Warren looked around and realized he was in the middle of fucking nowhere. The night air carried the damp grit of Mara, a smell he remembered but one that now felt layered with years of rot and change. Bastard and Styll were just as confused, their eyes darting across the unfamiliar streets. Styll's hackles rippled with unease, her nose twitching as if the air itself could not be trusted, while Bastard prowled in slow, deliberate steps, his silver eyes reflecting fragments of distant light. This was Mara, of that Warren was certain, but where exactly within its sprawl he had landed was unclear. The skyline was familiar yet fractured, like a memory seen through broken glass. Why he had been transported to this exact spot was a question only the gods themselves could answer, and their silence pressed like a hand on his throat.

He steadied himself, drawing in a slow breath. The city felt wrong in small ways, the angles of buildings not quite as he remembered, alleys longer or narrower, windows shuttered where once there had been open stalls. New constructions rose where ruins had once sprawled, much of the rubble demolished and replaced with paved streets and steadier walls. The bones of Mara were still there beneath it all, but he could feel how they were being repaired, rebuilt from the dead husk it had once been. He set off in the direction he believed the pharmacy should be, relying on the map etched into his bones. The city had changed but his memory of Mara remained sharp. Even if he was wrong, he knew he would eventually strike an outer wall, and from there he could navigate to his first home. He reminded himself that walls in Mara were never obstacles, only markers. His instincts told him the path would reveal itself if he simply kept moving, one step at a time, no matter how twisted the route had become.

They picked up speed as they moved, first at a brisk pace, then faster, until they were moving at a clip no ordinary citizen of Mara could have ever matched. Their steps struck the ground like rolling thunder, and Warren felt the strength of his own body in a way he hadn't before: every muscle coiled, every tendon primed, the storm inside him woven into flesh. His stride was no longer that of the man who had left this place months ago. He moved like a predator stalking familiar but dangerous ground. It was insane how much faster he had become, how much stronger, his breath steady even as the world blurred at the edges. He had never imagined that leaving Mara would strip him bare and remake him, yet that was exactly what had happened.

Maybe not wiser, he would not grant himself that, but different. Entirely different. The boy who had once walked out of Mara had been reckless, a fire burning itself thin, leaving behind his pregnant wife because he thought strength could only be found elsewhere. That boy had carried nothing but rage and hunger, a desperate desire to become more than what Mara had made him. The man who returned now was forged in blood and trial, tempered in secrets whispered by gods, shaped by storms that broke men stronger than he had once been. His every step felt like a declaration: he was not what he had been, and he could never return to that life again.

Even though the city had changed, Mara was still part of him. He could feel it deep in his chest, in the marrow of his bones, that this place was his home and nothing could ever take that from him. These were the streets that raised him. These crooked alleys and broken walls had taught him more than any teacher, they had sharpened his instincts, had made him into something fierce enough to survive. This was where he had learned to fight, to bleed, to love, and to lose. The moments that mattered most to him, the ones that cut deepest, all came from here. Even if it was dark and terrifying, even if it carried loss and blood and horror unending, it was still his home. Mara was carved into him as surely as scars into flesh.

The city loomed ahead, shifting with every block, but Warren kept his eyes fixed forward. He was no longer just another soul wandering Mara's alleys. He was something else, something heavier, something sharper, moving through his city like a figure that no longer truly belonged to it, and yet was bound to it all the same. Bastard padded at his side, Styll pressed close, and together they slipped deeper into the bones of the place Warren called home, a place that now might tremble to recognize what had come back to it.

Warren knew this place, actually. It was the theater that Grix and he had once talked about turning into a new base, back when everything was still raw and uncertain. He remembered standing in front of its crumbling facade with her, half the roof collapsed, weeds choking the steps, and both of them spoke about how it would make the perfect fortress if anyone cared enough to fix it. Now it had been repaired, the walls restored, the broken glass replaced, and it looked like a theater again, alive with purpose, not just an echo of what once was. Bright banners hung from its upper windows, and the sound of laughter spilled out as people came and went.

Crowds drifted along its steps and arches, citizens dressed in patched but cleaner clothes than he remembered, their faces carrying more hope than the Mara of his memory had allowed. When they noticed him, their conversations broke apart. Eyes widened, mouths opened, and whispers flared like sparks catching on dry kindling. The words spread quickly, gathering strength until one voice pierced through above the rest: "It's the Ghost in the Mist! He's actually back!" The name rolled across the crowd, a ripple that grew into a wave. Some faces were hopeful, others awestruck, and a few looked on him with reverence, as though the stories told in his absence had grown far larger than the man himself.

Warren only smiled faintly. He did not stop or acknowledge them beyond that. Now that he knew exactly where he stood, he had his bearings, and with that certainty came purpose. He turned toward the pharmacy, the path through the city clear in his mind like a map etched into him long ago. Every turn, every narrow street, every landmark was burned into memory, no matter how much the city had shifted. He was heading toward Wren, toward their child, toward the heart of what mattered most, and nothing else could distract him from that path.

Still, even as his stride grew longer, a thread of unease coiled inside him. Where was Grix? She should have been here, waiting or watching, already aware of his return. Umdar had told him she was the one who would spread word of his coming, the one who ensured that others would be ready to receive him. Yet she was nowhere in sight, and her absence pressed against him like an itch that would not fade. Had she chosen to stay hidden? Was she moving somewhere else, preparing something he could not yet see? The thought gnawed at him, quiet but persistent, a shadow that trailed every step even as he walked toward home. He tried to shake it off, reminding himself that if anyone knew how to disappear and reappear exactly when needed, it was Grix. Still, her absence weighed heavier than he wanted to admit, a reminder that not everything in Mara was as simple as finding his way back to the people he loved.

Warren could hear the rush of the stream and the steady hum of his old water wheel generator, the one he had cobbled together from scraps so long ago to power the pharmacy. The sound tugged at him, pulling up memories so vivid they almost stung. The machine had been upgraded since then, clearly touched by other hands, but the rhythm of it still belonged to him. The nostalgia nearly brought a tear to his eye, a reminder of the countless nights he had spent here piecing his life together out of fragments. He was almost home.

He stopped at the doorway, looking back for a long moment. Mara was gone, and the loss settled on him like it had the day she'd held him close and told him she loved him. That ache had never dulled, not even after everything he had endured. His mother's grave wasn't far from here, tucked away in the quiet earth, and he knew he would visit it soon. But for now he needed to see his wife, and his child, for the very first time. He needed to see them more than anything else. That thought pulled at him with more force than all the storms he had survived.

He stepped through the door. The pharmacy was busy, filled with movement and low voices, the smell of alcohol and herbs lingering thick in the air. Someone called out without looking, distracted by the work at hand. "Are you injured? Do you need help? We're kind of busy right now."

"No," Warren answered, his voice steady and certain. "I'm just coming home."

There was a pause, sharp enough to cut through the noise. "What do you mean you're coming home? This is… who are you?"

A woman he didn't recognize stepped into view, a mask of confusion and disbelief on her face. Warren met her eyes, unwavering. "I'm Warren. And this is my home."

The woman staggered back. "What? No. You're not supposed to be here, you're… did no one tell you you're supposed to go to Car's house? Everybody in the city knew. Right now we're in the middle of a surgery. Just… just go to Car's house. There's a whole crowd waiting for you. Sorry, but we're too busy." Her hands shook as she gestured toward the back rooms, and she stepped away, half-shaken, half-apologetic.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Warren's jaw tightened, a faint pressure rising in his chest. "No. I think I'll go downstairs first. Check my forge before I go anywhere else."

The woman hesitated, then nodded quickly and disappeared into the noise of the pharmacy. Warren moved down the narrow steps into the basement, each creak of wood beneath his boots feeling heavier than the last. His forge waited below, unchanged and patient, as though it had been expecting him all along. The air was thick with the scent of oil and metal. It was smaller, less powerful than the grand forge he had built in Kyrrabad, but this was where his craft had truly begun. This was where he had poured everything into reviving a weapon that had once been his only family, where he had bled and sweated over every bolt and weld until the work itself had remade him. What he had spent back then was everything he had, every coin, every favor, every ounce of will, and yet compared to what he held now, it had been less than nothing. Still, he knew he would never abandon this place. He might upgrade it, polish its edges, bring its standard higher, but the heart of it, the way it looked and felt, would never change.

He moved into the storage room. Everything was still lined up as he remembered: bolts, containers, scraps of wire, cloth, all meticulously ordered. His hands twitched with the urge to count them, to reassure himself that every piece was still in place. The sight brought a rush of scent to his nose, faint traces of Wren lingering like a ghost pressed into the walls. His chest tightened. Then his eyes caught something that didn't belong: toys scattered across the kitchen floor upstairs, small things clearly handled and cherished. His child wasn't old enough yet to play with them. These had been used by others. Mel and Tasina, he realized. He could almost smell them too, faint traces woven into the house. They had stayed here, more than just briefly. They had made this place theirs for a time, filling it with laughter and movement in his absence.

Good, Warren thought. They deserved a home. And if that meant they became his burden, then so be it. He had taken their family, and the only way forward was to give them one of his own making. He hadn't promised it to them, nor to their parents, but he had sworn it to himself. Regret and guilt weighed heavy, but the choice was clear: he would be their guardian. In his heart, that bond was already forged, stronger than iron.

He started back up the stairs slowly, hand brushing along the banister as though the wood itself might speak back to him. Bastard, in his small house-cat form, padded across the basement floor, moving like he too knew this place as home just as much as their rooms in Kyrrabad. Warren reached through the bond, stretching himself out into the senses of those tethered to him. The rush of feeling and perception hit him like a tide, not lesser than his own, but equal and fierce. He felt Bastard's pride, Styll's warmth echoing through the link, and the shared comfort they all held for this place. The love they felt surged back into him with as much force as his own, confirming what he already knew: this was home for all of them. And that realization struck him harder than steel, pressing deep into his chest, reminding him that even in loss, even in change, some things could still be reclaimed and made whole.

Warren flew through the streets with Styll and Bastard cradled tightly in his arms. His body blurred as the ghost mod on his jacket shimmered to life, bending light and shadow until he seemed less like a man and more like an apparition torn from mist. The effect was uncanny: an illusion streaking across the city, more rumor than flesh. Passersby caught only flickers of motion from the corners of their eyes, phantom streaks dissolving as soon as they turned their heads. All they could see was a smear of movement swallowed by the haze that gathered around him, the mist curling and twisting in his wake like a living cloak.

The streets surrendered to his speed, whole blocks collapsing into memory as he tore past them. Old landmarks flashed by, walls he had once climbed, alleys he had once bled in, the corners where his childhood had hidden itself. They were different now, changed, but still recognizable, and every glimpse struck him with waves of nostalgia and ache. The sound of his boots striking stone was muted beneath the rush of air and the pulse of his heartbeat, a rhythm that carried him onward until at last he drew to a halt before Car's house.

He stood still for the first time in what felt like forever, his chest rising and falling as he breathed in the still air. The house loomed before him, familiar yet distant, as if it had been carved out of his memory and set here waiting for him. It had been so long since he had stepped onto this threshold, yet the weight of recognition pressed down hard, undeniable, wrapping around him like a chain. He could feel them inside, the pulse of lives bound to him through rings and bond, their presence echoing faintly in the back of his mind. Every one of them was gathered and waiting, and the knowledge made his chest tighten.

For a fleeting moment, he entertained the thought of slipping in through the back, of letting his return arrive as a prank. He imagined their startled faces, the rush of laughter breaking the silence that had stretched on for too long. The idea nearly pulled a smile from him, a ghost of the mischief that once guided his steps. But the moment withered. He knew this wasn't the time for games or tricks, not when so much hung heavy in the air. His return wasn't a jest to be sprung on them; it was a truth to be faced.

He lingered on the threshold, hand tightening briefly on the doorframe, the wood solid beneath his fingers, grounding him. The mist pooled around his feet, reluctant to let go, but Warren drew in a steadying breath. He was here now. He was home. Whatever waited inside, he would meet it without disguise. Straightening, he pushed forward, opening the door and stepping inside the house where they waited, ready at last to face his family.

As Warren stepped into the house, voices floated toward him from every corner. They were talking about him, about his return, and with his sharpened senses he caught every word, every inflection. He could hear his name whispered in tones of disbelief, the shifting of feet, the anxious anticipation threaded through their laughter. His new perception made the air itself seem to hum with their chatter, each voice woven into a chorus of expectation. He raised his eyes and saw her, Grix, perched casually on the stairs, legs dangling through the banister, a familiar smirk tugging at her lips as if she had been waiting for this exact moment.

"Welcome back, Bestie," she said, smiling wide, her voice carrying across the room. "It's been a while. You look the same. And what's with the black cat? Is that Scales? What the fuck is that thing? What is wrong with that cat?"

The cat hissed, low and sharp, a sound that vibrated against the walls. Bastard's ears flattened and his silver eyes narrowed into slits, glaring at her. Grix blinked, realization dawning across her face. "Oh shit, is that Bastard? What happened to him?"

Bastard leapt from Warren's arms, landing with a heavy thud, the floorboards groaning under the impact. In the next instant his body rippled outward, swelling into his full war form. Black scales stretched and shimmered in the lamplight, claws gouging into the wood as his frame expanded with lethal grace. His wings shifted against his back like blades waiting to cut. Grix nearly toppled backward through the banister, clutching the rail with both hands, her smirk wiped away by shock. "What the fuck happened to him?" she gasped.

Bastard roared, the sound reverberating through every beam and wall, filling the house with a suffocating pressure that rattled plates and silenced every voice. Conversations died mid-breath. The laughter vanished. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy and brittle like glass about to shatter.

Warren pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. "Damn it, Grix. Why'd you have to insult him? Now he's pissed. He was coming here to see all of you. We were coming here to see all of you." His eyes hardened as he looked at her. "Why did you even come here of all places? Why wouldn't you just tell Wren to meet me at home? The baby is probably too young for this."

Grix raised her hands innocently, still half laughing at the absurdity despite her nerves. "Oh no, Wren was the one who decided we'd come over here. Said we should help Florence prepare a feast for everyone, I guess. Although I'm still banned from the kitchen. Apparently, Florence can really hold a grudge when it comes to her preserves."

Warren shook his head, lips twitching despite himself. "Figures."

"Oh, that reminds me," he continued, trying to shake off the tension, "there's this guy I know back at the Citadel who has so much honey he actually uses it as a trap. Jurpat fell into it once and just started eating it."

Grix raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "Who the hells uses something like that as a trap?"

Warren snorted, folding his arms. "He probably uses it for a lot of other things. He's a weird guy."

"You're one to talk," she shot back with a smirk, some of her old playfulness returning.

"Fair enough." Warren shrugged, letting it slide.

Grix's grin softened into something warmer, almost fond. "Anyways, your aunt and uncle are probably coming up soon. And maybe you should go see Wren before she kills you?"

"Yeah," Warren admitted with a sigh. "That's probably a good idea. Where is she?"

"I think she's changing the baby upstairs. You might want to head up." She pointed down the hall toward a door, her voice quieter now, the weight of the moment settling back in.

Warren started up the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest, every step a drumbeat that carried him closer to what he longed for. Styll and Bastard stayed behind. Styll hopped up with a soft bound and curled herself affectionately around Grix's neck, her fur brushing under Grix's chin, her small body pressed close like a living scarf of warmth. Grix laughed nervously but didn't push her away. Bastard prowled the room with measured steps, his massive form casting long shadows across the walls, his presence impossible to ignore. The other cats, Gunner, Whisper, and Wires, crept closer at first, then approached him boldly, brushing against his armored scales with their whiskers and tails, showing their affection with fearless purrs. To them he was not a monster, but kin.

Warren walked down the hall to the door at the far end. His hand hesitated on the handle, his fingers trembling with the weight of anticipation. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath, steadying himself as if the wood beneath his palm carried the weight of the world. Then he turned the handle. The door swung open slowly, the light spilling across his face. What he saw inside took his breath away, the moment stretching into forever as his heart threatened to stop in his chest.

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