “You know,” she said softly, “I zink Yasmin starts half of ze fights just so she can lose.”

  Yasmin peeked one eye open. “That is slander.”

  “Non,” Poca smiled. “Zat is affection.”

  Yasmin flushed instantly, burying her face into Paola’s cloak. “Stop calling me cute.”

  Paola tilted her head down, lips brushing Yasmin’s forehead. “You are cute.”

  Yasmin made a distressed noise that was half protest, half surrender.

  Ayla glanced over her shoulder. “You’re feeding her ego.”

  “She needs it,” Paola replied easily.

  Yasmin lifted her head just enough to grin. “Damn right.”

  The house hummed around them. The fire crackled. Herbs rustled in their jars. Oso snorted somewhere outside like a creature who had won the day. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t orderly.

  But it was alive.

  Paola leaned back against the couch cushions, Yasmin warm in her lap, Poca hovering nearby with her gentle presence, Ayla commanding the kitchen like a battlefield of comfort.

  These were her girls.

  And for the first time in months, nothing felt like it was about to break.

  Evan lay back against the sloped roof, hands folded over his chest, staring up at the sky. Two moons hung overhead tonight. One pale and steady, the other smaller, tinted faintly blue. He knew there was a third somewhere out there. Sometimes all three showed themselves, like the world was flexing just to remind people how strange it really was.

  Udanara had a habit of doing that.

  He exhaled slowly. Or… mimicked it. He still wasn’t entirely sure how that worked anymore.

  His life here had been weird. That was the only word that fit. He had died on Earth. That part was clear enough. What came after was messy. Skeleton body. Shared soul. Ancient mage in his head. Somehow still able to eat, sleep, and feel the wind against his bones like it meant something.

  Purpose was harder to define.

  What was he supposed to be?

  He was glad Malakar couldn’t hear his thoughts. Only when he spoke out loud. That small mercy gave him room to doubt quietly.

  Footsteps landed lightly behind him.

  “Stargazing?” Yucca’s voice was calm, curious, never accusing.

  He tilted his head toward her without fully looking. “Caught me. I was hoping I blended in with the shingles.”

  She approached and, instead of climbing, simply lifted herself with a soft beat of silver-glass wings. They folded gracefully as she sat beside him, careful not to crowd his space. The faint shimmer of moonlight traced their edges.

  “How did you find me?” he asked.

  She tilted her head slightly, almost amused. “I was flying. You were… very noticeable up here.”

  He glanced at himself. “Right. Skeleton on a rooftop. Stealth was never my strength.” He paused, "though it should be, considering I'm a skeleton and all."

  Her lips curved, subtle and warm. “You do fine.”

  That small sentence landed heavier than he expected.

  They sat in silence for a moment, the night air cool and clean. Evan looked back to the moons. “Do you ever wonder,” he said casually, “if the stars here are the same ones from Earth?”

  Yucca followed his gaze. “How do you mean?”

  “Like… maybe they’re the same stars. Just further away. Or we’re further from them. Different angle, same sky.” He shrugged. “It’d be comforting, I think. To know something carried over.”

  She considered that. “I think they are,” she said. “Not the same in distance, but in meaning. They still watch. They still exist. That’s enough sometimes.”

  He smiled faintly. “You’re really good at making things sound… less broken.”

  Yucca turned her head toward him. Her opalescent eyes reflected the moonlight softly. “You are not broken, Evan.”

  “Debatable,” he replied, lightly.

  “Unusual,” she corrected. “But not broken.”

  The distinction mattered more than he wanted to admit.

  He hesitated, then spoke more quietly. “I don’t really know why I’m here. Not in a dramatic way. Just… I don’t feel like I fit the role everyone expects. Malakar had purpose. Power. Direction. I just… exist.”

  Yucca rested her hands on the roof between them, posture composed but attentive. “Do you want a purpose?”

  He thought about that. “I think I want to choose one. Instead of inheriting someone else’s.”

  “That’s a very rare thing,” she said softly.

  “Choosing?”

  “Being allowed to.”

  Their eyes met briefly. Something subtle passed between them. Not a spark. More like recognition.

  Yucca looked back at the sky. “I want to know why you’re here too,” she said. “Not because I doubt you belong. But because your answer will be yours. And that matters.”

  Evan swallowed. He hadn’t expected that to feel… grounding.

  “Well,” he said, trying to sound casual again, “for now, I guess I’m here to stargaze and eat suspiciously large poultry legs.”

  She smiled, genuine and small. “It is a respectable calling.”

  He glanced at her. “You’re not mocking me.”

  “No,” she replied. “I’m being honest.”

  They sat like that, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, watching the sky. No urgency. No pressure. Just quiet.

  For the first time in a while, Evan didn’t feel like a borrowed existence.

  He felt like a beginning.