As Ingrid entered the now-quiet Guild hall, her eyes immediately found Faelan.
A current of relief, sharp and unfamiliar, went through her, though her face remained a stoic mask.
She walked to the table and took the empty seat next to him.
The simple act of proximity, of choosing to sit beside him instead of across, was a confession of worry she would never speak aloud.
Faelan noticed. He leaned in, his voice a low whisper that wouldn't carry. "So, how's the training going?"
Ingrid stabbed a fork into a piece of chicken on her plate. "It could be better," she replied, the monotone failing to hide her frustration.
Faelan watched her try to carve the meat one-handed, her other arm hanging numbly at her side from overexertion.
Without a word, he took her plate.
With the smooth, practiced economy of a lifelong soldier, he sliced the chicken into small, manageable pieces.
Ingrid watched the process, her jaw tight, but she accepted the silent act of care without protest.
A faint, weary smile touched Faelan's lips as she ate the first piece.
"What?" she asked, noticing the shift in his expression.
"Nothing," he said softly. "You just seem a bit... lighter."
She didn't reply, but continued her meal, the silence between them now comfortable instead of strained.
The rest of the table was a study in contrasts.
The twins, having devoured their food like wolves, had already departed for the baths, with Maeve following shortly after.
Thorgar now sat in their place, a whole roasted boar his personal domain.
Across from them, the ice had not just broken; it had melted away.
Arthur was a dam of words burst open, a torrent of every small detail and grand terror since his escape pouring out of him.
He was a child again, animated and free, and Tybalt, looking gaunt and frail, drank in every word like a man dying of thirst.
Ingrid watched this transformation with a quiet astonishment.
Hours ago, in their duel, he had been a young man of fierce focus and startling maturity.
Now, he was simply a boy, overjoyed by the return of his guardian.
A bitter, unfamiliar pang resonated deep in her chest. It was envy.
She envied his ability to so easily shed the weight of his trauma, a luxury her own grief would not allow.
Arthur, lost in his stories, finally seemed to register his uncle's sorry state.
The ecstatic flow of words faltered, his joy draining away as he took in the sunken eyes and skeletal frame. "Uncle…" he began, his voice laced with sorrow.
Tybalt simply reached out and ruffled his hair, a gesture of profound, gentle affection. "That's a burden for grown-ups, Arthur. Not for you."
Maeve returned from her bath, her hair still damp, and took a seat as Lilia brought her a meal.
Lyra looked at the two exhausted children. "You're both drained," she stated. "Finish your dinner, freshen up, and get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."
Arthur started to protest, "But—"
"He needs rest, Arthur," Lyra said, nodding toward Tybalt. The boy understood and fell silent.
One by one, they finished their meals, bathed, and made their way to their rooms, leaving a council of veterans at the table. The air grew heavy again. It was Faelan who broke the silence.
Before leaving, Alistair proposed a new front for this war."
"What is it?" Lyra asked, picking at her food.
"He believes Arthur should also participate in the Solstice Tournament."
Lyra looked up, her brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Think long-term," Faelan explained.
"If he gets into the University of Lumina, he forges his own alliances. Not just with Magellan's houses, but with the heirs of every kingdom in the Confederacy. He builds his own power base, on his own terms."
"The Greyoaks are already sponsoring Ingrid," Lyra countered, her mind immediately jumping to the logistical flaw.
"They can't sponsor two. Where would we find another patron who wouldn't leash him with an impossible contract?"
Faelan replied "He may be able to attract scholarship. Don't underestimate your brother"
Maeve interjected, her voice holding the cold clarity of a strategist. "It has to be with a sponsor. Winning a direct scholarship would be a disadvantage."
Lyra looked confused. "What do you mean?"
"Nobility respects one thing above all else: power," Maeve explained. "And in their world, sponsorship is power. A scholarship student is a commoner who got lucky. A sponsored student is an asset of a Great House. To cross him would be to cross his patrons. It gives him a shield."
A new silence fell as they weighed the grim, cynical logic.
Faelan's eyes lit up with a new idea.
"The ceremony," he said. "The one at the Greyoak manor in four days. It's a hunting ground."
"How do you mean?" Lyra pressed.
"You and I are invited. Maeve could accompany Tybalt," he suggested, glancing at the older man.
"In his current state, few would recognize him. Surely there are houses that still owe you their loyalty, Tybalt. He could ask them."
Tybalt, who had been listening intently, finally spoke, his voice filled with a weary but fierce protectiveness.
"I will not have my boy traded like a prize bull at market! I sacrificed everything so he could be free of that game, not to be thrown back into it."
"This isn't about the throne," Faelan argued gently. "This is about giving him the choice to reclaim it one day, should he want to. It's about giving him a future that isn't dependent on us."
Lyra nodded in agreement. "Faelan is right, Uncle. We can't be with him forever. Being with us puts him in constant danger. At the University, he would have a chance at a real education, a real life. And having a familiar face in Ingrid… they would be better for it. Both of them."
Tybalt looked from Lyra's determined face to Faelan's earnest one. He let out a long, slow sigh of resignation. "Very well. We do it your way."
"Then it's decided," Faelan said, standing to leave. "I shall meet you all in four days."
"No," Lyra's voice was sharp, the commander back in full force. "Be here in the morning. We have other ghosts to hunt."
Faelan was curious, but too exhausted to press the point. "As you wish," he said, and with a final nod, he departed for the warmth and comfort of Greyoak Manor.
Maeve gently helped Tybalt to his feet to guide him to a room.Lyra headed for the bath.
Thorgar had fallen asleep at the table, his head resting in the picked-clean carcass of the boar. Brimor simply hoisted the massive man over his shoulder and carried him upstairs, while Aeris, as always, slipped out the front door for a solitary walk under the moon.