There is a particular ache in approaching a place you once called home, knowing you might be chased away with pitchforks and, if your reputation is especially bad, possibly a ceremonial spear. Add to that the knowledge that you personally helped burn it down under the influence of a deranged shadow queen, and the ache grows teeth.
But after a few hours of limping over muddy ruts, climbing half-collapsed walls, and pausing only twice to argue with a particularly judgmental magpie, I finally stood before the demon castle or what remained of it. Towers still smoldered, scaffolding crisscrossed the battlements, and the once-grand gate had been replaced by a makeshift barricade of scorched doors and, for some reason, a wardrobe. Whoever was in charge of repairs had a flair for tragicomedy.
