The town of Ignisia stirred with life as the morning sun stretched golden fingers across the rooftops. The scent of fresh bread curled through the streets, twining with the sharper tang of iron from the forges. Merchants in the town square unrolled their carts and arranged their wares—bundles of herbs still dewy from the fields, glistening fish packed in fresh salt, and bolts of colorful fabric imported from distant lands. The hum of haggling voices began, an orchestra of bartering that signaled the day's commerce had begun.
It was a morning like any other.
But Irelia knew better.
She walked with steady steps, shoulders loose, expression neutral. But something in her had shifted. The streets that had once felt familiar now seemed smaller, as if the town could no longer contain the weight she carried.
Conversations hummed around her, quiet at first, but she caught the whispers as she passed
"Did you hear about the ruins?"
"More cultists? By the gods, what is the world coming to?"
"The Morning Flame will handle it."
"You think so? They should be doing something already!"
Near a fruit stall, a group of older women leaned together, their words hushed but not cautious enough.
"You don't think it's that cult people keep talking about, do you?"
"The Ashen Veil? Don't be ridiculous. Those are just stories."
"Stories? People are missing."
"A shame, truly. But what can we do?"
Irelia's jaw tightened, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides.
Of course.
They had the privilege of debating whether the cult was real, of reducing the horrors she had seen to stories. The knights had found Pip's missing caravan. The bodies. The blood. The truth was right there, rotting in the open. But Ignisia hadn't suffered. Not yet. And people only understood suffering when it came knocking at their doors.
She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to keep moving.
It was always the same.
Some people worried. Others ignored. Most just moved on.
Because it hadn't happened to them.
The scent of molten metal thickened the air as she neared the blacksmith district. Sparks danced from open forges, hammers rang against steel. A familiar silhouette moved against the light—broad-shouldered, steady, deliberate.
Thalric.
Irelia slowed, watching as he lifted his hammer, driving it down onto heated iron with a force that sent embers flying. His face was focused, brows furrowed in quiet determination.
He hadn't seen her yet.
Good.
She wasn't ready for his questions.
Further ahead, a cluster of Morning Flame knights gathered near the barracks. Their armor gleamed in the morning light, their postures disciplined, their movements too measured. They spoke in low tones, their eyes scanning the town—not relaxed, but watchful.
Irelia didn't recognize them. Just another rotation of knights passing through, assigned to protect the duchy.
Safe.
The word settled uncomfortably in her chest.
Was Ignisia truly safe? Or were these people just convincing themselves it was?
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.
She exhaled through her nose and kept walking.
This was home, wasn't it?
Her steps slowed. An unease settled over her, pulling her thoughts backward, past Ignisia, past the mountains, across the sea—
Aerith Estate.
Far across the Ebon Expanse, nestled in the heart of the Solendrian Empire, stood the grand halls of House Aerith. A world of pristine corridors and gilded expectations, of power woven into every marble column, every carved insignia. A place where everything was legacy and bloodlines and tradition.
A place that had never felt like home.
She remembered the feeling of walking on eggshells, of the cold, distant stares of her parents. Irina's taunts, sharp as a blade. The suffocating weight of Kaellum's silence—the brother who had once shielded her, only to become another shadow in the halls.
And then, the twins.
Razel and Raphael.
Born with the Phoenix Mark. The first twins in generations to bear the blessing of their ancestors. The expected heirs. The ones destined to lead House Aerith.
But neither of them had wanted it.
Razel had abandoned the path of summoning, turning to trade, wielding gold instead of fire. Raphael had joined the Imperial Legion, offering his sword to Solendria's endless conquest.
Brothers she barely knew.
A family she had crossed an entire ocean to escape.
And yet…
Her chest tightened.
For five years, she had wandered Thalrion and Kaerith, searching for a place to belong. And in the end, she had found herself here.
In this quiet, unremarkable town tucked away in the mountainous region of Bastion Peaks.
In Ignisia, a town in the far corner of the Duchy of Raelthorn.
Not perfect. But hers.
A voice cut through her thoughts.
"Morning, Irelia!"
She blinked, glancing to the side. Ol' Mara, a tavern owner, waved from her doorstep.
Irelia lifted a hand in greeting. "Morning."
Further down, Derrin, a blacksmith, gave her a curt nod, hammering a piece of iron into shape. Tomas, a stable hand, led a pair of horses down the road, offering her a lazy salute as he passed.
"Don't forget to bring Aurelia to the stables—the other horses won't settle without their lady keeping them in line!"
Irelia nodded. Aurelia enjoyed both the company and the open space of the town's stables.
"Irelia, my dear lass, swing by the bakery later. I managed to get my hands on a few recipes from Olythar of all places, and I'd love your opinion before adding them to our selection. You don't often find desserts from the Archipelago in this far-flung corner of the world! I wager they'll sell even faster than fresh morning bread!" Tobias grinned as he passed by, hefting several bags of flour.
"Tobias, you know I'm not the best person to taste-test your cakes. I don't really enjoy sweets," she reminded him—for what felt like the millionth time.
"I'm sure you'll love this one! The islanders don't use much sweetness in their desserts—perfect for a bitter tooth like yourself. See you later, lass!" Tobias called over his shoulder as he turned a corner.
Irelia sighed and kept walking. Ever since she admitted she wasn't fond of sweets, Tobias had made it his mission to change her mind. He was convinced she just hadn't found the right dessert yet.
More people greeted her by name.
They trusted her. Some even liked her.
And the realization settled something inside her.
She wasn't just a wandering mage anymore.
She had built a life here.
A place.
A home.
And yet…
Her gaze flickered to the satchel at her side, where the Egg rested, pulsing with quiet warmth.
She knew the truth.
She couldn't stay here forever.
This Egg—this ancient mystery—demanded answers. And she wouldn't find them in Ignisia.
But leaving for a quest wasn't the same as leaving forever.
She had a home to return to.
And after all of this was over—
She would come back.
The quiet hum of Ignisia followed Irelia as she returned home, a woven basket balanced against her hip. She had stocked up on fresh fruit, vegetables, and a generous cut of meat from the butcher—essentials for a proper meal.
Not that she felt like cooking.
She set the basket down on her kitchen counter, staring at its contents with mild disinterest.
Cooking had never been her forte.
As a child, House Aerith's halls had been filled with cooks and chefs, each trained in the art of preparing feasts fit for nobility. Meals arrived at her table without thought or effort, plated to perfection. She had never needed to cook. Never even been allowed to.
And when she left Eryndor behind, when she abandoned the world of pristine dining halls and indulgence, she had been forced to learn the basics. Not out of passion—out of necessity.
Enough to make do. Enough to survive.
Her meals were edible. Most of the time.
She had no particular talent for seasoning, no patience for careful preparation. Bland was fine. Burnt was tolerable. She wasn't picky.
But right now, staring at the fresh ingredients in front of her, the idea of preparing anything felt exhausting.
She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. Maybe she'd just eat some of the fruit—
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
She frowned.
For a moment, she considered ignoring it. But then the knock came again, more insistent this time.
With a quiet exhale, she moved to the door, unlatching it and pulling it open—
And found Pip standing on the other side, a bright grin on his face.
Irelia blinked.
"Pip?"
"Good morning, oh gracious savior of hapless merchants," he said, sweeping into an exaggerated bow.
Irelia rolled her eyes but crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. She hadn't seen him since the knights had escorted him and his friends back to Ignisia, but he looked better—healthier. Some of the exhaustion had faded from his features, though there was still something cautious lingering in his eyes.
She tilted her head. "How did you know where I live?"
Pip smirked. "I asked around. Turns out, people know you."
Irelia raised a brow.
"And by 'people' you mean—?"
"A grumpy blacksmith with arms like tree trunks." Pip grinned. "He didn't seem particularly thrilled to be talking to me, but he did point me in this direction."
Irelia huffed. "Thalric."
"That's the one." Pip leaned past her, his keen eyes scanning the room—the shelves stacked with books, the faint glow of smoldering embers in the fireplace. He gave a small nod. "Nice place. A lot cozier than I expected."
Irelia narrowed her eyes. "Cozier?"
Pip hesitated. "I mean, uh—" He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly less sure of himself. "I just thought—since you travel a lot, maybe—"
"Oh, so you thought I lived in some bare, lifeless house? Just a few chairs, a bed, and nothing else?"
"I—" Pip laughed nervously. "That is not what I was going to say."
Irelia crossed her arms, unimpressed.
Pip cleared his throat. "Anyway." He took a step back and spread his arms. "I come bearing an invitation."
Irelia raised an eyebrow. "An invitation."
"Breakfast, or rather brunch given the hour," Pip said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "There's a great little eatery down by the square. My friends—Sophia, Poppy, Derin, and Sam—are already there. Figured you could join us."
Irelia hesitated.
Pip was being casual. Too casual.
She came to know Pip while searching for his friends. He was loud, excitable, full of chatter and schemes. But this—this was forced.
His words flowed too easily, his expression too light, his grin too practiced.
Irelia tilted her head slightly, watching him closer.
He wore the same easygoing smile, that same lively energy, but there was something just beneath the surface. A tightness in his shoulders. A slight delay before his responses.
He was trying too hard to act normal.
And Irelia knew why.
The last few days had been hell for him.
The caravan attack. The friends he lost, the ones who went missing.
The fear of watching helplessly as no adventurers stepped forward to help him.
The frustration of being ignored.
And then, when she had finally accepted—
Discovered a knight slaughtered.
Faced a hellhound.
Been hunted by three more.
Fought a cult.
Nearly died, several times.
And now, standing here in front of her, Pip was pretending like everything was normal.
Like if he just kept smiling, it would make the horrors of the past few days disappear.
Irelia exhaled softly.
She could decline.
Could stay home. Could sink into the quiet and try to untangle the impossible mess of thoughts in her head.
But…
She didn't want to be alone with them.
Not today.
She sighed and stepped back, grabbing her satchel. "Fine."
Pip brightened, too quickly, as if he had been waiting for her answer more than he let on. "Great! You won't regret it, I promise."
She gave him a dry look. "If it's terrible, I'll make you regret it."
Pip snorted, his grin finally real this time. "Duly noted."
With that, they stepped out into the morning light, heading toward the square—toward company, toward conversation.
And, for just a little while, away from everything else.