The moment Lyra stepped into the Guild hall, she read the failure in Maeve's posture.
It was in the slump of her shoulders, the weary set of her jaw. It was the specific exhaustion that came not from a long journey, but from a lost battle.
Lyra stopped, her gaze sweeping over the crowded, boisterous hall. She caught Lilia's eye. "Ring the bells," she ordered, her voice cutting cleanly through the din.
"Yes, Ma'am," Lilia replied, already moving toward the great bell by the door.
A moment later, its deep, resonant toll echoed through the hall. The effect was instantaneous. The roar of a hundred conversations died.
Adventurers, no matter how deep in their ale or their arguments, began to rise. Chairs scraped, mugs were slammed down. A few muffled protests were swallowed by the sudden exodus as the hall emptied in under a minute, leaving only the Dawnbreakers at their familiar table, a silent island in a sea of sudden quiet.
Lyra walked to them, her boots echoing on the floorboards.
Thorgar gave a nod and headed for the storage room with their bounty. She took her seat, her eyes locking onto Maeve. "So. He's dead."
"No, Boss! He's upstairs, resting," Edwin blurted out around a mouthful of stew, oblivious to the oppressive tension.
Lyra's gaze shifted from Maeve to Faelan. "Then why the long faces?"
Maeve finally spoke, her voice flat, the voice of a strategist reporting a crushing defeat.
"We failed, Lyra. We got him out, but we lost the war. Vorlag's propaganda is absolute."
"To the people, Tybalt is a monster."
"He's broken the nobles, stripped them of their lands and armies. They're puppets now. There is no internal support for Arthur. There's nothing."
Brimor's heavy ale stein hit the table with a dull thud. "Good," he rumbled into the silence.
The word was so uncharacteristic, so jarring, that it should have sparked a reaction. But Maeve and Faelan were too focused on Lyra, waiting for the explosion.
Lyra remained silent for a long moment, her face an unreadable mask. Then, she turned to Edwin. "Bring my uncle downstairs."
A few minutes later, Edwin returned, supporting a man who was little more than a ghost.
Tybalt was skeletal, his skin a roadmap of bruises and welts.
He moved with the fragile, shuffling gait of a man whose body had been systematically unmade
Lyra stood as Edwin helped him to the table. She looked at the ruin of the man who had taught her to hold a sword.
"On a fast, Uncle?" she asked, her voice devoid of pity, a cold, hard stone.
Tybalt's hazy eyes focused, recognizing her voice, her face. "Lyra," he rasped, the single word carrying the weight of a decade of grief and separation.
"It's good to see you again," she replied, her tone softening almost imperceptibly as she helped him into a chair.
She had Lilia bring a simple meat porridge, and the table fell into a tense silence as Tybalt ate with the slow, deliberate manners of a lifetime at court. When he was done, Lyra spoke.
"I was never one for politics. How do we proceed?"
Tybalt set his spoon down. "We don't. For all practical purposes, the Magellan name is ash."
"And we just allow a butcher to sit on the throne?" Lyra protested, a dangerous edge to her voice.
"We have little choice," Tybalt said,his weariness seeming to age him further.
He looked at her, his eyes full of a deep, paternal sorrow. "I knew this was the likely outcome. I didn't send Arthur to you to reclaim a crown, Lyra. I sent him to you to be free of it. To live without the burden of that name."
He saw the conflict on her face. "Saving me was a noble effort, but it changes nothing."
Lyra stared at her hands, the warrior, the leader, for once lost for a strategy.
"You left that world once," Tybalt said gently. "You built a life. Let Arthur have the same choice."
"And you?" Lyra asked, her voice tight. "What will you do?"
A sigh of profound relief escaped Tybalt's lips. "Recover. After that… who knows. I'm not made for this wilderness."
He glanced around the table at the hard-bitten adventurers. "Perhaps I'll retire to the Solaran coast. Take up painting again. It's been a while."
The words lit a fuse in Lyra. "How can you just… quit?" she demanded, her voice low and furious. "What about the people? The kingdom?"
Tybalt's weariness was suddenly replaced by a flash of the old lord's fire.
"People? When did you start caring about them?"
"I had the council, Lyra. I had a path to put you on the throne before you left. We would never have seen this day."
The air at the table crackled.
"But you were more interested in playing vagabond, chasing some depraved fantasy of 'freedom.' You ran from your duty."
"It was suffocating—" Lyra tried to speak only to be cutoff by Tybalt.
"You ran!" Tybalt's voice boomed in the silent hall, a voice of command she hadn't heard since she was a girl.
His anger then fractured, revealing the deep well of pain beneath. "You ran from me. From your brother. From your father."
His head bowed, his eyes glistening. "It was supposed to be your duty to hold him together after your mother died. You abdicated, and we are all poorer for it."
The accusation hung in the air, a wound a decade old, now ripped open.
But Lyra didn't flinch. She met his grief with a cold fury of her own.
"And what about you, Uncle?" she asked, her voice calm but cutting.
"You were there. You ruled in all but name while he rotted. Why did you let the kingdom decay? Did you not fail in your duty as well?"
She leaned forward. "You're doing it now. Giving up. I've heard the stories my whole life—'Lord Tybalt, the man who makes the hard decisions.' Where is that man? I have never seen him. You failed the kingdom. You failed your brother. And you failed Arthur."
The name landed like a physical blow.
"Why is it," she continued, her voice no longer a leader's but a wounded child's, "that when I look at my brother, it feels as though he never truly lived? "
"Why does it feel like, even after losing a world, he is better off here? You were his guardian. I don't see your care reflected in him."
Her gaze was merciless. "We have another young survivor here. When I look at her, I see the love for her lost family fueling her rage. I don't see that fire in Arthur for you. Why?"
The team watched, stunned, as the two tore each other apart. Even Aeris had put down her book.
Tybalt opened his mouth, his face a mask of regret. "I…"
Before he could speak, the doors to the hall swung open.
A booming laugh echoed through the room.
Thorgar strode in with Arthur on his shoulders, both of them roaring with laughter, with a silent, impassive Ingrid trailing beside them.
Tybalt looked at Arthur's smiling face, and a wave of pure relief washed over him, though it couldn't extinguish the fire of Lyra's words.
He couldn't bring himself to smile. He simply watched as Arthur's own eyes found him.
A choked, disbelieving whisper escaped the boy's lips. "Uncle…"
Thorgar gently set him down.
Arthur walked forward, each step heavy with memory.
Tybalt rose, his arms open. Arthur ran, just as he had as a small boy, and launched himself into his uncle's embrace, his face buried in Tybalt's tunic as great, heartbroken sobs finally broke free, echoing in the vast hall.
Tybalt held him, his own silent tears tracing paths through the grime on his cheeks, kissing the top of his nephew's head.
Lyra watched, and a wave of shame so profound it buckled her knees washed over her.
The sight of their reunion, of the pure, uncomplicated love between them, made her own bitter words taste like poison.
Tybalt saw the look on her face. With one arm still holding Arthur, he extended the other to her. An invitation. An absolution.
She hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, allowing herself to be pulled into the embrace.
The three of them stood there, a fractured, broken family, for a moment made whole. Lyra fought back her own tears, but a few escaped, hot against her skin.
"Welcome home, Uncle," she choked out.
Tybalt held them both tighter. "It's good to be back," he said, a weary but genuine smile finally gracing his face.